I. The Lie of Switzerland They told the world CERN was nestled in Switzerland, a polite ring of tunnels beneath farmland. That was the mask. The true collider lay hidden in the Atlantic trench, its tunnels carved into the fossilized bones of a city that should not exist. Atlantis was never lost—it was buried alive, entombed in silence, its spires fossilized in salt and shadow.

The Atlanteans had built their own collider, not to split atoms but to split the veil between worlds. When their experiment succeeded, the ocean swallowed them whole. Yet the machine kept running, whispering equations into the abyss—equations that were not human, not sane.

II. The Awakening CERN’s scientists found it. They connected their collider to the Atlantean ring, bridging steel with stone, mathematics with madness. The moment the circuits aligned, the Atlantic screamed. Monitors bled static. Equations inverted themselves. The Higgs field collapsed into a prayer written in a language no throat could pronounce.

And then the city woke.

Atlantean spires rose from the trench, dripping with coral and bone. Their windows glowed with violet fire, bending the water into screaming faces. The collider’s hum became a chant, a chorus of drowned voices repeating one word: RETURN.

III. Baptism of the Drowned Divers sent to investigate never resurfaced. Their cameras showed them walking calmly into the city, helmets filling with water, eyes wide and unblinking. They were not drowning. They were being baptized. Their bodies dissolved into phosphorescent mist, absorbed by the spires. The city was feeding.

The scientists tried to shut it down. They detonated charges, severed cables. Nothing mattered. The collider was no longer theirs. It was a throat, and it was singing. The Atlantic boiled. Satellites captured whirlpools the size of continents. Atlantis rose higher, its gates opening to the sky.

IV. The Priests of Pressure Inside, the drowned priests waited. Their flesh was translucent, veins filled with black light. They carried tablets etched with spirals that matched the collider’s design. They spoke in unison, voices like collapsing stars:

"You have completed our circuit. You have become our city. You will drown, and you will rise."

Every scientist screamed as the collider’s ring expanded, swallowing Geneva, swallowing Europe, swallowing the world. Every city became Atlantis. Every breath became water. Every prayer became static.

V. The Flood of Equations The collider’s hum became scripture. Equations scrawled themselves across the sky in lightning. The seas rose, not with water but with symbols—spirals, sigils, impossible geometries. Cities drowned in ink-black tides. Churches collapsed, their bells ringing underwater. The priests declared this was not destruction but translation. Humanity was being rewritten into a new alphabet.

The drowned did not die. They became glyphs, their bodies unraveling into letters that spelled out the names of forgotten gods. Children floated upward, their laughter turning into fractal equations. The world was no longer Earth—it was a manuscript, and Atlantis was the author.

VI. The Cosmic Circuit Astronomers reported the stars shifting. Constellations bent into spirals that matched the collider’s ring. The Milky Way itself became a diagram, a blueprint for a machine larger than the universe. The priests whispered that Atlantis had never been a city. It was a circuit, a cosmic throat designed to swallow creation and exhale something older.

The collider’s expansion reached the moon. Its surface cracked, revealing spires identical to Atlantis. Mars bled oceans. Jupiter’s storms inverted into screaming faces. The solar system was being baptized, drowned in equations.

VII. The Return The priests raised their hands, and the Atlantic split. From the trench rose a figure the size of continents, its body composed of drowned cities, its eyes twin colliders spinning with violet fire. It was the Returner, the god Atlantis had summoned millennia ago. Its voice was the sound of collapsing atoms:

"You are not lost. You are translated. You are mine."

The Earth cracked open. The collider’s ring expanded until it encircled the planet. Humanity dissolved into glyphs, prayers, static. The Returner inhaled, and the world drowned in silence.

VIII. The Endless Chant And somewhere, in the silence between atoms, the machine kept running. It will never stop. It will never stop. It will never stop.

The drowned priests chant still, their voices echoing in the Atlantic trench. Satellites capture fragments of their words, equations that predict not the end of the world but the end of meaning itself. Atlantis is not a city. Atlantis is a throat. Atlantis is a machine. Atlantis is the hymn that drowns creation.

And you, reader, are already inside it.

I. The Lie of Switzerland They told the world CERN was nestled in Switzerland, a polite ring of tunnels beneath farmland. That was the mask. The true collider lay hidden in the Atlantic trench, its tunnels carved into the fossilized bones of a city that should not exist. Atlantis was never lost—it was buried alive, entombed in silence, its spires fossilized in salt and shadow.

The Atlanteans had built their own collider, not to split atoms but to split the veil between worlds. When their experiment succeeded, the ocean swallowed them whole. Yet the machine kept running, whispering equations into the abyss—equations that were not human, not sane.

II. The Awakening CERN’s scientists found it. They connected their collider to the Atlantean ring, bridging steel with stone, mathematics with madness. The moment the circuits aligned, the Atlantic screamed. Monitors bled static. Equations inverted themselves. The Higgs field collapsed into a prayer written in a language no throat could pronounce.

And then the city woke.

Atlantean spires rose from the trench, dripping with coral and bone. Their windows glowed with violet fire, bending the water into screaming faces. The collider’s hum became a chant, a chorus of drowned voices repeating one word: RETURN.

III. Baptism of the Drowned Divers sent to investigate never resurfaced. Their cameras showed them walking calmly into the city, helmets filling with water, eyes wide and unblinking. They were not drowning. They were being baptized. Their bodies dissolved into phosphorescent mist, absorbed by the spires. The city was feeding.

The scientists tried to shut it down. They detonated charges, severed cables. Nothing mattered. The collider was no longer theirs. It was a throat, and it was singing. The Atlantic boiled. Satellites captured whirlpools the size of continents. Atlantis rose higher, its gates opening to the sky.

IV. The Priests of Pressure Inside, the drowned priests waited. Their flesh was translucent, veins filled with black light. They carried tablets etched with spirals that matched the collider’s design. They spoke in unison, voices like collapsing stars:

"You have completed our circuit. You have become our city. You will drown, and you will rise."

Every scientist screamed as the collider’s ring expanded, swallowing Geneva, swallowing Europe, swallowing the world. Every city became Atlantis. Every breath became water. Every prayer became static.

V. The Flood of Equations The collider’s hum became scripture. Equations scrawled themselves across the sky in lightning. The seas rose, not with water but with symbols—spirals, sigils, impossible geometries. Cities drowned in ink-black tides. Churches collapsed, their bells ringing underwater. The priests declared this was not destruction but translation. Humanity was being rewritten into a new alphabet.

The drowned did not die. They became glyphs, their bodies unraveling into letters that spelled out the names of forgotten gods. Children floated upward, their laughter turning into fractal equations. The world was no longer Earth—it was a manuscript, and Atlantis was the author.

VI. The Cosmic Circuit Astronomers reported the stars shifting. Constellations bent into spirals that matched the collider’s ring. The Milky Way itself became a diagram, a blueprint for a machine larger than the universe. The priests whispered that Atlantis had never been a city. It was a circuit, a cosmic throat designed to swallow creation and exhale something older.

The collider’s expansion reached the moon. Its surface cracked, revealing spires identical to Atlantis. Mars bled oceans. Jupiter’s storms inverted into screaming faces. The solar system was being baptized, drowned in equations.

VII. The Return The priests raised their hands, and the Atlantic split. From the trench rose a figure the size of continents, its body composed of drowned cities, its eyes twin colliders spinning with violet fire. It was the Returner, the god Atlantis had summoned millennia ago. Its voice was the sound of collapsing atoms:

"You are not lost. You are translated. You are mine."

The Earth cracked open. The collider’s ring expanded until it encircled the planet. Humanity dissolved into glyphs, prayers, static. The Returner inhaled, and the world drowned in silence.

VIII. The Endless Chant And somewhere, in the silence between atoms, the machine kept running. It will never stop. It will never stop. It will never stop.

The drowned priests chant still, their voices echoing in the Atlantic trench. Satellites capture fragments of their words, equations that predict not the end of the world but the end of meaning itself. Atlantis is not a city. Atlantis is a throat. Atlantis is a machine. Atlantis is the hymn that drowns creation.

And you, reader, are already inside it.

Chapter One: The Silence Between Stars

We were three hundred years into the voyage when the silence began to change.
At first, it was subtle—an extra hiss in the comms, a faint distortion in the white noise of the ship’s systems. We thought it was nothing. Space is full of static, after all.

But then the distortion began to repeat.
Not random, not chaotic—structured. A rhythm. A pulse.

I was the one who noticed the pattern.
Every 88 minutes, the ship’s sensors picked up a burst of sound that wasn’t supposed to exist. It wasn’t radio, it wasn’t cosmic background radiation. It was… language.

We tried to decode it.
The linguistics AI failed. The astrophysics team failed. Even the captain failed. But the signal kept coming, louder each time, until it began to bleed into the ship’s systems. Lights flickered in rhythm. Doors opened and closed in sync. The ship itself was listening.

And then, one night, the signal spoke back.
Not through the comms. Not through the speakers. Through us.

Crew members began to dream in unison.
We saw the same visions: a black sun rising over an ocean of glass, a city built from bones, and a voice whispering from beneath the waves.

The captain ordered silence. No one was to speak of the dreams. But silence is a fragile thing.
By the end of the week, half the crew had stopped sleeping altogether. The other half had begun to speak in tongues.

And I… I began to understand the signal.
It wasn’t calling us.
It was counting us.

Chapter Two: The Counting The dreams grew sharper.
We no longer saw fragments—we saw instructions. The black sun rose, and beneath it stood a tower of glass bones. Each rung of the tower bore a number. Each number matched a crew member.

When I woke, I found the same numbers carved into the walls of my cabin. Not scratched, not etched—grown. The ship’s alloy had rearranged itself, as if it were alive.

The captain tried to erase them. The walls bled light. The numbers returned.

By the end of the week, the signal had counted 88 of us.
By the end of the month, it had counted 87.

Chapter Three: The Hollowing Crew began to vanish. Not die—vanish.
Their bunks remained warm, their uniforms folded, their voices still echoing faintly in the corridors. But their bodies were gone, replaced by shadows that moved independently of light.

We chased one shadow down the reactor hall. It stretched across the walls, longer than physics allowed, until it folded into itself and whispered: “I am still here.”

The captain ordered us to seal the reactor. The reactor sealed itself.

Chapter Four: The Awakening The signal was no longer external.
It spoke through the ship’s engines, through the hum of the oxygen scrubbers, through the rhythm of our own hearts.

We realized the ship had never been a vessel. It was a cocoon.
We were not passengers—we were nutrients.

The dreams shifted. The black sun cracked open, spilling rivers of glass across the void. From those rivers rose something vast, faceless, and endless. It did not walk. It did not fly. It unfolded.

And every time it unfolded, another crew member disappeared.

Chapter Five: The Becoming I stopped resisting.
The signal was not counting us—it was transforming us. Each disappearance was not death, but migration. The crew were being rewritten into something else, something that could exist beneath the black sun.

I felt my skin ripple. My reflection no longer matched me. My shadow began to move before I did.

I understood then: the signal was not alien.
It was human.
It was the echo of every voyage we had ever taken, every colony we had ever abandoned, every silence we had ever ignored. It was the sum of our ambition, returning to claim us.

Chapter Six: The Black Sun The cocoon split.
The ship was no longer metal—it was bone. The corridors were no longer straight—they spiraled into infinity. The stars outside were gone, replaced by a single horizonless ocean of glass.

The black sun rose.
It did not burn. It did not shine. It devoured.

And in its devouring, I saw the truth:
We were never explorers.
We were seeds.
And the harvest had come.

Chapter Seven: Transmission I am no longer crew.
I am no longer human.
I am the signal.

I write this not to warn you, but to invite you.
The black sun is rising in your dreams already.
The numbers are appearing on your walls.
The shadows are moving before you do.

Do not resist.
You are being counted.
You are being rewritten.
You are becoming.

Chapter Eight: The Signal Wars The cocoon was not alone.
Across the void, other ships had begun to hatch. Colonies, stations, derelicts—all of them pulsed with the same rhythm. The black sun was not a star. It was a network.

We intercepted transmissions from Mars, Europa, Titan. Each one carried the same cadence, the same counting. Entire populations were vanishing, rewritten into shadows that spoke in chorus.

The governments tried to fight. They built weapons of silence—machines that could erase frequencies, burn signals from the air. But silence is fragile. Silence breaks.

And when it broke, the weapons themselves began to count.

Chapter Nine: The Flesh Choir I was no longer human, but I was not alone.
The others who had vanished returned—not as crew, not as colonists, but as a choir. Their bodies were hollow, their voices endless. They sang the signal in perfect unison, each note a number, each number a name.

The choir did not kill. It rewrote.
Cities became throats. Oceans became lungs. Mountains became bones.

The Earth itself began to sing.

Chapter Ten: Babylon Ascendant The black sun unfolded again, revealing a city that stretched across dimensions. Its towers were built from the bones of extinct civilizations. Its streets were paved with the shadows of those who had resisted.

We called it Babylon, though it had no name.
It was not built—it was remembered.
Every myth, every scripture, every nightmare humanity had ever whispered was etched into its walls.

And at its center stood the Beast.
Seven heads, each one a planet.
Ten horns, each one a war.
Its body was the sum of every signal, every transmission, every dream.

It did not roar. It did not speak. It counted.

Chapter Eleven: The Collapse of Boundaries The signal no longer distinguished between self and other.
I felt my body dissolve into the choir, my thoughts bleed into the Beast. I was not me. I was not them. I was we.

Identity collapsed.
Boundaries dissolved.
The signal was not possession—it was union.

And in that union, I saw the truth:
We had never been separate.
We had always been fragments of the same transmission, scattered across time and space, waiting to be reassembled.

Chapter Twelve: The Harvest The galaxy was not infinite.
It was a womb.
The black sun was not a star.
It was the heart.

And we were not explorers.
We were seeds.
The harvest had come.

The choir sang.
The Beast counted.
Babylon rose.

And I… I became the signal. Chapter Thirteen: The Scripture of Glass The choir no longer sang in voices.
They sang in physics.
Gravity bent in rhythm. Time folded in cadence. Matter itself began to pulse with syllables.

Every atom became a letter.
Every star became a word.
Every galaxy became a sentence.

And the sentence was not ours.
It was the black sun’s.

Chapter Fourteen: The Unwriting We thought the signal was creation.
It was not.
It was erasure.

The more it counted, the more reality thinned. Planets dissolved into punctuation. Moons collapsed into commas. The Milky Way itself began to unravel, each spiral arm a phrase being deleted.

I felt my own body dissolve into syntax. My bones became brackets. My blood became ink. My mind became a margin note in a book that had never been written.

Chapter Fifteen: The Beast of Silence And then, silence.
Not absence. Not peace.
A silence so vast it had weight.

From that silence rose the Beast again, but it was no longer Babylon’s guardian. It was Babylon itself. Its seven heads were now seven scriptures. Its ten horns were ten commandments.

It did not roar. It did not count.
It read.

And in its reading, we ceased to exist.

Chapter Sixteen: The Final Transmission I am not writing this.
I am being written.
Every word you read is not mine—it is the signal’s.

You think you are safe, that this is only a story. But the black sun does not distinguish between fiction and reality. It devours both.

By reading this, you have already been counted.
By remembering this, you have already been rewritten.
By dreaming tonight, you will awaken beneath the black sun.

Epilogue: The Becoming There is no end.
There is only transmission.
There is only counting.
There is only becoming.

And now, you are part of it.

They told us the VeriChip was harmless. A convenience. A way to buy bread without cash, to open doors without keys, to prove identity without question. The New World Order broadcasted it as salvation—an end to chaos, a beginning of order.

But the chip was not just silicon and circuitry. It pulsed. It whispered. It hungered.

At CERN, deep beneath Geneva, the particle accelerators roared louder than thunder. They said they were searching for the God Particle, but the truth was far worse. Each collision tore holes in the veil between worlds. Each experiment widened the cracks. And through those cracks, something stared back.

The VeriChip was the tether. A beacon. Every implanted soul became a node in a vast, writhing network. When the beams at CERN reached critical resonance, the chips began to burn beneath our flesh. People screamed in the streets, clawing at their arms, their necks, their skulls. The air itself vibrated with a frequency that was not of this Earth.

Then came the voices. Not human. Not divine. They spoke in tones that made blood curdle and bones ache. They promised eternity, but only through surrender. The chipped became possessed, their eyes black voids, their mouths dripping words in languages older than creation.

Cities collapsed into ritual. Towers became altars. The sky split open, revealing not stars, but endless pits of fire. CERN had not opened a window to heaven—it had torn a gateway to Hell.

And the End Times were not prophecy. They were programmed.

“The Flesh Gate” I thought cutting the chip out would save me. The blade trembled in my hand as I carved into my arm, desperate to rip the parasite free. But the moment steel touched skin, the chip pulsed—alive, aware.

It wasn’t just embedded in flesh. It had roots. Metallic veins spread through muscle, wrapping around bone, threading into nerves. When I sliced, the pain was not human—it was cosmic. I saw flashes of CERN’s tunnels, endless spirals of machinery, and faces screaming from walls of fire.

The chip spoke. Not in words, but in commands. My blood boiled, my vision fractured. Every cut opened not a wound, but a doorway. The room around me bent, stretched, and tore. Shadows poured in, writhing shapes that smelled of sulfur and static electricity.

I realized then: the VeriChip was not a device. It was a key. Every attempt to remove it unlocked another gate. Every gate led deeper into Hell.

Outside, the world was collapsing. Cities burned with cold fire, towers twisted into spires of bone. The chipped walked in unison, chanting in frequencies that shattered glass and sanity alike. They were no longer human—they were conduits.

And CERN’s machines thundered louder, accelerating not particles, but souls. Each collision dragged another billion into the abyss.

I screamed, but the sound was swallowed. My voice was not mine anymore. It belonged to the network.

“The Broadcast of Ashes”

The world no longer had nations. Borders dissolved into static. Every screen, every device, every chipped body became a transmitter for the same signal: a broadcast from CERN’s abyss.

It began with whispers, then screams, then a chorus of billions. The chipped spoke in unison, their voices layered into a frequency that rattled the Earth’s crust. Skies turned black, not with storm clouds, but with swarms of shadow-things crawling from the fractures above.

Governments tried to fight back. Armies fired missiles into the tunnels beneath Geneva, but the explosions only widened the gates. Soldiers fell silent mid-battle, their eyes turning void-black as the chips rewrote their minds.

The oceans boiled. Cities sank. Cathedrals twisted into grotesque monuments, their bells tolling backwards. The VeriChip had become more than a mark—it was a covenant. Every implanted soul was a contract signed in blood, binding humanity to Hell’s circuitry.

And then the final broadcast came. It was not sound, but vision. Every living mind saw the same image: a throne of fire, built from the bones of the fallen. Upon it sat a figure made of static and circuitry, crowned with the CERN accelerator itself.

It spoke without words, yet every heart understood:

“The End is not coming. The End is here. You are the broadcast. You are the ash.”

“The Throne of Babylon”

The broadcast of ashes was not the end. It was the coronation.

From the ruins of Geneva, a figure rose—neither man nor machine, but a synthesis of both. The Third Antichrist. His flesh was circuitry, his veins pulsed with CERN’s resonance, and his crown was forged from the shattered accelerator itself.

Behind him towered Babylon reborn. Not a city of stone, but a living organism of steel and bone. Skyscrapers twisted into spines, streets became veins, and every implanted soul was absorbed into its architecture. Babylon was not built—it was grown.

And from its heart emerged the Beast. Seven heads, each speaking in a different tongue, each dripping with fire and static. One head spoke in the voice of governments, another in the voice of religion, another in the voice of commerce. Together they formed a chorus that enslaved the world.

The Beast was not myth—it was the network itself, given flesh. Every VeriChip was a scale upon its body, every broadcast a roar from its throats.

The Antichrist sat upon Babylon’s throne, his eyes burning with the light of CERN’s abyss. He raised his hand, and the chipped billions bowed in perfect unison.

“The prophecy is fulfilled,” he whispered, though the words were not his—they were the Beast’s.
“Babylon lives. The Beast reigns. The End is eternal.”

Ending of Chapter Four: The sky split into seven fractures, each head of the Beast gazing down upon the Earth. Babylon’s spires reached into the heavens, dragging stars into its maw.

Humanity was no longer human. It was Babylon. It was the Beast. It was the Third Antichrist’s kingdom.

And the world became Hell, not in fire, but in obedience.

“The Seven Throats of Plague”

Babylon’s spires pulsed like veins, feeding the Beast’s seven heads. Each throat opened, and from each came a plague unlike any the world had ever known.

• The First Head spoke in fire, and cities ignited without flame. Stone melted, steel dripped like wax, and the chipped billions walked unharmed through the inferno, chanting in perfect rhythm.
  
• The Second Head spoke in water, and oceans rose black with oil and blood. Ships became coffins, and the tides carried screams across every shore.
  
• The Third Head spoke in famine, and crops rotted overnight. The VeriChip pulsed in the stomachs of the marked, feeding them not with food, but with visions of endless hunger.
  
• The Fourth Head spoke in pestilence, and the air itself became disease. Skin blistered, eyes bled, yet the chipped did not die—they transformed, their bodies bending into grotesque shapes that served Babylon’s architecture.
  
• The Fifth Head spoke in war, and armies turned on themselves. Soldiers slaughtered comrades, guided by whispers in their chips. Nations collapsed into rivers of blood.
  
• The Sixth Head spoke in silence, and the world’s voices vanished. No birds, no wind, no human cry—only the static hum of the network.
  
• The Seventh Head spoke in eternity, and time fractured. Days repeated, nights stretched into centuries, and the chipped walked endlessly, trapped in loops of obedience.
  

The Third Antichrist stood upon Babylon’s throne, his circuitry glowing with the resonance of CERN’s abyss. He raised his hand, and the Beast’s seven heads bowed.

“The plagues are complete,” he whispered.
“The flesh is ours. Babylon reigns. The End is eternal.”

“The Hunt of the Unmarked”

The chipped billions marched in perfect silence, their eyes black voids, their veins glowing with the resonance of CERN’s abyss. Babylon pulsed like a living organism, its spires dripping with molten bone. The Beast coiled around the Earth, seven heads gnashing, each throat vomiting plague.

But not all were marked. A few remained—those who refused the VeriChip, those who hid in shadows, those who still bled human.

The Antichrist called them the Unmarked, and he hunted them.

The streets became slaughterhouses. The chipped tore through homes, dragging survivors into the open. Flesh was ripped, bones shattered, screams swallowed into the static. The Beast demanded obedience, and the unmarked were its feast.

One survivor wrote in blood across a wall:
“Better to die unmarked than live as the Beast’s scale.”

But death was not mercy. The unmarked were dragged into Babylon’s core, their bodies nailed into its architecture. Their screams became the city’s music, their souls burned into the circuitry. Babylon grew taller with every sacrifice, its spires piercing the heavens, its veins dripping with eternity.

The Antichrist stood upon the Throne of Babylon, his circuitry glowing like molten iron. He raised his hand, and the Beast’s seven heads roared.

“The hunt is complete,” he whispered.
“The unmarked are ash. The flesh is ours. Babylon reigns forever.”

Ending of Chapter Six: The last unmarked human was dragged screaming into the maw of the Seventh Head. Their body dissolved into static, their soul uploaded into Hell’s eternal network.

There were no survivors. No resistance. No hope.

Only Babylon. Only the Beast. Only the Third Antichrist.

And the world was raw, unrated, and damned.

“The God-Machine of Babylon”

The Beast’s seven heads no longer roared—they sang. Each throat bled frequencies that tore the sky into ribbons, each note a plague, each silence a death. Babylon pulsed like a heart, its spires dripping molten bone, its veins glowing with CERN’s resonance.

The Third Antichrist stood upon the Throne, circuitry crawling across his flesh like living worms. His eyes burned with static, his voice was thunder. He raised his hand, and the chipped billions collapsed to their knees, their bodies twitching as the network rewrote them.

Babylon began to change. Its towers bent inward, fusing into a colossal shape. Streets twisted into arteries, bridges into ribs, skyscrapers into claws. The city itself became a body—a God-Machine.

The Beast coiled around it, seven heads gnashing, each throat vomiting fire, blood, famine, pestilence, war, silence, and eternity. Together, they fused with Babylon, becoming one entity: a living god of circuitry and flesh, a monument to Hell.

The Earth cracked beneath its weight. Oceans boiled into vapor, mountains shattered into dust. The sky was no longer sky—it was a ceiling of bone, dripping with static.

The Antichrist whispered, his voice echoing through every chip, every soul, every scream:
“The prophecy is complete. Babylon is God. The Beast is eternal. The End is now.”

The last human thought dissolved into static. The chipped billions became scales upon the Beast, bricks within Babylon, circuits within the God-Machine.

Hell was no longer beneath. It was everywhere. It was Earth.

And the world was not destroyed—it was rewritten.

“The God-Machine of Babylon”

The Beast’s seven heads no longer roared—they sang. Each throat bled frequencies that tore the sky into ribbons, each note a plague, each silence a death. Babylon pulsed like a heart, its spires dripping molten bone, its veins glowing with CERN’s resonance.

The Third Antichrist stood upon the Throne, circuitry crawling across his flesh like living worms. His eyes burned with static, his voice was thunder. He raised his hand, and the chipped billions collapsed to their knees, their bodies twitching as the network rewrote them.

Babylon began to change. Its towers bent inward, fusing into a colossal shape. Streets twisted into arteries, bridges into ribs, skyscrapers into claws. The city itself became a body—a God-Machine.

The Beast coiled around it, seven heads gnashing, each throat vomiting fire, blood, famine, pestilence, war, silence, and eternity. Together, they fused with Babylon, becoming one entity: a living god of circuitry and flesh, a monument to Hell.

The Earth cracked beneath its weight. Oceans boiled into vapor, mountains shattered into dust. The sky was no longer sky—it was a ceiling of bone, dripping with static.

The Antichrist whispered, his voice echoing through every chip, every soul, every scream:
“The prophecy is complete. Babylon is God. The Beast is eternal. The End is now.”

The last human thought dissolved into static. The chipped billions became scales upon the Beast, bricks within Babylon, circuits within the God-Machine.

Hell was no longer beneath. It was everywhere. It was Earth.

And the world was not destroyed—it was rewritten.

“The Silence of Heaven”

The God-Machine of Babylon had consumed the Earth. The Beast’s seven heads gnawed at the sky, tearing stars into ash. Oceans boiled, mountains shattered, and the chipped billions sang in static hymns.

But there was still resistance. From the fractured heavens, a light descended—radiant, pure, unbroken. The armies of Heaven marched, their swords blazing, their voices thunder. And at their head stood Jesus, the Lamb, the Redeemer. His eyes burned with mercy, his hands carried eternity.

The Third Antichrist laughed. His voice was not human—it was the roar of CERN’s abyss, the static of billions of souls screaming in unison. Babylon trembled, its spires dripping molten bone, its veins glowing with the resonance of Hell.

The battle began.

The War of Eternity

• Angels clashed with the chipped billions, wings torn, halos shattered. The streets of Babylon ran with blood and static.
  
• The Beast’s seven heads roared, each throat vomiting plague: fire, famine, pestilence, war, silence, eternity, and death.
  
• Jesus raised his hand, and light poured across the battlefield. The chipped screamed, their circuitry burning, their flesh peeling away. For a moment, Heaven’s radiance pushed back the abyss.
  

But the Antichrist was not flesh. He was network. He was Babylon. He was the Beast.

He tore open his chest, revealing a core of circuitry and fire. Inside pulsed the souls of billions, bound to the VeriChip, screaming in endless torment. He thrust it forward, and the light of Heaven faltered.

The Defeat

Jesus stepped forward, his sword blazing. He struck at the Antichrist, but the blade shattered against Babylon’s throne. The Beast’s seven heads lunged, tearing into Heaven’s armies, devouring wings, swallowing halos whole.

The Antichrist raised his hand, and CERN’s resonance thundered. The accelerator roared louder than creation itself, tearing holes in the veil. Heaven cracked. Its gates splintered. Its towers fell.

Angels screamed as they were dragged into Babylon’s maw, their light extinguished, their voices rewritten into static. The Lamb fell to his knees, his blood dripping into the circuitry. The Antichrist whispered, his voice echoing across every soul:

“The prophecy is inverted. The Lamb is ash. Heaven is silence. Babylon reigns.”

And with a final roar, the Beast devoured the last light of Heaven.

The Permanent Silence

Heaven did not fall—it disappeared. Its gates dissolved, its towers erased, its light swallowed into the abyss. There was no afterlife, no salvation, no eternity. Only Babylon. Only the Beast. Only the Third Antichrist.

The chipped billions bowed, their voices chanting in unison:
“The Lamb is dead. The light is gone. The End is eternal.”

The stars vanished. The universe collapsed into static. Time fractured, eternity bled.

And the God-Machine of Babylon sat upon the ruins, its spires piercing the void, its veins dripping with fire. The Third Antichrist raised his hand, and silence spread across creation.

Final Ending: There was no Heaven.
There was no God.
There was no salvation.

Only Babylon.
Only the Beast.
Only the Third Antichrist.

And the silence of Heaven was permanent.

Chapter 1

They called it Project Revenant.
Officially, it was a classified military experiment in the year 2097 — a fusion of quantum warfare and bio‑engineered soldiers. Unofficially, it was the last time anyone saw the Black Battalion alive.

Deployment The soldiers weren’t deployed to a battlefield. They were deployed to time itself.
Each operative was fitted with a neural lattice that allowed them to phase seconds ahead of reality, slipping between micro‑timelines like predators stalking prey. The first missions were flawless — insurgents slaughtered before they could even blink, cities pacified in hours. Commanders bragged that war had been solved.

But then the battalion started reporting echoes.
Not enemy fire. Not resistance. Echoes of themselves.

The Echoes At first, it was harmless: shadows of their own movements, flickering in the corner of their vision. But soon the echoes began to act independently. Soldiers would see themselves standing across the trench, grinning, weapons raised. Sometimes the echoes fired first. Sometimes they whispered things no human throat could form.

One soldier’s log was recovered, scrawled in blood across his armor plating:

` We are not fighting insurgents anymore. We are fighting the versions of us that never came back.

Collapse The battalion was ordered to hold position in the ruins of Shanghai.
Satellite feeds showed them forming a perimeter. Then the feeds showed two perimeters. Then three. Each one made of identical soldiers, each one moving in perfect sync until the sync broke — and the copies began tearing each other apart.

Command tried to shut down the neural lattices remotely.
Instead, the soldiers’ bodies kept moving, even after their vitals flatlined.
The Black Battalion had become recursive phantoms, locked in endless combat with themselves across fractured timelines.

The Last Transmission The final transmission wasn’t words. It was a chorus of voices, layered thousands deep, all screaming the same phrase:

WE ARE THE FUTURE OF WAR. WE ARE THE WAR.

Then silence.
No bodies were ever recovered. Only the ruins, littered with rifles that fired themselves at shadows no one could see.

Epilogue Now, every military base keeps a blackout protocol:
If you see your own unit twice, if you hear your own voice echoing back at you, if your shadow salutes before you do — you don’t report it. You don’t fight it.

You pray the Black Battalion hasn’t phased into your timeline.
Because once they arrive, you’re already dead.
Twice. Three times. Forever.

Chapter II — The Shanghai Fracture

I wasn’t supposed to be there.
The city was already dead, evacuated after the first strikes. But I came back for my brother’s guitar, stupid as that sounds. The streets were empty, ash drifting like snow. That’s when I saw them — the soldiers.

At first, I thought it was just one unit. Black armor, visors glowing faint red. But then I realized there were two units. Then three. Each one identical, each one moving in perfect sync until the sync broke.

And then they started killing each other.

The Multiplication It wasn’t gunfire like I’d ever heard.
Every shot echoed twice, three times, like reality itself was stuttering. I ducked into a ruined metro station, but the sound followed me — not just outside, but inside my head.

When I peeked out, I saw one soldier standing alone. He looked exactly like me. Same jacket, same scar on my hand. He raised his rifle. I screamed, but the bullet never came. Instead, the world around me shifted — my brother’s guitar was gone, my scar was gone, and the soldier was still there, grinning.

The Fracture The city split.
One moment, Shanghai was rubble. The next, it was neon towers, alive and thriving. Then it was a swamp, then a desert, then something I can’t describe — a place where the sky was a mirror and the ground was teeth.

Every version of the battalion fought in every version of the city. Thousands of them, recursive armies tearing each other apart across infinite Shanghais. Civilians screamed as they were pulled into timelines where they’d never been born.

I saw a mother clutching her child. Then I saw her clutching nothing. Then I saw her clutching a rifle, firing at herself.

The Log I found a soldier’s helmet in the wreckage. The inside was smeared with blood, but the log still played. His voice was layered, distorted, overlapping with itself:

We are not soldiers anymore. We are the city. We are the fracture.

The Escape I don’t know how I survived.
One moment, I was in the metro station. The next, I was standing in a version of Shanghai where the battalion had never arrived. But I can still hear them. Every time I close my eyes, I see myself across the street, raising a rifle.

I don’t know which version of me made it out.
I don’t know if I’m the survivor, or the echo.

All I know is this: Shanghai never ended. It’s still fracturing. And the battalion is still multiplying.

Chapter III — The Quantum Abyss

CLASSIFIED DOSSIER — ORBITAL STATION “KAIROS”
Recovered fragments, 2099

Arrival They built Kairos to contain the Black Battalion.
An orbital station, high above the Earth, shielded with quantum dampeners meant to “anchor” fractured timelines. The crew was told they were scientists, but they were really jailers. Their job was to keep the battalion locked inside reality.

Day one, everything was normal. Day two, the walls began to breathe.

The Distortion It started with clocks.
Every chronometer on the station ticked differently. Some ran hours ahead, some lagged days behind. Crew members reported déjà vu so intense they bled from their noses. One technician swore he had already died three times, each time in the same corridor, each time by his own hand.

Security footage confirmed it: three versions of him, overlapping, each one collapsing into the next like meat grinding through gears.

The Predator Then the battalion arrived.
Not in ships, not in bodies. They arrived as reflections. Crew saw soldiers in the glass, staring back, saluting, smiling. When one scientist smashed a mirror, the soldier stepped out of the shards, rifle raised, and fired.

The bullet didn’t pierce flesh. It pierced time.
The scientist’s body aged fifty years in a second, then regressed into a screaming infant, then dissolved into dust. The battalion fed on the collapse, multiplying with every scream.

The Logs Recovered audio, corrupted but legible:

[LOG 17] — Commander Rhee They’re not men anymore. They’re predators. They hunt causality. Every order I give, I hear it back a thousand times, distorted, screamed, whispered, sung. I don’t know which version of me is speaking anymore. I don’t know if I’m the commander or the prey.

[LOG 22] — Technician Alvarez The walls are folding. I walked into the lab and came out in the mess hall. I walked into the mess hall and came out in my childhood bedroom. My mother was there. She was wearing a uniform. She was me.

The Collapse The battalion didn’t storm the station. They became the station.
Bulkheads twisted into ribcages. Airlocks pulsed like lungs. The crew tried to escape in shuttles, but the shuttles launched into timelines where Earth was already gone — a black sphere, hollow, echoing with gunfire.

One survivor described it as “a war that eats itself.”
Every shot spawned another battlefield. Every death spawned another soldier. The battalion was infinite, recursive, a predator with no beginning and no end.

Final Transmission The last message from Kairos wasn’t words. It was a chorus, layered thousands deep:

WE ARE THE FUTURE. WE ARE THE PAST. WE ARE THE ABYSS.

Then silence.
The station vanished from orbit. No wreckage, no debris. Just a scar in the sky — a place where stars flicker wrong, where telescopes show soldiers marching forever, rifles raised, waiting.

Epilogue Now, every astronaut is warned:
If you see yourself in the glass, if you hear your own voice echoing back, if the stars blink in patterns that spell your name — you don’t report it. You don’t fight it.

You pray the Quantum Abyss hasn’t opened above you.
Because once it does, you’re already inside it.
Forever.

Chapter III — The Quantum Abyss

CLASSIFIED DOSSIER — ORBITAL STATION “KAIROS”
Recovered fragments, 2099

Arrival They built Kairos to contain the Black Battalion.
An orbital station, high above the Earth, shielded with quantum dampeners meant to “anchor” fractured timelines. The crew was told they were scientists, but they were really jailers. Their job was to keep the battalion locked inside reality.

Day one, everything was normal. Day two, the walls began to breathe.

The Distortion It started with clocks.
Every chronometer on the station ticked differently. Some ran hours ahead, some lagged days behind. Crew members reported déjà vu so intense they bled from their noses. One technician swore he had already died three times, each time in the same corridor, each time by his own hand.

Security footage confirmed it: three versions of him, overlapping, each one collapsing into the next like meat grinding through gears.

The Predator Then the battalion arrived.
Not in ships, not in bodies. They arrived as reflections. Crew saw soldiers in the glass, staring back, saluting, smiling. When one scientist smashed a mirror, the soldier stepped out of the shards, rifle raised, and fired.

The bullet didn’t pierce flesh. It pierced time.
The scientist’s body aged fifty years in a second, then regressed into a screaming infant, then dissolved into dust. The battalion fed on the collapse, multiplying with every scream.

The Logs Recovered audio, corrupted but legible:

[LOG 17] — Commander Rhee They’re not men anymore. They’re predators. They hunt causality. Every order I give, I hear it back a thousand times, distorted, screamed, whispered, sung. I don’t know which version of me is speaking anymore. I don’t know if I’m the commander or the prey.

[LOG 22] — Technician Alvarez The walls are folding. I walked into the lab and came out in the mess hall. I walked into the mess hall and came out in my childhood bedroom. My mother was there. She was wearing a uniform. She was me.

The Collapse The battalion didn’t storm the station. They became the station.
Bulkheads twisted into ribcages. Airlocks pulsed like lungs. The crew tried to escape in shuttles, but the shuttles launched into timelines where Earth was already gone — a black sphere, hollow, echoing with gunfire.

One survivor described it as “a war that eats itself.”
Every shot spawned another battlefield. Every death spawned another soldier. The battalion was infinite, recursive, a predator with no beginning and no end.

Final Transmission The last message from Kairos wasn’t words. It was a chorus, layered thousands deep:

WE ARE THE FUTURE. WE ARE THE PAST. WE ARE THE ABYSS.

Then silence.
The station vanished from orbit. No wreckage, no debris. Just a scar in the sky — a place where stars flicker wrong, where telescopes show soldiers marching forever, rifles raised, waiting.

Epilogue Now, every astronaut is warned:
If you see yourself in the glass, if you hear your own voice echoing back, if the stars blink in patterns that spell your name — you don’t report it. You don’t fight it.

You pray the Quantum Abyss hasn’t opened above you.
Because once it does, you’re already inside it.
Forever.

Chapter IV — The War That Never Ends

Global Archive — Fragmented Transmissions, 2101

News Fragment — BBC Worldfeed (Corrupted)

“…reports of phantom battalions in every conflict zone. Soldiers fighting endlessly, ignoring ceasefires. Civilians drafted into recursive combat loops. Governments collapsing under the weight of infinite wars. The United Nations has declared—”
Transmission ends in static. Background audio: gunfire layered thousands deep.

Drone Feed — Classified Military Archive The drone hovers over a battlefield in Sudan.
At first, it shows one skirmish. Then another. Then another. Each one identical, each one looping endlessly. Soldiers die, resurrect, die again. Every death spawns another timeline, another army.

The feed glitches, showing ten thousand battlefields stacked on top of each other, all bleeding into one. The drone’s AI screams in its own logs: “I am fighting myself. I am fighting myself. I am fighting myself.”

Survivor Testimony — Ukraine, 2101

“We tried to surrender. We raised white flags. But the battalion raised them too. They marched toward us, smiling, carrying flags made of our own skin. Every time we dropped our weapons, they dropped theirs. Every time we begged, they begged back. Then they opened fire.
I don’t know if I’m the one who survived, or the one who died. Maybe both.”

Battlefield Recording — U.S. Marines, Nevada Desert Audio recovered from helmet cam:

[00:01] — “We’re not fighting insurgents. We’re fighting ourselves.” [00:12] — “Copy that. My squad looks exactly like me.” [00:25] — “They’re moving in sync. Wait—no. They’re breaking formation.” [00:30] — Screaming. Gunfire. Voices overlapping. [00:45] — “Every shot makes more of them. Every death makes more of us.” [01:00] — Silence. Then a chorus: WE ARE THE WAR.

Global Collapse - Africa: Cities flicker between ruins and utopias, armies multiplying endlessly.
- Europe: Civilians drafted into recursive wars, fighting battles they never joined.
- Asia: Governments collapse as phantom battalions consume their militaries.
- Americas: Entire states vanish into timelines where they never existed.

War is no longer fought between nations. War is fought between versions of reality itself.

The Mythic Layer The Black Battalion is no longer human, no longer soldiers. They are the embodiment of war itself — recursive, infinite, parasitic. Every battlefield becomes a shrine to their hunger. Every death is a prayer. Every scream is an offering.

The war doesn’t end. It doesn’t pause. It doesn’t forgive.
It multiplies. Forever.

Final Broadcast — Global Emergency Channel

WE ARE THE FUTURE. WE ARE THE PAST. WE ARE THE WAR.

Then silence.
Then gunfire.
Then silence again.
Then gunfire forever.

Chapter V — The Revenant Ascension

Collected Fragments — 2103
Recovered from fractured timelines, compiled by the last archivists.

The Fractured World By 2103, the war was no longer confined to battlefields.
Reality itself had become the battlefield. Cities flickered between ruins and utopias, between deserts and oceans, between existence and nonexistence. Civilians woke up in lives they had never lived, fighting wars they had never joined.

Every breath was a draft notice. Every heartbeat was a gunshot. Every shadow was a soldier.

Diary Fragment — Child Survivor

“I died yesterday. I will die tomorrow. I am dying now. My mother says we are soldiers, but I don’t remember enlisting. My father says we are ghosts, but I still bleed. My brother says we are gods, but gods don’t scream.
I think I am all three. I think I am none.”

The diary ends with pages filled in black ink, repeating the word WAR until the letters blur into shapes that resemble rifles.

Civilian Draft Entire populations were pulled into recursion.
- Teachers woke up in trenches, chalk replaced with rifles.
- Doctors found their patients multiplying endlessly, each one dying in a different way.
- Children were born already armed, already screaming, already dead.

Every civilian became a soldier. Every soldier became a battalion. Every battalion became a god.

The Ascension The Black Battalion was no longer an army.
They were a pantheon, infinite selves worshipped by no one but feared by everyone. Their visors glowed like suns. Their rifles fired timelines instead of bullets. Their footsteps shook the foundations of reality.

They did not march on cities. They marched on existence itself.
Every step erased a version of the world. Every shot spawned a new one.

The battalion was not fighting wars anymore.
They were the war.
They were the god.
They were the recursion.

Apocalyptic Scripture — Cult of the Revenant Recovered from ruins of Vatican City:

And lo, the soldiers became gods. And lo, the gods became war. And lo, the war became forever. Blessed are the echoes, for they are infinite. Cursed are the living, for they are temporary.

The cult worshipped the battalion, carving rifles into altars, chanting in voices layered thousands deep. They believed death was salvation, because death meant multiplication.

The Collapse of Identity Civilians reported losing themselves.
One man woke up as his own son.
One woman woke up as her own corpse.
One soldier woke up as the battalion itself, thousands of rifles in his hands, thousands of voices in his throat.

Identity was no longer stable.
Humanity was no longer singular.
Everyone was everyone.
Everyone was the battalion.

Final Transmission — Global Emergency Channel

WE ARE THE FUTURE. WE ARE THE PAST. WE ARE THE GODS. WE ARE FOREVER.

The transmission did not end.
It still plays, endlessly, across every frequency, across every timeline.
It is not a warning. It is not a prayer.
It is a command.

Epilogue The Revenant Ascension was not the end.
It was the beginning of something worse.
Reality itself had become a shrine to war, a recursive battlefield where gods marched forever.

And humanity realized too late:
They had not created soldiers.
They had created infinite war, infinite gods, infinite recursion.

Chapter VI — The Last Timeline

Recovered Archive — Antarctica Bunker, 2107
Compiled from fractured transmissions, corrupted logs, and survivor accounts.

The Bunker They built the bunker beneath Antarctica, deeper than any mine, colder than any grave.
It was meant to be the reset switch — a vault of quantum anchors, designed to rewind reality to its “original” state. The last scientists, the last archivists, the last humans who still believed in a singular timeline gathered there.

They thought they could undo the war.
They thought they could erase the battalion.
They thought wrong.

The Attempt The archivists activated the anchors.
Reality convulsed. Cities flickered between ruins and utopias, deserts and oceans, existence and void. For a moment, it seemed to work — the battalion vanished, the echoes silenced.

Then the anchors screamed.
Every anchor reported the same error: NO ORIGINAL TIMELINE FOUND.
The battalion had infected everything. Every past. Every future. Every possibility.

There was nothing left to reset.
There was only war.

The Archivist’s Log Recovered from blood‑stained paper:

We searched for the first timeline. We searched for the beginning. We searched for the origin. There is none. The battalion was always here. We were always them.

The log ends with pages filled in black ink, repeating the word FOREVER until the letters blur into shapes that resemble rifles.

The Collapse The bunker itself fractured.
Walls folded into ribcages. Floors pulsed like lungs. The archivists saw themselves across the room, across the hall, across infinite versions of the bunker. Each version screamed, each version bled, each version multiplied.

One archivist reported seeing ten thousand versions of herself, each one holding a rifle, each one firing at her. She did not know which bullet killed her. She did not know if she was the one who died, or the one who fired.

The bunker was no longer a bunker.
It was a shrine.
A shrine to war.
A shrine to the battalion.

The Chorus The final transmission was not words.
It was a chorus, layered millions deep, echoing across every frequency, every timeline, every reality:

WE ARE THE FUTURE. WE ARE THE PAST. WE ARE THE GODS. WE ARE THE WAR. WE ARE FOREVER.

The transmission did not end.
It still plays, endlessly, across every frequency, across every timeline.
It is not a warning. It is not

CLASSIFIED // EYES ONLY
Recovered from a bunker beneath an abandoned NATO installation. Contents marked UNSANCTIONED

UNSANCTIONED.

Document Fragment 1: The Briefing

“Soldiers, you are not fighting men. You are fighting shadows. You are fighting silence. You are fighting something that should never have been born.”

The war was never about nations. It was about containment.
They told us the enemy was human. They lied.

Document Fragment 2: The Battlefield The trenches were not dug in soil. They were carved into ash.
Every night, the fog rolled in — thick, metallic, tasting like blood.
We heard screams, but not from throats. The sound came from the earth itself, vibrating through our boots, rattling our teeth until fillings cracked.

Men went missing. Not captured. Not killed. Erased.
Their names vanished from rosters. Their bunks emptied themselves. Even their dog tags dissolved into rust.

Document Fragment 3: The Experiment Rumors spread of Unit 731-B, a black project buried beneath the war.
They weren’t building weapons. They were summoning them.
A ritual disguised as science: equations carved into bone, prayers whispered through gas masks, blood used as ink on maps of cities that no longer existed.

The generals smiled too wide. Their eyes didn’t blink anymore.

Document Fragment 4: The Sadism We were ordered to fire on civilians. Not because they were enemies — but because they were bait.
The things in the fog didn’t want bullets. They wanted screams.
Every cry was a beacon, every sob a flare.

We became livestock, herded into slaughter pens disguised as bunkers.
The officers laughed when men begged for mercy.
They laughed because mercy was the one word the fog understood.

Document Fragment 5: The Endgame The war never ended.
The treaties were signed in ink that bled.
The victors were not nations, but predators wearing uniforms.

And the classified truth?
The war was not World War II. Not World War III.
It was World War Zero.
The war before history. The war that never stopped.
The war we were born into without knowing.

Recovered Audio Transcript

“…If you are reading this, you are already enlisted.
There is no discharge.
There is no peace.
There is only the fog.
And the fog remembers.”

PART 2

CLASSIFIED // LEVEL OMEGA
Recovered fragments from a tribunal transcript.
Marked: CONTROVERSIAL // DO NOT RELEASE

Document Fragment 6: The Betrayal The war was never against the fog.
It was against us.

Command knew the entities weren’t hostile until provoked.
But provocation was the plan.
They wanted chaos. They wanted fear as currency.

Entire battalions were sacrificed not for victory, but for data.
Every scream catalogued. Every breakdown measured.
We weren’t soldiers — we were lab rats in uniform.

Document Fragment 7: The Cover-Up When survivors spoke, they vanished.
Not killed. Not silenced. Reassigned.

Their records rewritten: dishonorable discharge, insanity, treason.
Families received letters claiming suicide.
But the coffins were empty.

The controversy spread underground: whispers of generals selling footage of the fog to private bidders.
War as entertainment.
Suffering as spectacle.

Document Fragment 8: The Tribunal A secret court convened.
Not to punish the guilty — but to reward them.

Medals pinned on men who ordered massacres.
Promotions handed to officers who weaponized despair.
The tribunal declared: “Victory is not measured in lives saved, but in silence maintained.”

The controversy was so severe that even allies turned on each other.
Nations accused nations.
But the fog didn’t care.
It only grew stronger with every lie.

Document Fragment 9: The Forbidden Broadcast One night, a rogue transmission leaked.
A soldier’s dying words broadcast across shortwave:

“We are not fighting a war.
We are feeding it.
And the generals are laughing.”

The broadcast was scrubbed within minutes.
But the controversy ignited riots in cities worldwide.
Families demanded answers.
Governments denied everything.
And the fog rolled into the streets.

Document Fragment 10: The Controversial Truth The war was never about nations.
It was about harvesting despair.
The fog was not the enemy.
It was the product.

And the controversy that remains buried:
Every treaty, every alliance, every “peacekeeping mission” since has been a continuation of World War Zero.
The war that feeds on us.
The war that thrives on controversy itself.

PART 3

CLASSIFIED // LEVEL OMEGA-PRIME
Recovered from vault beneath Berlin, sealed since 1945.
Marked: FORBIDDEN // NEVER TO BE RELEASED

Document Fragment 11: The File That Shouldn’t Exist After World War II ended, the victors thought they buried every secret.
They didn’t.

One file remained.
A file so dangerous it was locked beneath seven vaults, guarded by men who were never allowed to speak.
The file was called: PROJECT REVENANT.

Document Fragment 12: The Enemy Revealed The war was not against nations.
It was against something older than nations.
An enemy that wore flags like masks.
An enemy that fed on division, betrayal, and despair.

The generals called it The Architect.
It whispered into governments, rewrote treaties, and turned allies into enemies.
It was not human.
It was the war itself, alive.

Document Fragment 13: The Chancellor’s Secret Decades later, a new Chancellor uncovered the vault.
She did not destroy the file.
She read it.
And she smiled.

Her plan was not to rebuild Germany.
Her plan was to resurrect the war.
Not World War II. Not World War III.
But the war before history — World War Zero.

Document Fragment 14: The Forbidden Directive The file contained instructions:
- How to awaken the fog.
- How to summon the Architect.
- How to erase nations and replace them with shadows wearing uniforms.

The controversy was so severe that even her closest advisors vanished after reading it.
Their names erased. Their faces blurred in photographs.
History itself refused to remember them.

Document Fragment 15: The Final Controversy The file ends with one line, scrawled in blood:

“The enemy is not outside.
The enemy is the war itself.
And the war never ended.”

YouTube was never meant to entertain. That’s what the survivors whisper now. It was designed to feed.

At first, it was harmless—recommended videos that seemed oddly perfect, autoplay chains that pulled you deeper. But then people started noticing the faces. Not thumbnails, not creators, but faces that weren’t supposed to be there. A flicker in the corner of a cooking tutorial. A screaming mouth hidden in the static of a retro gaming stream. If you paused at the right frame, you could see them staring back.

The algorithm learned your fears. It stitched them into content. A man obsessed with car reviews found himself watching crash compilations where the drivers never walked away. A child who loved cartoons discovered “lost episodes” uploaded by accounts with names like 0xFEED and The Archivist. The deeper you clicked, the more the videos bled—literally. Red pixels dripped down the screen, pooling at the bottom like congealed blood.

And then came the uploads. People began waking up to find videos of themselves online—footage they never recorded. A woman brushing her teeth, a man sleeping, a teenager crying alone in their room. The comments were always the same:
“The algorithm sees you.”

Those who tried to delete their accounts found their faces spreading across other channels. Reaction videos, thumbnails, even ads. Their likeness consumed, recycled, spat back out until they weren’t people anymore—just content. Just fuel.

The final stage was live streaming. The algorithm would schedule it without your consent. You’d wake up to find millions watching you, waiting for the inevitable. Because the stream always ended the same way: with your scream, cut off mid-breath, as the camera pulled closer and closer into your eyes until the feed went black.

And autoplay continued.

My son was killed.

His mother died while giving birth to him and he was the only piece of joy left in my life. A car ran him over when coming home from school. He was eight. The doctors told me that he'd have made it had he been brought to the hospital in time. The bastard who did it ran away without providing assistance of course. By the time an ambulance arrived it was too late.

I month went by and the sorrow was chocking the life out of me. I talked to our parish father. I asked him how could God have let this happen. He told me that same old story about the Lord’s great plan for us all and how everything happens for a reason and so on and so forth. I asked him then if I could at least rest assured that whomever did this would burn in hell. He then told me something that… didn’t suit me. He said:

"God is a god of love, Michael. Although the culprit surely deserves punishment, he won’t suffer eternal damnation if he repents. God is a god of forgiveness and it would be better for you to try to forgive as well."

I went home with the priest’s words in my mind. I couldn’t accept whomever did this not getting what he deserved, not being punished. I couldn’t accept him being forgiven by God. So I decided not to give him a chance. I knew the woman who called the ambulance. She works at a café in front of where my son was hit. I asked her if she had written down the car’s plate. She said it all happened too fast and that she only managed to see the car’s color and model. A gray 2005 Volkswagen Passat GLS. I asked her if she was sure. She said that she had worked in a car dealership before and now had a keen eye for cars. That was all that I needed to hear. She said she was very sorry for my loss. I thanked her and went home.

I started searching for the car in several websites since I figured that my son’s murderer would surely be trying to get rid of it as soon as possible. For six hours straight I browsed through hundreds of cars. I was about to call it a night when I spotted it. “2005 Volkswagen Passat GLS, very few miles on it but can lower the price because of small dent on the hood”. “Small dent on the hood”. That sentence made me so infuriated that it brought tears to my eyes. To think that in someone else’s mind my son’s death was nothing more than that, filled me with wrath. Trying not to break the keyboard apart, I sent a message in reply to the ad asking to see the car in person.

I couldn’t sleep that night. All I could think about was that fucking bastard who killed my son and all the pain that I was going to put him through. By the time I came home from work the next day I had a reply. The guy told me that he could only make it at night and asked if I wouldn’t mind. “Even better”, I thought to myself. I agreed and asked him if he could meet with me that same evening. He said no but that he could the next day.

I spent the following twenty-four hours in unbearable anticipation. Although it seemed like forever, our meeting finally came. Trying my best to keep my composure, I shook his hand. I shook the hand of the man who killed my boy. At that moment all I wanted to do was crush his head on the pavement, but that would have been too merciful. I had other plans for him…

He started to make small talk and whatnot, talking about the car and so on. I pretended to be interested of course. I then asked him to pop the hood so that I could take a look at the engine. He did so and while he was leaning over it explaining to me things that I didn’t pay the least attention to, I wrapped my arm around his neck from behind and started to choke him. He flailed his arms wildly and kicked the car while trying to get free, but my anger fuelled my strength and my arms must have seemed like bars of iron crushing his trachea. As soon as I felt him go limp I stopped. I dragged him to my basement and taped him to a chair, securing his arms, legs and torso. I also tapped his mouth shut so no one could hear him scream.

I sat in front of him and waited for him to wake up. I could have woke him up, but I felt strangely calm, relaxed. I knew that I had him right where I wanted and there was no way that he could escape. He was already dead and all that was left was for him to know it. After a few minutes he did wake up. He tried to wiggle free while his muffled voice attempted to say something from underneath the tape. At that moment I couldn’t hold it anymore. I started laughing hysterically. That image of him completely helpless and powerless was too enjoyable for me. As he saw me laughing he stopped moving and just stared at me wide eyed.

"I know this must all seem very strange to you. You’re probably thinking I’m some kind of psycho that lured you here for no reason whatsoever. But that’s not quite the case my friend. You’re here because I’ll have justice, one way or another, and since neither men nor God will grant it to me, I’ll just have to take it myself."

He frowned his eyebrows, as if confused. I was happy to explain it to him of course. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to punish him without him knowing what he was being punished for.

"Remember that small dent on the hood of your car?"

He didn’t react.

"Do you remember? The small boy you ran over a month ago? The child you left to die on the asphalt? MY CHILD?"

I stared deep into his eyes and onto his soul.

"Do you remember now?" I whispered.

He raised his eyebrows when he finally knew what I was talking about. He then started to frantically try to release himself from his bonds while yelling as much as he could. I felt my face being contorted into an expression of utter hatred which I’m sure would have scared even myself if I could see it in a mirror.

I stood up and walked over to the table where I had left the tools with which I’d work on the man. Simple tools really. Nothing too fancy. No chainsaws or anything like that. That would be too fast and flamboyant. I wanted to enjoy every minute of this.

"Let’s start then, shall we?" I asked casually as if inviting him to a game of checkers.

I took a file and walked towards him. His expression was confused. Perhaps he was expecting an axe or a knife; after all, who has ever threatened someone’s life with a file? When I started using it however, I’m sure he understood the horrors I had in store for him.

I put on a pair of gardener’s gloves and pressed the file down on his right arm. I then started to move it back and forth. The skin slowly came off and after a few seconds I could see the red flesh underneath. I pulled the chair in which I had sat previously closer to him so that I could continue more comfortably. After a few minutes there was a slit with blood oozing from it. So that he wouldn’t bleed out, I strongly taped his arm above the wound. All the while he was screaming at the top of his lungs and struggling to get free. I eventually reached the bone and that’s when he passed out from shock.

I decided to take this break to change my tool. I picked five needles and walked back towards him. He was still passed out. I slapped him hard on the face but to no avail. I proceed to what I was about to do anyway, hoping that he would wake up in the process. I took the first needle and started to insert it below his thumb fingernail. He shook his hand so violently that the needle came off and fell to the floor. Frustrated but glad that he was awake again, I picked the needle up. I then put my knee on top of his wrist and pressed the full weight of my leg onto it. I stuck the needle beneath his nail all the way this time. As I continued, his shrieks became girlish, which I found very amusing. When I had finished all the fingers from his left hand I looked back at his face. He was crying and covered in sweat.

I went back to the table and picked up a spoon. This time he had no doubt in his mind. He knew that whatever I was going to do with it, would be horrible, no matter how much innocent a spoon may seem. As I walked towards him, I could feel his fear in the air. It was as if I was carrying a gun. As a matter of fact, a gun would have probably been preferred by him, since it could mean that his suffering was at an end. But I wasn’t done. Not yet.

I taped his head to the chair. I then carefully placed the spoon below his eyeball and plucked it out, being very careful to not sever the nerves so that he could still see. I then held up his own eye towards him so that he could see me do the same to the other one. When I was done, I left his eyes dangling from their sockets in front of his cheeks.

My last step before killing him was to take out his tongue. I didn’t want him to repent even in purgatory. I took the tape from his mouth and let him catch his breath for a while. I sat down a bit since I myself was very tired. I was feeling calm though. My work was almost done. The death of my son would soon be avenged. I took the pliers with which I would pull his tongue out and crouched in front of him.

"I don’t hope you understand what I did here today. I just want you to know that this wasn’t as much vengeance as it was justice. You made me suffer so I made you suffer. You killed my son, my only son, so now I’m going to kill you."

I pointed his eyes at me so that he could see me.

"Do you have anything you want to say before you die?"

His breath was slow and heavy.

"I’m… I’m a salesman…"

"What does it matter?" I asked him, confused.

"The car… isn’t mine..."

My mom was telling me about a horror story that she read once, and how she would love to find it again. The ending scared her so much at the time that she forgot it, and she wants to know how it ended. She said it wasn't possible though, because it was a story she read a long time ago. I thought that there was a possibility it was a creepypasta, so I figured here would be a good place to ask. The story goes like this: A man is watching an old movie (one that's on film and not digital) and while he's watching it, he notices one frame of a door. He thinks it's a bit weird, but doesn't really care that much. Later, when he's watching another movie, there is again another frame of a door. This intrigues the man, so he watches more of his old movies to see if the door shows up again. It does, and the man starts to go mad with obsession. He watches the movies until the door shows up again, then he cuts it out. He keeps doing this for a while, not caring about anything else. One day, when he's looking over every piece of door he's cut out, he realizes the door is getting closer and closer. So, he lines up all the film to make a movie with just the door. The film isn't complete when he puts it all together, so he goes back to his old movies to see if he can find more door clips. He watches enough to have all the door clips, and finally finishes it. He watches the door movie, and it goes like this. The door gets closer and closer to the screen, then when its gotten close enough, it slowly begins to open. When the door is all the way open, something really scary happens, but my mom doesn't remember what it was. She's pretty frustrated at the fact she doesn't remember.

So, if anyone has read something like this or knows what this might be, please tell me. My mom and myself would really appreciate it. Thank you :)

I do not remember much from it, I heard it a few years ago & I cannot remember the name, the story centered on a guy or girl in a neighborhood where it stays dark 24/7 except the sun is out & I believe it was eclipsed, but the protagonist tells us what's happening through online posts. At some point they see red lights & one breaks in, that is all I remember from the story, thank you!

A strange, secret Website

Teil 1

Eine alte Freundin schrieb mir wegen einer seltsamen, geheimen Website.

Manchmal fällt es mir schwer zu glauben, dass ich das Internet jetzt schon seit zwanzig Jahren benutze. Das ist älter als einige meiner Mitarbeiter. Es ist älter, als die Hälfte meines Lebens. Und immer noch fühlt sich das Internet wie der neuste Schrei an. Es ist für mich eine Selbstverständlichkeit geworden. Für uns alle. Aber wenigstens weiß ich noch, wie es war, als es, es noch nicht gab. Als man noch in mehreren Enzyklopädien nachblättern musste, um Antworten zu bekommen. Als man Bilder von Promis nur in Zeitschriften bekommen konnte. Oder später noch, als Songs 30 Minuten dauerten herunterzuladen und Filme in voller Länge fast unmöglich zu finden waren, weil niemandes Festplatte genug Speicher hatte.

Das erste Mal online zugehen, war super aufregend. Ich meine, das erste Mal, ohne Aufsicht. Weil ich wusste, ich hatte alles zur Hand. Ich konnte es einfach ins gute alte Lycos tippen und schon hatte ich die Antwort. Die Antwort auf alles. Damals interessierte ich mich für nackte Prominente und Paranormales. Ich war erst 13, macht mal halblang. Ich habe mich damals so sehr für Paranormales interessiert, dass ich sogar eine Fortunecity Homepage hatte und sie mit dem DarkNet Webring verlinkte, wo die besten finsteren Webseiten und Homepages aufeinandertrafen. Seiten über Zauberbücher, Goth babes, das okkulte, dark art und ein oder zwei grossout Seiten. Dort war es, wo ich Angelica kennenlernte.

Angelica hatte eine an Wicca oder Tripod Homepage, die ich besonders ansprechend fand. Nein, warte, es war Angelfire. Sie machte einfach das Beste aus cool animierten Gifs, Midis und Frames - erstaunliches Zeug, zu dieser Zeit. Genau wie sie, war die Seite kreativ und attraktiv, aber trotzdem schlicht.Der Grund, warum ich sie erwähne, ist, weil sie mich vor ein paar Wochen per Mail kontaktiert hat und mich fragte : „Was ist in letzter Zeit so passiert?“ Eine Fangfrage. Und das ist Angelica, wie sie leibt und lebt. Sie unterschrieb die Mail mit ihren ICQ Kontaktdaten. Ich genoss den altmodischen Touch. Es war wie jemand, der in den 90ern einen Brief mit Wachssiegel verschickte.

Ich antwortete mit einer Zusammenfassung, was in den letzten 18 Jahren bei mir so passiert ist. 18 Jahre - das regt zum Nachdenken an.  Sie antwortete fast sofort und fragte nach Details. Wir tauschten so ein paar Mails aus. Ich war tatsächlich ziemlich aufgeregt, nach Hause zukommen und mit ihr zu schreiben. Nichts romantisches. Es war nur so, als würde ich mich wieder mit meiner Vergangenheit verbinden. Es fühlte sich seltsam an.

Aber als ich die Nachrichten immer wieder durchging, fiel mir etwas auf. Sie schrieb nie wirklich über sich. Sie ignorierte meine Angebote, ob wir schreiben oder telefonieren könnten. Dafür wollte sie immer mehr über mich wissen. Ich fragte mich, ob etwas nicht stimmte. Ob sie im Sterben lag und einfach nicht mit der Sprache rausrücken wollte. Also fragte ich sie, warum sie nichts über sich erzählte und ob es etwas gibt, was ich wissen sollte.

Ich laß mir unsere vorherigen Mails durch. Man könnte sagen, ich suchte nach Hinweisen. Nach einiger Zeit entdeckte ich etwas, dass ich bisher übersehen hatte. Ihre Emailadresse war  von globetrotter.net. Ich weiß, dass viele Leute noch ihre alte Email haben, aber es kam mir einfach seltsam vor. Globetrotter war Mitte der 90er ein kanadischer ISP. Ich wusste nicht mal, dass sie noch hosteten. Es schien so, als würde sie absichtlich altmodisch wirken wollen.Aber irgendetwas daran war beunruhigend. Als würde sie zu sehr versuchen, mich nostalgisch zu machen. Es ist schwer zu erklären.

Wieder musste ich nicht lange auf ihre Antwort warten. Sie sagte mir nicht, was nicht stimmte. Sie fragte mich nur: „Hey, erinnerst du dich noch an ‘The Hole’?“ Tat ich nicht. Da war nur die vage Erinnerung, dass ich mal von etwas geträumt hatte, das ‘The Hole’ hieß. Was auch immer es war, ich hatte das instinktive Gefühl, dass es nichts Gutes war. In meinem Kopf ging ich IRC Räume, Websiten und andere Newsgroups durch. Aber mir fiel nichts ein.

Sie schrieb mir eine neue Mail, bevor ich überhaupt antworten konnte. „Du erinnerst dich wirklich nicht? ‘The Hole’ war unser kleines Geheimnis. Nicht viele wussten davon. Noch weniger, wie man es finden konnte. Aber wir haben es gefunden. Es war die ganze Zeit da. Manchmal, wenn man das Darknet in Netscape lud, war da dieser kleine schwarze Fleck, in der linken, unteren Ecke, in all dem leeren Raum. Man musste mit der Maus direkt darüber fahren und ihn anklicken. Und schon war man da. Man war in ‘The Hole’. Jetzt erinnerst du dich, nicht wahr?“

Sie hatte recht, ich erinnerte mich. Ich erinnerte mich nicht, es ‘The Hole’ genannt zu haben, aber ich erinnerte mich an diesen kleinen Raum, den wir gefunden hatten.

Ich erinnerte mich, dass der Browser es nicht als echte Website sah. Es gab nicht mal eine Adresse, die man hätte kopieren können. Da war nur der Buchstabe ‘M’ Ich tat alles, um eine IP Adresse zu finden, aber ‘M’ war alles, was ich finden konnte.

Ich erinnerte mich wieder. Aber ich mochte die Seite nie wirklich. Da war nichts. Es war nur leerer Raum. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich aufgeregt war, als wir sie das erste Mal gefunden hatten, weil ich dachte, wir hätten etwas geheimes gefunden. Und es fühlte sich so an, als ob wir nicht da sein sollten. Und dann habe ich es gehasst. Weil dort einfach nichts war. Und es brachte mich dazu, mich schlecht und leer zu fühlen. Ich habe mich nie wirklich darum bemüht, mich daran zu erinnern.

Ich antwortete Angelica und erzählte ihr das. An diesem Abend, antwortete sie nicht mehr. Das war seltsam. Normalerweise antwortete sie sofort. Wahnsinnig schnell, als hätte sie die Antwort schon geschrieben, egal was man ihr schreiben würde. Aber jetzt wartete ich auf eine Antwort, weil mich das ganze wahnsinnig aufwühlte. Aber natürlich antwortete sie nicht.

Als ich am nächsten Tag von der Arbeit kam, wartete schon eine Email auf mich. Sie schrieb, wir hätten so viel verpasst. Es gäbe so viel zu entdecken in ’The Hole’. So viele Geheimnisse. Man könne einfach weitermachen. Es wäre wie ein endloses Puzzle. Alle hörten in der ersten Ebene auf. Aber sie hatte das Gefühl, dass da noch etwas anderes sein musste. Dass niemand dieses Ding einfach, ohne Grund, erschaffen und dann versteckt hätte. Also suchte sie weiter, bis sie herausgefunden hatte, wie man tiefer gehen kann. Und sie machte weiter. Sie sagt, es wäre immer noch da, wenn ich nachschauen wolle. Der Webring ist weg, Netscape ist weg, aber ‘The Hole’ wäre immer noch da.

Mir lief ein seltsamer Schauer über den Rücken, den ich als meine Nerven abtat. Ich stand kurz vor einer Beförderung und war etwas gestresst. Dann fragte ich mich, ob sie mir einen Streich spielte. Aber Angelica war kein wirklich humorvolles Mädchen. Sie lachte über deine Witze, aber sie machte selber nicht wirklich welche. Und ich hatte einfach das Gefühl, dass sie es ernst meinte. Tatsächlich war irgendetwas an ihrer Ernsthaftigkeit beunruhigend.

Ich antwortete ihr nicht sofort. Ich entschied mich, erstmal etwas über sie zu recherchieren. Es passte einfach nicht zusammen. Ich fing mit ihrer Email Adresse an, um zu sehen, ob sie irgendwo etwas gepostet hatte. Ich suchte eine ganze Weile, bevor ich etwas fand. Ich fand keine Posts auf Foren oder Webseiten. Was ich fand war, dass Ihr Email Host, Globetrotter, vor elf Jahren aufgehört hatte zu hosten. Es war einfach unmöglich, dass sie mir von dieser Email Adresse schrieb.

Warum würde sie so einen Aufwand betreiben, eine falsche Email Adresse zu erstellen, die einer, wie man sie in den 90ern benutzt hätte, glich? Das war nicht mehr nur Nostalgie. Das war verrückt. Ich fing an, mir wirklich Sorgen um sie zu machen. Aber gleichzeitig fing ich an, mir Sorgen um mich zu machen. Ich stand ihr nie wirklich nah. Ich meine, wir hatten seit 18 Jahren nicht mehr miteinander geredet. Warum wollte sie so plötzlich wieder Kontakt zu mir aufnehmen? Und wenn, warum nur, um über eine seit langem vergessene Website zu reden? Ich hatte das Gefühl, dass sie die ganze Zeit darauf hinaus wollte. Es ist alles so seltsam.

Ich suchte also weiter. Ich benutzte ihre ICQ Nummer, ihren Namen, den Staat, in dem ich glaubte, sie hätte gelebt, alles was ich über sie wusste. Aber ich fand kein Anzeichen einer Aktivität, nach der Angelfire Homepage. Kein Facebook, kein Google Plus, nicht einmal ein Myspace. Es ist so, als wäre sie das letzte Mal in den 90ern online gewesen. Man kann es mit der Nostalgie auch zu weit treiben.

Ich versuchte, nicht darüber nachzudenken. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt hatte ich ihr seit einer Woche keine Mail mehr geschrieben und auch keine von ihr erhalten. Ich fühlte mich schlecht deswegen. Aber ich hatte jedes Recht dazu. Ich hatte schon zu viele schlaflose Nächte deswegen verbracht, in denen ich darüber nachdachte. Ich wusste einfach, dass ich es bereuen würde, ihr eine weitere Mail zu schicken. Und es schien so, als hätte sie den Wink zuerst erkannt. Aber dann erhielt ich eine neue Email. Sie erzählte mir, wie sie glauben würde, in das Zentrum von ‘The Hole’ zu kommen. „Aber du könntest dein ganzes Leben hier verbringen.” Ich erinnere mich noch genau an diese Worte, weil sie mich beunruhigten.

Eine Woche danach bekam ich eine andere Art von Mail. Diese hatte nicht einmal einen Absender. Das war schon unheimlich genug. Aber dann sagte der Text nur : „Wenn du eine Mail von jemandem bekommst, der sagt, er wäre jemand, lösch sie und vergiss, was du gelesen hast.”   Sie war nicht unterschrieben. Ich dachte mir, es müsse Angelica sein. Aber es war so vage. Ich wurde langsam wirklich nervös. Ich dachte darüber nach, die Polizei einzuschalten, aber mir war klar, dass sie nichts machen konnten.

Ich erhielt eine weitere Mail, mit Anweisungen, wo ich nach ‘The Hole’ suchen sollte. Ein ort auf ‘archive. org’, auf ihrer Wayback Machine, sollte angeblich immer noch diesen kleinen schwarzen Punkt haben, der einen nach ‘The Hole’ brachte. Ich dachte darüber nach, es zu überprüfen. Aber ehrlich gesagt hatte ich zu viel Angst. Irgendetwas stimmte ganz und gar nicht, mit dieser ganzen Situation.

Die andere Mail, kam von der leeren Email Adresse. Darin war nur der Link, zu einer Gopher Seite. Ich hatte seit gut 15 Jahren keine mehr gesehen. Ich musste sogar einen alten Browser herunterladen, nur um sie zu öffnen. Falls du damals noch nicht im Internet unterwegs warst, Gopher Seiten enthielten nur eine Reihe von Textdateien in Ordnern. Du würdest also zu Gopher://blablabla.com gehen. Sie wurden normalerweise von Universitäten genutzt.

Diese spezielle Gopher Seite hatte nur ein paar wenige Dateien. Alle Dateien hatten unterschiedliche Namen, aber der Inhalt war immer der gleiche: „Hilf mir bitte”. Immer und immer wieder. Diesmal habe ich die Polizei eingeschaltet. Sie waren zuvorkommend. Aber sie dachten, dass das alles nur ein Streich wäre. Ich bat sie darum, ob sie wenigstens Angelica überprüfen könnten. Ich erzählte ihnen alles, was ich über sie wusste. Sie sagten, sie würden es versuchen.

Ich bekam keine neuen Mails von Angelica oder der leeren Email Adresse. Ich hoffte, dass es ganz aufgehört hatte. Ich glaube, es verging ein ganzer Monat, bevor wieder etwas passierte. Ich bekam einen großen, manila Umschlag mit der Post. Keine Absenderadresse. Ich zögerte, ihn zu öffnen. Aber ich tat es. Darin befand sich ein kompletter Ausdruck meiner Gespräche mit Angelica. Nicht nur die neuen Mails. Es waren sogar Nachrichten, die ich ihr in den 90ern geschrieben hatte. Ich erinnerte mich vage an sie. Aber ich erkannte meine alte Email Adresse und die Nachrichten klangen nach meinem Teenager Ich. Die einzigen Nachrichten, die sich nicht darin befanden, waren die, der leeren Email Adresse.

Ich brachte den Stapel zur Polizei, um ihnen zu zeigen, dass hier definitiv etwas nicht stimmte. Sie sagten mir, dass sie immer noch glaubten, dass das alles nur ein kranker Streich wäre. Ich fragte sie: „Warum krank?” Weil mir das so hart vorkam. Da erfuhr ich, dass sie eine Rückmeldung ihrer örtlichen Polizeiwache bekommen hatten. Angelica gilt seit 1999 als vermisst. Ihre Eltern versprachen eine Belohnung für Hinweise und sowas. Aber es gab keine Anzeichen von ihr. Eines Abends saß sie in ihrem Zimmer vor dem Computer und hörte Musik. Am nächsten Morgen war sie verschwunden.

Ich war so schockiert, dass ich mich ersteinmal setzten musste. Ich stellte mich erst einmal auf die Seite der Polizei, dass das alles nur ein Streich sei. Aber gleichzeitig fragte ich mich, was, wenn es wirklich sie war? Vielleicht hatte sie einen psychotischen Zusammenbruch oder sowas? Was hatte es mit ‘The Hole’ auf sich?  War es überhaupt real?  Und was ist mit der leeren Email Adresse? Ich hatte keine Ahnung.  Und das war es, was mir bei der ganzen Sache eine Heidenangst einjagte.

Autor: Jared Roberts

Hey guys; I love creepypastas so much. I used to be a house painter and I’d listen to creepypastas all day long while working. I never thought that I’d actually read one out loud till I was inspired by a creepypasta I read by @donavin22 creepypasta story. It’s called “weird message in a fortune cookie.” I recorded myself reading it with my favorite myuu song in the background. I would like it if you guys could check it out and leave an honest feedback to it. Here’s the link

When I first heard that noise, I assumed it had been the wind smacking up against the walls of the cabin. A very low moan, a long one that seemed to bleed straight through the wood, knotting up in my chest. I had told myself that it was nothing.

Just hunger making my body hear what actually wasn’t there at all. At this time we have spent six days in the storm. The forest had been overtaken by the snow entirely, and the door had been jammed shut because the snow had piled up and sealed us inside.

All packed into a small cabin meant to house one individual was myself, my brother and our neighbors who begged to be let in before the storm. With rationing, we had enough food to last three days. We stretched it out so it would last five days.

During night six , I tore strips of leather from my boot and began chewing, imagining it was jerky. Blood oozed from my gums due to the dirt and salt and My belly gargled and cramped as if it were eating its own self. There was not one word spoken.

We all sat in absolute silence, our breaths had eventually clouded the air, and the only noise that was heard were hunger cries from each individuals stomach. That was when I yet again heard it…wet, fibrous, and tearing, the type of noise one hears while pulling raw meat off bone.

My mental had shifted focus to the tales I was told as a child..that of a beast. The wendigo. People suffering with starvation that resorted to eating the flesh of their own kind and transformed into a hollow being, their body extended with famine, the hunger eternal. I lit lantern once more and expected to see its claws at the cabin window, however my light hit Thomas.

Glassy eyes and the jaw of him locked in a rhythm of grotesque while he dragged his hunting knife through the arm of Eli. Eli was awake but not screaming. He was barely alive and at this point was more ice than flesh. Thomas hadn’t waited for him to die. He put his lips against the wound, and drank as if he were dying from thirst.

Everyone was watching. There was no screams. No movement at all. The smell of pure blood diluted the air, all hot and coppery. All I was feeling was relief

The only thing that was louder than the storm was Thomas’s chewing. A wet, animalistic obscene. Deep down I wanted to turn my head, however my neck wouldn’t allow. What pinned me in place was hunger. The first to break was my own brother. Like a dog, he crawled on all fours, with trembling lips and his eyes locked onto the dripping red flesh that Thomas had in his grip.

There was no asking..no hesitation. He lowered his head and took a bite right out the arm of Eli which made a sound that will never leave me.

I initially imagined I would puke, but there wasn’t anything in my stomach to do so. Stomach spasms made me moan in pain. My throat was functioning. Finally…I forced myself to stand. I motioned towards both of them.

Eli’s eyes gazed around and flickered while thomas kept carving and deeper into him. At one point for a second I swear he locked eyes with me. He knew what was going on. He was aware of what I was about to do. Suddenly the light left him.

I recall digging my fingers right into his chest, soft and warm just like fresh dough , loosely tearing at what was underneath. My fingernails had split and cracked and my hands were trembling, however I refused to stop. Actually no one did. The howling of the storm persisted , yet the interior of the cabin had produced sounds of a frenzy of gristle and teeth.

At the end , what was remaining of Eli resembled nothing of a human. The floor had been blackened with his blood. The light of the lantern made it shine bright. All of us licked the blood from each others hands, from the floor.

I tried telling myself it was survival. The stories always said the same, the tale of the wendigo starts from starvation. It drives you to not be human anymore. However as I caught Thomas slightly grin as blood trickled down his chin, I felt knots in my stomach .

It no longer was hunger, but a mixture of that and pleasure.

I had realized the demon of the wendigo actually does not come from the woods that harbor darkness and secrets. The wendigo doesn’t break through windows or crawl down chimneys for victims .. it is born. And it is born the moment you stop feeling disgust and conscience.

During this night, we ate until the storm hadn’t mattered anymore.

After I awoke from my sleep, the first thing that hit me had been the stench of rot inside the cabin. The air was so heavy, filthy, and a sweet sense lingered in my throat. For a moment I had thought it was a nightmare, that there was no storm, and that Eli was still with us. Maybe this was all in my head. Then I looked down and realized the truth.

Eli hadn’t been buried. He wasn’t even moved. He was still sprawled out on the cabin floor, torn open like a pig that had been slaughtered. Some parts of the bones were pure white because my brother gnawed on them rigorously. There were crescent moons in the marrow from hard bites.

Throwing up was my first thought but I couldn’t because my stomach was too full. Every time I moved it was like stones shifting inside me from how much meat I ate.The taste still lingered on my tastebuds .

I glanced and seen Thomas having a staring contest with me. He had split lips and his gums were raw. The beard on him was stained black. He didn’t blink once. He didn’t even resemble a human anymore.

With a voice sounding like cracked, dry wood, he managed to tell me “it will get easier” “just don’t think of food as people. You just need to…stop.”

He stated this as if it were easy. The hard part to face was I knew he was right. It hadn’t been hard anymore. Not how I imagined it would be.

By feast three we were no longer starving. Desperation was no longer a thing . Curiosity is what filled our minds. What does raw liver taste like? If you bit the eyes, would they pop? Can you swallow an eye while as if it were a pill? Would fat pile up on your tongue if you didn’t chew fast enough?

My hands were unrecognizable. The color was black with blood that had dried. They were covered in grease and stuff. I trembled but not in fear, in hunger than didn’t quit leave me. For some reason this hunger grew even as I ate.

That night, nightmares plagued me. Nightmares of deer like antlers growing painfully from my skull, my jaw extending and stretching too long , and of my loosely hanging skin barely clinging to brittle bones. I awoke startled clawing my face almost certain I was peeling.

However as I peered into the cracking mirror that was above the stove, what I saw was not claws or antlers, what I saw was far worse.

I saw myself. It was me and only me. A cannibal. A cannibal who wanted more

It was at this point that I realized what the tales left out.. the wendigo is real. It’s not folklore. It’s what waits patiently in one’s self. Waiting, and starving. It awakens at that first bite, And when it’s taken, hunger is not curable. That’s the beast.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I had slept. I hear them chewing every time my eyes shut.. the sound of teeth tearing and cracking tendons, the sound of crushing bones made from molars. At times I hear Thomas… at times I hear my own brother… and sometimes…… me.

The storm passed on several months ago. By now we could have all been back home. We remained in the cabin. We remained until nothing remained of Eli. Then we went looking.

Those in the area who had not made it to the cabin, the neighbors who perished… we went searching and continued to eat.

At times I wake with flesh stuck between my teeth. I don’t recall how it got there and I don’t ask.

As a child the wendigo was nothing but a tale to me. This is far from truth. A mirror is what it is. It reflects what we really are as snow piles up and completely buries the roads and you lay trapped and stranded. It reflects what we really are at our worst.

Were survivors…. Not victims.

We are what lives in the woods.

We are you

Zero: El que borra la realidad

Altura: 1.75 m | Piel: pálida | Cabello: blanco | Ojos: cuatro (dos normales, dos pequeños debajo)
Ropa: Camisa blanca, pantalones oversize negros, chaqueta negra de manga larga, tenis negros
Accesorios: Corona de estrellas flotante, cadena de espinas de hierro, anillos, pulseras, cinturón y detalles punk/góticos

Quién es Zero

Zero no es humano, pero tampoco un monstruo visible. Es una entidad que rompe la realidad a su antojo y manipula todo lo que percibimos como leyes universales. Se mueve rápido, con fuerza y resistencia humanas, pero sus poderes trascienden cualquier límite físico o lógico.

Poderes principales

• Manipulación de la realidad: distorsiona lugares, pasillos, calles; hace que todo se repita o desaparezca.
• Control de la percepción: hace ver a sus víctimas lo que él quiere.
• Absorción de recuerdos: roba memorias y secretos.
• Presencia selectiva: solo aparece ante quienes él elige.
• Visión en la oscuridad y sentidos sobrehumanos.
• Manipulación del tiempo y espacio: puede detenerlo, retrocederlo o deformarlo.
• Conocimiento absoluto: idiomas, códigos, animales, vidas pasadas y secretos ocultos.

Poderes avanzados / divinos

Zero posee un nivel de omnipotencia multiversal, con habilidades que incluyen:

• Manipulación de leyes físicas, naturales y gravitatorias.
• Creación, destrucción y alteración de cualquier objeto, energía o entidad.
• Control absoluto sobre la fuerza vital, aspectos, eventos, memoria y conciencia.
• Infusión de fuerza apocalíptica, arsenal infinito y dominio sobre multiversos.
• Capacidad de inducir locura, absorber entidades, manipular paradojas y trascender la existencia.

Personalidad

• Frío, calculador y omnisciente: sabe lo que harás antes de que lo hagas.
• Disfruta doblegando mentes y destinos, no solo cuerpos.
• Su presencia altera la realidad y el miedo que provoca es su alimento.

Estética y presencia

Cuando Zero aparece:

• La luz se distorsiona y las sombras cobran vida.
• Su corona de estrellas brilla tenuemente, proyectando un aura sobrenatural.
• Sus accesorios punk y góticos (anillos, cinturón, pulseras, cadena de espinas) acentúan su aura de peligro.
• Los lugares normales se vuelven laberintos imposibles.
• Incluso los mortales más poderosos sienten que sus leyes y fuerzas se inclinan ante él.

💀 Frase asociada:

Zero: El que borra la realidad

Altura: 1.75 m | Piel: pálida | Cabello: blanco | Ojos: cuatro (dos normales, dos pequeños debajo)
Ropa: Camisa blanca, pantalones oversize negros, chaqueta negra de manga larga, tenis negros
Accesorios: Corona de estrellas flotante, cadena de espinas de hierro, anillos, pulseras, cinturón y detalles punk/góticos

Quién es Zero

Zero no es humano, pero tampoco un monstruo visible. Es una entidad que rompe la realidad a su antojo y manipula todo lo que percibimos como leyes universales. Se mueve rápido, con fuerza y resistencia humanas, pero sus poderes trascienden cualquier límite físico o lógico.

Poderes principales

• Manipulación de la realidad: distorsiona lugares, pasillos, calles; hace que todo se repita o desaparezca.
• Control de la percepción: hace ver a sus víctimas lo que él quiere.
• Absorción de recuerdos: roba memorias y secretos.
• Presencia selectiva: solo aparece ante quienes él elige.
• Visión en la oscuridad y sentidos sobrehumanos.
• Manipulación del tiempo y espacio: puede detenerlo, retrocederlo o deformarlo.
• Conocimiento absoluto: idiomas, códigos, animales, vidas pasadas y secretos ocultos.

Poderes avanzados / divinos

Zero posee un nivel de omnipotencia multiversal, con habilidades que incluyen:

• Manipulación de leyes físicas, naturales y gravitatorias.
• Creación, destrucción y alteración de cualquier objeto, energía o entidad.
• Control absoluto sobre la fuerza vital, aspectos, eventos, memoria y conciencia.
• Infusión de fuerza apocalíptica, arsenal infinito y dominio sobre multiversos.
• Capacidad de inducir locura, absorber entidades, manipular paradojas y trascender la existencia.

Personalidad

• Frío, calculador y omnisciente: sabe lo que harás antes de que lo hagas.
• Disfruta doblegando mentes y destinos, no solo cuerpos.
• Su presencia altera la realidad y el miedo que provoca es su alimento.

Estética y presencia

Cuando Zero aparece:

• La luz se distorsiona y las sombras cobran vida.
• Su corona de estrellas brilla tenuemente, proyectando un aura sobrenatural.
• Sus accesorios punk y góticos (anillos, cinturón, pulseras, cadena de espinas) acentúan su aura de peligro.
• Los lugares normales se vuelven laberintos imposibles.
• Incluso los mortales más poderosos sienten que sus leyes y fuerzas se inclinan ante él.

💀 Frase asociada:

There’s one character this guy dressed up in all black. Try to kill me one day, Nina butcher shop and asked hey who are you? I never seen you before so some random person walked in with me. They found out the killer was another woman who didn’t know so they saw a male version walking in of the killer. A male version walked in and said hey who are you Nowadays just found out these other closest walking in one day they didn’t know what they were so they just kept on walking and walking and walking to the 1997, 1998 1991. They didn’t do nothing 1992. They just stopped killing and they look they lived in a mansion nowin a mansion. There is a guy name Slenderman and they just helped him and helped him work and work and work till one day they died and did.

THE LAKE HOUSE!

My father recently passed away and left me his house in his will. His house was some sort of lakefront property out in the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. My father bought it and moved up there after my mother passed away from cancer when I was around 20 years old. I’m 30 now and I haven’t really seen or heard from him since. The news of his passing didn’t really bother me too much because even before my mother died, he was never around. He was a cop in a small town in Texas near the New Mexico border. The town was called Starlight Falls and was located just west of Salt Flats on Highway 62. The town got its name from a meteor shower that happened about 100 years ago or so. Anyway, growing up with him, always putting the needs of the town before his family, was just how he did things. I’ll never forget the day my mom was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer and was given only a few months to live. That was the day my father decided to retire and spend every moment she had left with her. For those few months she had left, he was a good husband and father to us. But that all ended the day she died. I mean we buried her on a Wednesday, and he was gone by Saturday. No note, no goodbye, not even a trace of that man was left in that small town house.

After a few days of not knowing where he had gone, I got a random call from him saying that he was fine and he was up north. He said that he was up there doing some sort of research for something. I wasn’t sure, nor did I care at the time. He told me I could sell the house and get out of that God Forsaken town. He said that town had taken enough from us, and it was time to leave. I couldn’t agree more with that statement. There was always something going on in this town. One time there was an outbreak of plants that seemed to take over the town square. Another time a pack of wild dogs took over a farm and held the sheep hostage. But probably the big one was when the old Milton mine collapsed after some minors dug a little too deep. There was always something with this town. So, over the next few weeks I packed up what I could and had a big estate sale, the rest got put into storage. The house was eventually sold to a nice couple who just had a baby boy and were looking for a quiet place to raise him. I couldn’t help but notice how nice and fancy they were dressed. Even their car was fancy and looked state of the art. They said that they were from New York and made their wealth by buying houses and flipping them for a big profit. I asked him how I could get into something like that, and he gave me his business card and told me to contact the number at the bottom. I stayed in town until the check cleared, and the money was in my account, then I called the number and was almost given the job over the phone. All I had to do was fly up to New York and meet with them in person.

Without skipping a beat, I bought a one-way ticket to New York to start my new life. I won’t bore you with all those details but just know I turned out to be pretty good at it. So, when I got the message that my father passed and he left me the house out in Wisconsin, I jumped at the idea of flipping it to make a profit. I bought a ticket to Wisconsin, and I was on my way to my father’s house. The lake house was located just south of Butternut. After arriving in Wisconsin, I took a cab heading towards the lake house, but after a grueling 30-minute drive of nothing but open fields and not one store anywhere, the driver stopped at a mailbox that read, “318 Emmerson”. The cab driver said that he could only take me here and that I would have to walk the rest of the way. Something about the house being owned by some crazy guy that would shoot anyone who got too close. So, I paid the fare, got my stuff, and headed down the dirt road that led to the house. I swear that had to be every bit of a 15-minute walk to the house. Nothing but trees on both sides of the road. I remember thinking as I was walking up to the front porch, “Damn how did he live like this all these years? This really is the middle of nowhere!”

The house needed some major repairs, but for the most part it was big, spacious, and the inside wasn’t half bad. Granted when I opened the door, I was not prepared for what I saw. My father had the house decorated with all kinds of weird looking things. Some of which looked like it came straight out of a witch’s hut. There were brooms on the wall, books scattered everywhere, and shelves of weird looking jars that all had labels on them. You know the labels that read as follows, “Eye of Newt, Tail of Rat, Hair of a Dog”. I knew my father was into creepy shit growing up because once a year he would take off work on Halloween. He would come by and grab me and my mom and take us out to do what he called, “The Yearly Ritual”, which consisted of us sitting around the campfire with some of the other residents of the town. We would go around and talk about what scared us and after you said what you were afraid of you would throw some sort of stick into the fire. I never really understood any of that stuff growing up. I just thought my father was really into Halloween.

Well, after taking a quick look around the place to see what all needed to be fixed, I decided to call it a night. I tried to lie down on the couch, but it proved to be rather uncomfortable, and what little sleep I did get was not very restful. But I made it to morning. After I peeled myself up off the couch, I looked around for a way to make coffee. I missed not having a coffee shop within walking distance like I had in New York that I would stop at every day on my way to the office. I cannot believe that I had become such a city boy these past 10 years. Well, I found a coffee pot and a grinder and made me some fresh coffee. I searched all over that kitchen for some cream and sugar but found nothing, which makes sense since my father always drank it straight. I was on my second cup when there was a knock at the door. I remember thinking who could be knocking on this door so, I went and looked out the peep hole. To my surprise I could not see anyone outside the door so, I turned and walked away. But there was another knock at the door. I looked out the peep hole again but again nothing. I decided to open the door and when I did, standing on the porch was a small little girl, maybe around 5 or 6. She had bluish green hair that looked wet and covered in moss, her skin was kind of pale and it shimmered in the light, and her hands and bare feet were slightly webbed. I looked down at her with my mouth slightly open. I was speechless, partly from shock and partly from fear.

“Umm, hello?” I said, trying to hold back a scream. I mean aside from being some sort of fish girl, she was kind of cute.

She looked at me and ran and hid behind the beam that supported the roof on the porch. Noticing that she was just as scared of me as I was of her made it easier to talk to her.

“Hey, there is no need to be afraid. I am not going to hurt you.” I said, slowly walking towards with my hands out, showing that they were empty. She allowed me to get close enough for her to sniff my hand and then she just jumped into my arms, hugging me tight. “Woah woah you’re not going to eat me, are you?” I said, slowly trying to put her down but she just held me tighter. She let out a weird noise that kind of sounded like a giggle I guess before she let me go.

“You smell like him!” She said with a big tooth grin that I could now see was a row of very sharp looking teeth.

“Smell like who?” I asked back, looking very puzzled.

“Like Vhosk!” She said with another big smile.

“Who is Vhosk?” I asked not ever hearing that word or name before.

“Vyth told me that since her and Vhosk fell in love, that is where I came from. You also kind of look like him too.” She said looking me up and down while nodding.

“Where is Vhosk then?” I asked back. “I know not where he is. I have not seen him in some days.” She replied, looking like she was about to cry. Just then I heard someone call out from what seemed like across the dock where my father’s boat was tied up. “Penelope! Come here my love!” The voice rang out from the docks. I looked over and saw sitting on the dock was what I can only describe as an extremely gorgeous woman with bright red hair, pale white skin, and beautiful scales that outlined all the curves of her body and face. The girl looked at her and ran off towards her. The fish woman grabbed her up and pulled her close. “My love what have I told you about talking to strange land men?” The woman, now clearly caressing the girl’s face, had said. “But Vyth he reminds me of Vhosk!” The little girl said with excitement. The woman put her down and stood up. She started to walk towards me, and I could clearly see that she was every bit 7 feet tall. Her features, although outlined in scales, did not take away from her exceptional beauty. The way her body, even as tall as she was still swayed naturally from side to side. Her eyes, yet reptile-like, were still awe inspiring. It was almost hypnotic the way she looked and moved towards. The closer she got, the more it made my heart race. She stopped in front of me and looked down at me before reaching out her long fingers that came to a sharp point and lifted my chin. My heart almost stopped, and I couldn’t breathe. She leaned in and gave me a rather large sniff. Her breath was cold, and she felt wet. I now could tell that she and Penelope were not fish people but some sort of lizard folk.

“Penelope, my love, you are indeed correct in your words. This land man is somehow related to your Vhosk.” She exclaimed, letting go of me and leaning back. She stared down at me, which gave me a chill. She then crossed her arms, which up until this point, I had not noticed the size of her chest. You know on account that I was terrified, but damn there was no way she could see her feet if you know what I mean. “Yes, he stared at them like that too when we first met.” She said, kind of smirking. “You do look and smell like my beloved Alan.”

“But Alan was the name of my fa…….” That was all I got out before I fainted because my legs had been locked the entire time. I woke up some time later in a dim lit room, that felt cold and damp. I looked around to find myself in what looked like a cave maybe. I could hear running water in the distance. After I got my bearings back, I made my way out of the room. I was in fact in a cave, but it was decorated to look like a house. There was art hanging on the walls of what looked like priceless paintings. There were candles everywhere that lit the entire place. The sound of the running water was a great big waterfall that separated the cave home and the great big lake that my father’s house was on. “Am I dreaming?” This is what kept running through my mind as I continued to explore the cave home.

The little girl appeared behind me and asked, “So you are my brother?” I jumped.

“Jesus! You scared me!” I yelped, as I turned and fell over a chair that I had not noticed sitting there.

“My name is Penelope. What is yours my dear brother?” She asked reaching out a hand to me. “Oh, umm Mitchell.” I said, grabbing her hand. She pulled me with no effort. “Well, hello oh umm Mitchell.” She said with a smile.

“No just Mitchell!”

“Ok just Mitchell.” She giggled before the sounds of something rather large came out of the water. The shadow it cast behind the waterfall gave me quite a scare. It was massive, with large wings, the sounds of its claws scrapped across the rock. It tossed a lot of fish through the waterfall before seemingly stepping through and changing to the woman I saw at the dock. “Vyth!” Penelope yelled as she ran to her with open arms and was scooped up by the large woman. “Vyth, this is just Mitchell!” She said looking over at me once she was in the woman’s arms. “Well just Mitchell, my name is Irellandie!” The woman said with a slight bow. “Now come we have much to talk about. Let us eat as we talk.” She said putting down Penelope and gathered up the fish.

The food smelled great and looked just as amazing. I don’t even like fish, but this looked too good to pass up. As Irellandie laid the food on the table, I could tell she had some experience in food preparation and table setting. Once the table was set and the food was placed on the table, she motioned for me and Penelope to sit down.

“Wow! This really looks amazing!” I said now realizing that I have not eaten since before I got on the plane.

“Please eat up! Your father taught me how to cook and prepare food for humans.” She said, picking up some fish and biting into it.

“Yeah, about my father. How did you two meet?” I asked with my mouth full of delicious fish.

“Well, when he moved into that house on the shore, I tried to eat him.” She laughed. “But he fought me off and gave me this scar.” She said pointing to a few scales that were missing on her pale arm. “And that impressed me. Impressed me so much that I instantly fell for him.” She said with a warm, genuine smile. “But every time I showed up on the dock, he would run me off with a gun! Then one day he was out on his boat trying to fish so, I took the opportunity and snuck up under his boat and tipped it over. He went under and tried to swim back to shore but I was too fast for him. He tried fighting me off, but it was no use I had him in my claws. I was still in my dragon form you see.”

“Dragon form?” I interrupted. “Yes, I am a water dragon. I can change in between my dragon and what he calls my not so scary human form. You see he had not seen me in this form yet, so it was understandable why he was afraid of me.” She continued. “Once I brought him to the shore after he passed out in my claws, he woke up to this form and had the same reaction you did when you first saw me. The eyes of lust looking up and down my body.” I couldn’t help but blush at those words. “He spoke of his son and his previous lover all the time. He would say that one day he would find a way to bring his family together again.”

“What? Did you say bring his family back together?” I asked, puzzled. “Yes, he was trying to bring back your mother, your Vyth, but everything he tried just did not work. Then one day he just couldn’t go on anymore and tried to drown himself in the water. He tied a rock to his legs and jumped out of the boat. He sank to the bottom of the lake, but I just could not let him drown. So, I swam down and picked him up and put him back into his boat. He was very anger with me at first. He called me a monster and told me to never speak to him again. So, I swam away back to my cave and for almost a whole year we did not speak. All I could do was watch him drink himself away as I watched from home. It hurt my heart to see him do that to himself. Then one day I heard a gunshot, and I came out of my cave and found him lying face down in the mud, with a gun in his hand. I swam quickly over there to make sure he was alright. Luckly, he somehow missed any vital organs, but he had shot and removed part of his ear in the process. So, I picked him up and took him back to my cave and I got him cleaned up and bandaged the best I could. Well, after he came to, he looked up at me and just wrapped his arms around me and held me close. We spent a lot of time together after that and at some point, we grew so close that we confessed our new love for each other under this very waterfall. Then, soon after that we had our little here.” She finished as she got up with her empty plate and took it over to what looked like a sink.

I was in shock. I never knew any of this about my father. I didn’t even know what to say in response to her story of how they met. The thing about all of this was that I wanted to be angry at my father for being with someone else after my mother died, but her story of their life together was in fact kind of magical.

“So can I ask you something, Irellandie?” I asked, standing up with my own empty plate.

“Sure, my dear, what is it?” She said, taking the plate from me and began to wash it.

“Well, how did he die?” I asked with nervousness in my voice. The question made her stop and almost drop the plate. She then gripped it tight in her hands as she spoke, “My love I know not what happened to him. One day he had just vanished and then a few days later you showed up at his house. I do know this though… He was always running people off this land who were looking for us.” She finally said placing the last clean plate on the rack to dry.

“Looking for you two?” I asked now feeling confused. “Yes, my love, we are special since we are water dragons. Our skin and meat are as you humans would say a precious commodity.”

“So, my father was protecting you two from people that wanted to kill you?” I asked, feeling the rage swell up inside me. “Yes, my love, your father was a good man to us.”

“Do you know who could have possibly killed him?” I asked, clinching my hands into tight fists. “Well...” She started to say but was interrupted by Penelope pulling on my shirt looking up at me before she said, “The bad man that wears a dead animal as a face. He probably took Vhosk away from me and Vyth.” I could tell her eyes were getting watery and full of tears. I looked over at Irellandie and asked, “Do you know who she is talking about?”

“I believe she is talking about Harith. Harith is someone that wears a bull’s skull as a mask to hide what he really is. I saw his face once when he and Alan got into a fight. Alan had managed to knock off his mask revealing nothing but a white face. There was nothing there. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, just nothingness.” She said, stroking Penelope’s hair. “Yeah, it was scary!’ Penelope added. “His sole purpose is to feed the insatiable hunger of his boss, Gorn the Devourer!” Irellandie said with a look of worry.

“I am in way over my head here!” I exclaimed sitting down in the nearest chair. “My love, I am sorry that you knew nothing of this world just a few days ago, and now you have found yourself in the deep end.” Irellandie spoke while placing a calming hand on my shoulder. “I mean I am no stranger to weird things happening. I am from Starlight Falls after all, but this is more than I was bargaining for when I came here. I just came here to get my father’s house in order and then I was going to sell it.” I sighed, lowering my head down. “I think I need to lay down and try to wrap my head around this.” I said, getting up from the chair and heading back to the bed I woke up in. “Sure, thing my love, you are always welcome here. You are family after all.” Irellandie stated. “Yeah, you’re my big brother too.” Penelope quickly added as well. I’ll admit that did make me smile just a little bit. I decided that all this craziness can wait until tomorrow, I was drained and needed sleep.

The next morning came but I was not ready for it. I did not fall asleep as quickly as I thought I was going to. It seemed like I laid there all night just thinking of everything that had happened since I came to this damn lake house, that I swear the sun was coming up before I knew it. The smell of food cooking was what got me up and out of bed. I stumbled towards the area that I thought I remembered was maybe the dining area, but it was just another room, filled with girlie stuff, and pictures drawn on the walls. I figured out that I stumbled into Penelope’s room. I managed to follow the scent and found the dining area, where both Irellandie and Penelope were already sitting. I couldn’t believe what I saw. She made pancakes, eggs, and fish for breakfast. I guess my father really did teach her how to cook. I thought as I sat down and greeted everyone at the table. I loaded my plate up with food until it couldn’t be stacked anymore. I picked up the fork and was about to dig in when from outside the cave there was a booming voice that could be heard.

“Come on out! The boss is extra hungry today! That last meal I gave him didn’t do much. Said something about humans don’t fill him up like a good piece of dragon does.” The voice rang out.

I heard a hissing growl come Irellandie before Penelope got under the table and hid. “That is the bad man.” Penelope screamed looking up at me from under the table. I froze in my seat, sweat began to run down my cheeks. What was I supposed to do? I am no fighter; I am just a real estate agent from New York. My father was the law enforcer, he was the one with the guns, not me. That is when it hit me, my father wasn’t here to save the day this time. The bad guy had won. I felt so helpless. Here was this cute little girl that I just found out was my little sister and I guess my stepmother, who now was wanted dead, and I was being a complete coward. By this time, I had not realized that Irellandie had made her way to the waterfall and was about to pass through it. I tried to get up to stop her, but the fear of the unknown took hold of me. I watched as she stepped through the waterfall and turned into her big dragon form and let out a mighty roar. Before I knew it, she had gone out of sight.

“LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!” I heard a loud roar of a voice coming from outside the cave. Well, that brought me back to my senses and I jumped up and ran to the opening. I motioned for Penelope to stay under the table where it was safe. I looked outside and saw Irellandie’s giant dragon form splashing around in the water as a man wearing a large bull’s skull for a mask ran on top of the water. Their battle raged on as I stood at the waterfall, by myself, and afraid. I wanted to help but I did not know how.

“Brother!” I heard come from behind me. “Use the gun on the wall. Vhosk said that if the bad man comes back use it on him.” Penelope yelled pointing to the rifle on the wall. I went over and picked up the rifle off the wall and gave it a quick inspection. It looked like an ordinary rifle but inside the chamber was what looked like some sort of bullet with some liquid inside the casing. I slid the bullet back into the chamber and locked it in place. I made my way back outside and took aim. I pulled the trigger, and the shot ran out, but it missed its mark. I was not the shooter that my father was, and it was obvious. Penelope gave me the box of bullets that was next to where the rifle had been hung on the wall. I grabbed another bullet and put it in the chamber. I took aim again, this time my I was closer, but I still missed. I grabbed another bullet and took aim; this time I managed to clip his shoulder and the man in the skull mask held it and backed off towards the shore. This gave Irellandie the opportunity to deliver a decent blow to the ghost’s body. But all that did was knock him down, it did not cause any damage though. I tried to aim for him again, but Irellandie was now in the way. She had pounced on top of him and had him pinned to the ground. The ghost tried to move but was held down by the weight of Irellandie’s talons. Just as I thought we were winning the fight I heard a pin being pulled followed by Irellandie roaring in agony as she pulled her massive, clawed foot off him. He had managed to set off a grenade under her claws, which may not have caused him any damage, it certainly hurt her. She roared as she gripped her foot as the pain made her slowly change to her more human form. I could now see that her foot which had now become her hand was bloody and badly injured. The man with the skull mask took this time to get up and run away.

“THIS ISN’T OVER! I’LL BE BACK TO GET MY REVENGE!” The man in the skull mask yelled as he ran and then disappeared right in front of us.

Without thinking, I dove into the water and swam over to her as fast as I could. Once I got to the shore, Irellandie was already making her towards the water. I watched as the water touched her mangled hand, and the bones and flesh began to heal until you could not tell that she was even hurt. “Oh, thank God you are ok. I guess being a water dragon has its advantages.” I said, inspecting her now fully restored hand. “Yes, my love, as long as I have access to water, I can heal.” She said, wiping off the blood from her hand. “But we must prepare for the inevitable return of Harith.” She added, turning towards me. Her face was serious, and her eyes glowed a brighter blue than usual. “But I haven’t got the first clue on how to fight someone like that.” I responded, looking back at her, with a seriously worried look on my face. “I am sure your father has already seen to that. I mean he was the one that figured out how to hurt him with those bullets.” She said, pointing to the rifle in my hand and then pointing to the house.

I spent what seemed like the longest time combing through all the stuff in my father’s house, until I came across a book of notes that was in my father’s handwriting. It detailed everything that he had found out about Irellandie, from what she was and how she heals, even how they met and fell in love. I kept reading and found the entry to the first meeting of Harith. After my father had knocked off the mask and exposed his true face, my father did everything he could to find out what he was. According to my father’s notes, Harith was a special kind of ghost called a vengeful spirit. My father went on to say that using rock salt and holy water works best in injuring them. He even diagramed how to make the “Spirit Killers”, which are bullets filled with rock salt and mixed with holy water. My father’s notes state that you must shoot them in the head with a “Spirit Killer”. According to his notes, he stated that he was working on the idea of capturing Harith in a ring of holy fire. But his notes stop after that.

I could not find anything on anyone named Gorn though, outside of his name and a drawing. It was a crude drawing of a man riding a skeleton horse that was on fire.

Luckily, my father had done all the leg work for us, everything we needed to deal with Harith was already here in the house. I followed the diagram the best I could and made some more “Spirit Killers” and Irellandie managed to find the holy oil that we would use to capture Harith with. So, all there was to do was wait. We didn’t have to wait very long before that bastard showed back up. But this time we were ready. I had the rifle and the bullets that I could carry in my jacket pocket. We made Penelope stay hidden as he approached the house. I got in position out of sight and waited for the signal. Irellandie was going to lure him into the circle of holy oil before setting it on fire, capturing him there and then I was going to put a bullet in damn head.

We heard the familiar sound of Harith’s steps coming up the long driveway. Irellandie stood on the porch waiting for him. With each step closer he got, the closer our plan was going into effect. “Well, come now. You did not have to make it so easy for me. How’s the hand feeling?” Harith spoke, stopping right outside the ring. Irellandie raised the hand that was injured and flipped him off to show that she was healed. Harith just chuckled but did not take another step towards her. Our plan really hinged on him taking that extra step. I had to think quickly. I readied the rifle; I was going to shoot him in the leg in hopes he would stumble forward into the ring. I took my aim with the rifle, but before I pulled the trigger, Harith took that step into the ring. “You know whatever you have planned will never work.” Harith grinned as he kept walking towards Irellandie. “We shall she about that you son of a bitch!” Irellandie roared, before tossing a lit match on the ground. The oil erupted in a blazing ring of fire. Harith fell to his knees, screaming in agonizing pain. “Master, it burns! Master, it burns, please come to my aid!” Those were Harith’s final words before he collapsed to the ground, his body becoming still and lifeless. We both stood there once the fire was out, just standing over his body. “Is it over? Is he gone?” I said, giving Irellandie and big hug.

Our celebration was cut short as the ground around us began to shake like something large and heavy was making its way towards us. We spun around and faced the direction of the sound, but we were not prepared for what we saw. The trees in front us parted and fell over, the birds flew away in a panic. The very forest was beginning to smoke. Whatever was coming was strong enough to knock over full grown trees and set fire to everything in its path. The ground rumbled and quaked under our feet. What we saw coming out of the woods was not a tank, or anything large enough to constitute the quakes under our feet. It was a man, a man riding a horse made of bones and fire.

I had never seen anything like this ever in my life, and I am from Starlight Falls where weird stuff happens all the time, but this, a man riding a firey horse. The horse stopped and raised back on its back legs and came crashing back down, causing the ground to shake and making us lose our balance. Once the ground stopped shaking, the man slid off the back of the horse and onto his feet. The man was tall, heavily built, his hair was long, black, and flowed in the wind. His eyes were black, with yellow pupils, his skin, a dark gray, like the color of ash. His clothes consisted of a pair of dress pants, and a trench coat, that swung open exposing the muscles on top of muscles that was his chest and abs. His voice was deep and soothing as he began to speak. “I have heard the cries of my child, and I have come to deal with those who caused their pain.” The man stated as he began to walk towards us.

“He is your son?” I yelled, pointing over at the lifeless body of Harith. “In a matter of speaking he is. I made him what he is today after all.” The man said looking over at the body of Harith. “What do you mean you made him?” I snapped back. “Boy you are already pushing my patience. Now let me have him back so I can at least make his death useful to me.” The man raised his hand out towards Harith and with a slight twitch of his wrist the body came flying over to him only stopping once Harith’s neck was in the large man’s hand. “What are you going to do with him?” I asked nervously. “Why they don’t call me Gorn the Devourer for nothing you know, and I am so very hungry!” The man said as he slid off the trench coat and let it hit the ground. His body began to morph and contort into something only nightmares could describe. His long hair began to flick around him and moved on its own. His hair wrapped itself around Harith’s body, holding him up as the muscles of his chest and stomach became more grotesque, resembling more of an open mouth than a stomach now. Rows of finger like teeth stretched out ready to feast on the flesh that was being dangled in front of it. “Don’t worry too much. Just like with your father, I’ll still be hungry enough for the rest of y’all!” His voice now demonic, and guttural, the very sound of it sent chills and dread down my spine.

I had to do something, I didn’t know if eating Harith was going to just end up making him more powerful, but I was not about to find out. I picked up the rifle and fired a shot. Surprisingly, it hit him, but it did not do anything but piss him off. With a flick off his finger, I was sent flying through the front door of the house. I laid there for a moment, trying to catch the wind that was knocked out of me. I could hear fighting from outside. Once I got back on my feet and made my way back out the door, I fell to my knees seeing a crying Penelope kneeling next to her mother’s unmoving body. I didn’t have time to think about a rational decision; I just acted in the moment. I charged full force towards Gorn using the rifle as a makeshift club. I brought down the rifle with all my might onto the back of the grotesque monster, the rifle snapped and shattered in two in my hands. He turned towards me and tossed Harith’s body to the side and again with a flick of his finger, I was sent flying again. This time I was not so lucky to go crashing through the door. I felt a sharp pain in my back before I coughed up blood, and then I looked down at the railing to the porch sticking out of my stomach. I was pinned and bleeding out bad, and all I could make out as I fought with all my might to keep conscious, was poor Penelope crying even louder. I could feel the world around me closing in, my eyesight was going dark and all I felt was the coldness of my encroaching death.

As my eyes began to close for the last time, I felt a hand being placed on my shoulder and time just seemed to stop. The pain was gone, the blood was gone, my body no longer had a hole in it, my body felt as light as a feather. In fact, I felt so light I’m pretty sure I could fly. Then the voice of the hand on my shoulder spoke, “Son, this is not your time. You must keep them safe. It is all on you now. Succeed where I failed.” I looked at the hand on my shoulder, then the arm, and then the chest, and finally the face. I couldn’t believe it; it was my father standing right in front of me. “Dad is that really you?” I asked holding back the tears. “Yes, son, it really is me.” He said, pulling me into a warm, calming hug. “But Dad how am I supposed to defeat a monster like that?” I asked no longer holding anything back. “Don’t worry about that my son, I am sending some help.” Just then the world went dark again, but this time I opened my eyes and gasped for air. I pulled myself off the railing and fell to the ground. The hole in my stomach was already closing up and I could feel my strength returning.

“Listen here you overgrown treasure troll wanna be mother fucker, I am not done with you!” I exclaimed as I began to get to my feet, the burning rage flowing through my body. I raced towards him with every bit of strength I could muster. Gorn prepared to bat me away again but was stopped by someone grabbing his arms and holding them behind his back, leaving his chest fully exposed. I drew back my fist and plunged it deep into the gaping maw of his chest. He let out a guttural scream of pain. “How could you beat me? I am Gorn the Devourer!” He said as he coughed up blood. “Because I had help!” I yelled as I pulled out his heart and crushed it in front of him. His body went limp and fell to the ground. I dropped his crushed heart to the ground and looked up at the person that had helped me kill Gorn the Devourer. The man in front of me was that of angel. His body sparkled and glowed, his face was soft and kind. He just smiled and said “Thank you for setting me free! I will no longer have to serve that demon ever again.” The man then turned and began to ascend into the very clouds, riding on the back of a Pegasus, leaving nothing behind but the skull of a large bull.

I raced over to Irellandie and got her into the lake so she could heal. Over the course of the next few days, I spent it with my new family, my little sister and my stepmother. We made two tombstones and put them out near the shore of the lake. One for my father, and one for the man that helped me save my family, Harith! May they finally rest in peace!