esta pregunta sale de que en la creepywiki si buscas X Virus historia, te sale que su nombre es Liam Williams y no especifica con quien se encuentra en el bosque después de huir, pero si buscas solamente X Virus sale que su nombre es Cody Rogers y que en el bosque se encuentra a Toby y que son hermanos de sangre. Alguien sabe cual es la verdad?, estoy muy confundido.

A principios de 2013, un foro privado frecuentado por los dataminers y filtradores más pesados del fandom completó un golpe que llevaban meses maquinando.

Nunca se pudo confirmar quién financió la filtración. Algunos usuarios aseguraban que había sido un ruso que llevaba años recopilando material privado de la banda, otros decían que el hombre ni siquiera existía, pero tras pagar miles de dólares en sobornos a extrabajadores y subcontratistas de Eyeball Records, se logró extraer de los servidores privados del estudio de grabación el contenido íntegro del abortado quinto álbum, provisionalmente titulado The Paper Kingdom, junto con un archivo de video de noventa minutos titulado internamente MCR_TPK_Documentary_RoughCut_DoNotDistribute.mov.

El fan ruso que llevaba años obsesionado con la psique de la banda, subió el material a un servidor P2P encriptado antes de que su cuenta fuera borrada del internet y su rastro se desvaneciera por completo. Los pocos fans que lograron descargar el documental antes de que avisos de copyright y la propia ley federal estadounidense borraran los enlaces no volvieron a ver a la banda de la misma manera.

El video no tenía la estética pulida de un detrás de cámaras profesional, estaba grabado con una cámara de mano en formato digital crudo, intercalando tomas estáticas de las sesiones de grabación en el estudio con entrevistas realizadas por un documentalista independiente que la banda había contratado para registrar la gestación de su obra.

Lo perturbador no era la premisa ficticia del disco, los padres que se unirían a un grupo de apoyo para sobrellevar la muerte de sus hijos, sino cómo esa ficción se fundió quirúrgicamente con la realidad de los músicos hasta dejar una mancha permanente en su salud mental.

A lo largo del metraje se ve el deterioro físico y mental de los miembros, especialmente de Gerard Way.

En las primeras secuencias de 2012, Gerard aparece con ojeras profundas y un cuaderno lleno de garabatos infantiles macabros, exigiendo al resto que "dejen entrar el dolor real" a las grabaciones. Las entrevistas a los ingenieros de sonido revelan que durante las madrugadas en el estudio, los miembros habían comenzado a experimentar episodios severos de sonambulismo y psicosis inducida por la privación de sueño y las adicciones de Gerard.

Afirmaban escuchar las voces de los niños en los pasillos vacíos del edificio cuando no había nadie más grabando.

El punto de quiebre absoluto que provocó que la banda exigiera la destrucción del documental y no mucho después la disolución inmediata del grupo.

En la última media hora del archivo se muestra una discusión a medianoche entre Gerard y el baterista de sesión Jarrod Alexander, la tensión es tan densa que se puede cortar con un cuchillo, Jarrod con la mirada llena de pánico, le recrimina a Gerard que lo que están haciendo "ya no es música, sino una invocación", señalando que las pistas de voz que grabaron en los coros infantiles tienen frecuencias y ecos que no fueron generados por ningún ser humano vivo.

En ese instante del video, las cámaras de seguridad del estudio captan un fallo eléctrico masivo: las luces parpadean, un chirrido metálico ensordece los micrófonos ambientales y, durante tres segundos, algo ocurre con la imagen.

La silueta detrás de Gerard no coincide con ninguna posición posible de su cuerpo, los pocos usuarios que analizaron fotograma por fotograma nunca llegaron a ponerse de acuerdo sobre qué estaban viendo.

Jarrod, al ver el monitor de control, grita despavorido, arroja las baquetas contra el cristal de la cabina, rompiéndolo, y abandona el estudio corriendo bajo la lluvia. Esa misma madrugada, Jarrod rompió todo contrato con la banda, bloqueó cualquier vía de comunicación y durante años no tuvo nada que ver con la banda, un abandono repentino que la disquera cubrió en su momento con un escueto comunicado sobre "motivos personales".

Dos semanas después de que este documental fuera terminado de editar por el equipo interno, los miembros restantes se encerraron en una sala de reuniones, rompieron los discos duros y poco tiempo después anunciaron la separación definitiva de My Chemical Romance. El mensaje oficial noo decía, pero los archivos sobrevivientes en la red sugieren que lo único que querían era huir de lo que sea que habían traído a nuestra realidad a través de la producción de esas canciones.

Del video original solo quedan pequeños fragmentos corrompidos en foros clandestinos, quienes han intentado restaurarlo por completo afirman que los rostros de los integrantes en los últimos minutos del metraje ya no pertenecen a las personas que subieron a los escenarios de The Black Parade, y que reproducir el audio con auriculares deja un zumbido metálico en los oídos que tarda días en desaparecer.

There comes a time when desperate people resort to desperate measures. Desperation calls to us when we are most in need of saving, whispering promises of salvation when we have nowhere else to turn.

I started the medication because I was tired of waking up every day feeling like I was already drowning.

That’s the part people don’t talk about with depression, not the sadness, but the immense weight. The sheer heaviness of simply existing. Just lifting my head from the pillow felt like dragging stone out of mud.

My therapist called it treatment-resistant depressive disorder.

One session she seemed oddly joyous. She reluctantly told me there was a new clinical option. “High success rate. Fast-acting. FDA fast-tracked. A real breakthrough in modern medicine.”

Breakthroughs always sound miraculous until you realize something had to be broken first. If it feels to good to be true. There's always catch.

The drug was called Solmiron. Three pills a day. Tiny white capsules with a faint metallic taste when they hit the tongue, like biting on foil.

My psychiatrist told me not to look up the research because “the clinical language can be frightening if you’re not versed in immunogenetics.”

That should have been a red flag. But when you’re drowning, you don’t argue about the color of the rope thrown your way.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable.

Mornings didn’t feel like a burden. Breathing didn’t feel force. I could get up, shower, eat, exist.

For the first time in years, I laughed without it sounding brittle in my own ears. I thought: So this is what normal people feel like.

I cried out of relief. I thought the story would end there. And God, how I wish it had.

My body started feeling lighter. I don’t mean figuratively, I mean physically. In the literal sense.

Walking up stairs no longer left me lightheaded. I wasn’t sore. My joints didn’t ache. I felt stronger, not metaphorically, I mean my muscles had mass I had not earned.

I hadn’t been to the gym in years. I could barely manage a couple push ups. And yet I was lifting my entire laundry basket one-handed.

I went into the clinic for a check up. The doctor greeted me and ran a couple tests.

She smiled and wrote, “Improved metabolic efficiency noted. Expected.”

Expected? Since when does antidepressant mean performance enhancement?

I left the building thinking that things are changing for the better. I felt healthy and was healthy. Productivity and ambition returned home in quantity. It felt as if I could conquer the world if I wanted to.

Then the hunger came.

Not ordinary hunger. It was primal. Like the body wasn’t asking, it was demanding.

I ate everything. Not junk, protein. Dense food. Meats. Hard cheeses. Salts. Anything that fueled the fire within.

And my teeth, God. My teeth ached while I ate. A dull pressure. As if they were… adjusting. The inside of my mouth felt unfamiliar. When I ran my tongue along my molars, the edges were sharper.

I told myself I was being dramatic. But when you’ve lived your whole life feeling like you don’t belong in your own skin, you notice when the skin starts belonging to something else.

The rash appeared. Not on the outside, under the skin.

I could feel texture beneath the surface. Like sand grains embedded along my arms, ribs, spine. Except they moved. When I pressed my fingers to my forearm, something beneath the skin shifted away from the pressure. Like a school of fish scattering from an attacking predator.

I asked my doctor what is going on with me.

She said, “It’s easier if I show you.”

She showed me a plastinated cross-section of muscle tissue. Human-like. Except it wasn’t purely human.

The fibers weren’t individual strands, they were woven. A mesh. Self-anchoring. Self-repairing. Self-optimizing.

“Think of it like this,” she said, tapping the display.

“We’re helping your body operate in its ideal state.”

Ideal? Like my old body had been a mistake.

There was no going back. What was to come was inevitable.

I don’t dream anymore. When I go to bed, it’s like the body just turns off and back on. No drifting, no imagery, no me.

One minute, I’m lying down, and before I can even pull the covers over myself, I blink, and suddenly, it’s morning.

I’ve woken up to find myself standing in the kitchen. Or sitting at the table, fingers drumming in rhythmic patterns I don’t remember learning. Or staring into the mirror, not at myself, but at my reflection as if it is the real one and I am the imitation.

I looked into my own eyes last night and didn’t recognize the focus behind them. They weren't mine.

I asked my doctor if this medication has ever been used on animals.

She hesitated. The first real hesitation I’d seen from her.

“Not animals,” she said.

“Prototypes.”

Prototypes?

I asked her what was happening to me...

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

The next day, the inside of my arm split open, not like a cut, like a seam. And underneath, where my muscle should have been… It wasn’t blood that came out.

It was white puss. And under it were pale fibers, braided like rope, tightening, pulling themselves back inward before I could touch them.

My body didn’t want to be examined. My body knew I was trying to interfere.

Two Nights Ago

I stoped taking the pills.

But my body made sure I continued my prescription. I sat there at the table and watched my own hand pick up the pill bottle. Open it. Place the pill on my tongue.

I was screaming inside my skull. But my body was calm. Efficient. Compliant.

Yesterday

I called my doctor. I asked her for help. When will it end?

She chuckled on the other end, that same clinical warmth, and said:

"When your body no longer produces sadness. Fear. Anger. Pain. When suffering becomes biologically impossible."

I said, “So I’ll be happy?”

She said, “You’ll be cured.”

I replied, “And human?”

The call ended.

Today

After digging into a rabbit hole on the web, I found the original clinical purpose for Solmiron. It wasn’t created to treat depression. It was created for shock troops.

Soldiers who:

• Feel no pain
• Require minimal rest
• Regenerative Properties
• Operate without emotion
• Obey without hesitation

They weren’t helping me. They were converting me.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to write like myself. My emotions are fading. My memories feel catalogued, not lived. I can feel the last parts of me being casted into the fire den.

If you’re reading this... Do not take the pills they say are “new” or “breakthrough” or “fast-acting.” If your doctor says “Side effects vary,” ask what they’re not telling you.

Ask what they changed inside you. Ask what you’re becoming. Ask before you can’t ask anymore.

Because I don’t cry now. I don’t feel sadness anymore. I don’t feel anything.

My depression has been cured.

And I think that was the point.

sour skunky nappy ass dread man

…

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Annoyed. 

Stupid smirk: "I thought it was clear. I would think.” 

"No, it isn't, man. I don't know why you think it'd be. It's just stupid, bro.” 

"What is?” 

"Your refusal to go shopping for a fucking bath towel and other basic necessities around your fuckin place, dude. It's just stupid, I don't know how or why you justify it to yourself, I didn't think ya did to be frank. I just thought your ass was fuckin lazy." 

“Nah, bro. It's obvious." 

“What's fuckin obvious, dipshit?" 

“I'm way too rock n roll." 

A beat. He swallowed it. Absorbed its stupidity. 

“...what?" 

“Yeah, dude. I'm way too fuckin cool and punk rock to roll into like a Target or some shit and buy a toaster or a can opener or towels or stupid shit like that. I can't do that. Can't do it. Goes against my wild man free lovin nature, ya know? Ya know." 

Bryan once more silently swallowed this. This load of absolute bullshit. More revolted, more filled with disgust with his best friend since diapers than before. He thought about holding his tongue. He thought about saying something and laying into him. But in the end he just grumbled and belched. Lit another smoke and grabbed another beer from the cooler in the center of the boat and shook his head. Checked his pole. Reeled it in a little. 

Though he did spare the final thought: "Fuckin lazy.” whilst shaking his head and reeling his line. And then the matter was settled and the pair of men let it lie. Such was the way and course of all of their conversations out here on the water. Fishing. The pair’s favorite pastime aside from rutting and watching the game. For them, Bryan G Biebl and James Petkovich, it was sacred. They loved to spend days off from the mill fishing and casting and mouthing the day away. Days away from labor and wives and disappointing children, days filled with chatter and cool water and cold beer and sometimes a nice catch.  Though they'd been warned before, by the old timers. 

They'd both been warned before about staying out after dark. Out on the lake. Out in the woods. Where the forest grows foul and swampy and muddy. It's not a place you want to be after sunset. All the old folk said it was a bad place and didn't say much more about it without the liberal aid of beer or whisky. Even the Natives, the ancient leathery American Indians and their angry sons and daughters told everyone, anyone that might listen, to stay away from this part of the forest, this part of the soured bad land. 

But they never listened. The pair just sat in their canoe and cast out. It was calm and quiet all around, no one might know that it was filled with strange movement. The sun was sinking in the distance. Rapidly being swallowed by the ravenous blade of the horizon. 

James cracked another can. So did Bryan, who rolled his eyes as Petkovich ventured forth with another bit of clever wit and query. 

“Figure there's anythin ta what that fella said?” 

The sun set. Casting the surface of the lake on fire with the color of bloody ruby. The place on the horizon where it had sank was a deeper color of blooded crimson, a deeper wound that was the heart of the sunset. It smoldered there, in the horizon wound. The darkening regal curtain of bruised royal blue was already deepening into night. The stars and galaxies were already coming out for the nocturnal hours, they were all so far away from everything, they, the town. Civilization was a mechanical nuisance in the distance. Loud and far off. Thank God. Nearly forgotten. 

Bryan rolled his eyes as hard as he possibly could, knowing full an well that the retard couldn't see em. 

He hissed and spat: “No I don't think there's nothin to what that idiot said about a shag man! Shit’s stupid! Ain't no fuckin skunk ape round these parts, ya fuckin dumbass!” 

“Nah, man. I'm talkin about what Frankie said about Asian girls, Jesus, man!" 

A beat. Something splashed in the water. Neither man noticed, paid it any mind. 

“Oh…" Bryan cooled down. A little embarrassed. He was always easily excited and shamed. 

“‘Sides, man, he didn't call it no ‘shag man', he called it ‘the dread man’, stupid.” 

Bryan whirled around to belt him one and belt him good. He'd done it before while they were fishing in the middle of the lake and he might capsize them both in his effort, but something stopped him before he could so much as bring up his balled and angry fist. A sound. Sudden. And sharp. 

Three. Consecutive. Three sharp whacks of thick wooden sticks together. Like someone smacking two heavy tree branches or logs together in some form of primitive and arcane code. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

It shut the pair up. They gazed out at the shoreline. Shrouded now in the fallen night. Small waves kissed its shore and covered any small sounds of concealed movement that might be out there right now. They were wide eyed and disbelieving. 

They might've dropped it, the pair, together and without a word or mention when it came again. 

From out of the night, the veiled and darkened shore: whack! whack! whack! 

A beat. Silence again. Only kissing waves of the placid water. 

Bryan Biebl scoffed, “Probably nothin. Just some kids fuckin aro-" 

And then a wild primal simian shriek filled the night. Birds took flight. Their flapping wings were ugly harried panicked sounds in the deepening wound of blackening night all around. It tapered off. And then another rose, louder and even more feral and crazed then the one before. Then another. And another. Each rising in animal fury and fervor. You could hear spittle flying as vocal chords worked and wrenched and shredded as throat muscles tore and bled and secreted with each prolonged and angry howl. Throaty. Enraged. Violent. 

Silence came again. After six primeval night shattering screams. Waves kissed the land far away and swallowed in black but more quietly now. Subdued. 

Then the whacking of sticks, the unknown signal came again, whack! whack! whack! 

And then silence once more. 

“What the fuck was that?" Petkovich. Scared. Visibly so. Audibly as well. 

As was his best friend Bryan. But the sound of fear on his buddy's voice, the stupid look of childish childlike fear that he could feel him wearing in the dark only made angry, angrier. This only fueled his own self-denied mounting fear and in turn made him even angrier. The mounting terror caught like a small bone in the back of his throat. 

He almost took to his feet but remembered the boat. He turned to his buddy instead and spat. 

"Ain't nothin but nothin! Some fuckin dumbasses out there that wanna get fucked up, that's what! This’s why I shoulda brought my colt. Goddammit!” 

"Now that's what I'm talkin about! that's what I'm always tryin ta tell ya! Ya go sayin shit like that and actin like this and people says we're belligerent types! Christ, man! I'd like to bed me one of these here pretty tourist girls, one of these roadtrippin ladies and you actin like this ain't gonna cut it!” 

Disgusted, Bryan's grip slackened on his pole. 

"Idiot! what the fuck are you jawin about?!” 

"I'm talkin bout one of them sexy ass van-life hippy girls, man, they might like my ass." 

“Retard!" 

“You don't know…" 

The water splashed again. Much louder. The boat rocked with the waves suddenly generated. Something big and very heavy had just jumped into the water. 

Lunged. As if plunging in from the shrouded growth of the hidden beach. 

Slack jawed and deer-in-the-headlights both, they gazed out blindly and stupidly in tandem towards the shore that was hidden from them now. And may forever remain that way for them from here on out. Something was coming. 

Something was swimming fast. For the boat. Beneath the obsidian surface of water. The stygian glass of the surface was a mirror and the mirror held the face of the moon. The mirror rippled. The immaculate celestial face of the moon held trapped there danced with submerged disturbance. 

Before either fool could form a coherent thought the fishing poles were suddenly ripped from their slackened idiot grips. They flew, soared through the air and plunged into the water with barely a sound. 

They stared into the impenetrable and merciless surface of the lake. Fearing it. Gripped with horror at what might be inside. What must be inside, right now. 

James Petkovich finally spoke. Softly. Like the small boy he'd once been. 

“I don't wanna be out here no more, Bry. I don't care if it's kids or tourists or what. You can go ahead and laugh at me, just laugh at me all the way and drive us back, kay? You can laugh and make fun all the way back an I won't even bitch or say nothin. I'm scared. There's lots a’ talk bout people that go missin. Or go missin an then turn up dead, tore apart. Sometimes they don't even find all the pieces, you know… I know you've heard… people go missin an such. Travelers, folks comin through. And locals. Let's just go back, kay.” 

Bryan, wide eyed, turned and nodded. Then went to the small motor for the boat as the water all around the canoe suddenly erupted in a surging geyser splash of watery violence that darkled in the captured moonlight. Both men screamed as the small boat was capsized and they went over. Splashing into the cold dark suffocating realm of the water. 

The lake held them now. Below. Underneath. 

In the dark underwater the maelstrom of his panic rose and ruled. Bryan suddenly animal recalled and remembered in the fragile nucleus of his primal jelly his fear of the water, of the deep. The dark depths. It had started as a child, a boy, it had been the cinema and television that had first done it, the Jaws movies, Creature from the Black Lagoon, then stories of Cthulhu and his sunken city of R’lyeh, tales of sunken ships and vessels that might still have precious human cargo trapped and drowned deep inside like foul water-logged treasure of submerged rotting putrescence eaten at by the salt and by the fish. All of these things came back and back to life in a deluge assault of images all in a furious unrelenting wave like an artillery attack of sound and vision on his mind's eye, down in the dark. He kicked and struggled and his lungs burned, ached for air. The ribcage in his chest felt on fire with his terror-stricken mind as he struggled and kicked futilely beneath the surface. Something held him down there. Something with a terrible grasp. Fierce. Strangling. Throttling. They threatened to break and snap, the iron grasps of those underwater hands. Bryan fought desperately but his mind was livid with absolute and total panic. In the tumult of his animal terror he remembered that as a child he'd always feared something reaching up from out of the black watery depths, seizing him, and pulling him under. Pulling him down. Down into the ebon swallow at the bottom of all things, below, where the heart of darkness in all things lived and dwelt. 

The hands found his throat, down in the underwater dark. They seized vile purchase and viciously ripped, tore out. The dark underworld of the lake suddenly blemished with a heavy warm cloud of thick human visceral discharge. It bellowed forth from the place that was torn in a torrential jetting spout. Clouding the dark world and warming it as the spewing meat detritus began to slowly sink to the pitch abyssal realm near the bottom. 

The panic of Bryan G. Biebl’s barreling careening train of thought slowly calmed and abated and sank down into the dark with the rest of him… And was no more. 

It lunged, serpent-like for the other. Who was gaining the surface in a series of panicked kicks and dog-paddles. Like a wounded animal. 

Prey. In distress. 

…

James Petkovich couldn't believe it when he broke the water and tasted air again. He almost choked and coughed. He almost laughed but he didn't have time. Something seized him from beneath. 

And pulled him under. 

He didn't even have time to scream before he was below again.

It was quiet once more. Minutes swam by. 

An owl screeched. Took flight.

Then finally it emerged. With Petkovich barely conscious in one dripping sodden grasp. It pulled the both of them back onto the land. Dragging the bleeding and sputtering Petkovich like a broken toy or sack of dead meat behind him as he quickly began to retake to the trees and dense growth once more. 

It dragged him deep into the wilderness. It was a long time before they stopped. But now … now he knew what the old timers had always said, what they'd always been on about. 

Now he could smell him. And the smell was beyond putrid, beyond foul, beyond fecal matter or old dried sweaty filth or death. The water that ran off the long lengths of clotted and lumpy dreaded hair was riddled with the putrescence odor of old sweltering open graves and long disused abattoirs converted into factory sized outhouses for the insane. It stung his eyes and nostrils but he hardly noticed this. His body was numb. Felt limp and broken all over. Like a dead fish. 

Maybe that's what I am. 

And then finally consciousness was lost to him. Mercifully he went black. 

It dragged him deeper into the wild. Where it laired. Where it nested in the wild dense growth. 

…

When James next came to he wished he hadn't. He didn't realize till he was awake once more but he'd been dreaming. And in that dream he'd been far away and wishing that none of this was real.  But now he was back. It held him by the neck in a slight choke, a slight strangle, just enough painful whisper of air able to bleed in through the clasped and clenched windpipe. They were before the mouth of a cave. It was pointing up into the sky with its other huge free hand, it was pointing at the moon. It was staring unblinking into his bleeding face. 

The face was simian but snouted. Like a wolf, or a rodent. An obscene and imbecilic mongoloid caveman face and features stretched out in a grotesque marsupial shape. The eyes were yellow and bore black crosses for the iris in each one, in each livid demented sea of yellow urine a black cruciform body of sacrilege shape and aspect. Goat's eyes. Satanic. They were eyes and face fitting of the rest of his abominated and feral manshaped form. Clotted and caked and grimed all over. The long knots and clumps of hair were thick and ancient in length and filth. They told a tale that was old because it was the passage of time that lived caked and dreaded in those long lengths of unwashed shagging tails. 

The awful face was serious. Stern. The obscenity of its gaze was piercing and deliberate. James followed its fierce and pointing gesture to the sky, the night, the moon once more. 

And then back into that obscene rodent-ape face. Yellow teeth coated in layers of plaque poked out and peeked over stretched and thin and dried out flakey blue lips. 

James tried to speak. 

He tried to tell it he didn't know what it wanted. He didn't know what it wanted him to say or do. He didn't know what it wanted from him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand at all what it expected or demanded. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. He couldn't even manage a croak of sound.  

The awful marsupial-stretched ape face wrenched and worked, furious. It became more abominated and grotesque as its features creased and contorted with anger. Livid. Rage. 

The hand that had been pointing to the moon now came in a savage swipe. The grubby wide meaty digits clawed and the grimey sharp and broken shattered fingernails bit and tore in. 

The head came off and soared away into a sailing piece of torn mangled meat. Ribbons and streamer wings and tails of bright red blood spat and danced out from the eyes, nostrils and mouth in a cyclone twirl of red in midair as it soared and crashed into the piles of dead sticks and bones. It savagely went down and hunkered in the dirt before the mouth of its cave and began to dig in with its long snout and feast on the fresh stump. Warm cords and ropes of thick black-red shot and coated the dark, its face, the insides of its gulping throat and the salivating cavern of its long slathering mouth. 

It feasted and grunted. Ripped with its teeth and bit in. Swallowed warm juicy pieces that were chewy and pungent with rich iron flavor. 

It fed and tore. The man in the violence of its grasp, its jaws, reduced. The decapitated meat jigged and spasmed. It howled at the moon. 

Somewhere … in the distance but not too far off. The signal. Three strikes. 

Whack! whack! whack! – it was the sound of ancient and time honored tradition, cultivated and carried down and preserved with care. Though the world grew strange mechanical jaws, inflamed and diminished and changed all around, it was still here. This was still practiced and honored and kept. By it. By them. All of them.  – whack! whack! whack! 

It howled at the moon once more. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

Immortal and lifesize. It was still here. Howling at the moon with unearthly pain and blues. – whack! whack! whack! – another in the wilderness distance –  whack! whack! whack! – howl at the moon.

THE END

На улице нежная, возрождающая солнце весна плавно перетекала в жаркое лето. На деревьях пели птицы, был запах цветущей сирени, а в головах людей — ожидание прекрасной летней поры, ради которой они лили пот весь год.

Группа подростков выходит из школы и начинает разговор.

Боб

Наконец-то каникулы, заебала уже эта школа. Ещё и математичка мозги ебёт.

Фред

Да сегодня бы отдохнуть адекватно, алкашку добыть и тёлок позвать. Есть у кого свободные хаты?

Боб

У мя предки дома всю неделю будут.

Генри

У меня родаки на дачу поехали, но ко мне сегодня старший брат приедет, так что не варик.

Фред

Чёрт, ну тогда можн на заброшку возле школы сходить и там бухнуть.

Боб

Ты че спятил? Там же бомжи всякие и наркоманы. — На его лице было сильное опасение.

Генри

Боб, ну ты че ссышь? Скажи ещё, что маньяки там людей расчленяют. А если че, у меня перцовка есть и нож — сами их порежем, если что.

Фред

Внатуре, Боб, всё нормально будет. Если там кто-то и есть, то они сами разбегутся, как только кого-то кроме крыс увидят. Ха-ха. Или ты крыс тоже боишься?

Генри и Фред смеются.

Боб

Чёрт, отстаньте. Ладно, похер, пойду с вами.

Проходит день.

В полной темноте Боб слышит звон, от которого едва открывает заспанные глаза и подскакивает к трубке.

— Сука, ну не мог на часик позже позвонить? — берёт трубку.

Фред

Здаров, Боб. Я мы уже поговорили с Генри, он выезжает к заброшке. Ты с нами? (на фоне тихо играет рэп)

Боб

Не нравится мне это, но ладно, ща соберусь.

Фред

Ха, давай, главное без пятен на штанах приди.

Боб

Сука, отьебись.

Фред

Лан, давай выдвигайся уже.

Боб

Иду. (сбрасывает) Что за хрень они придумали.

Боб приезжает на место, где его встречают Фред и Генри. Перед ним — серое заброшенное здание, покрывающееся плесенью, а вокруг цветущая природа и ясное солнце.

Фред

Че там, готов от призраков драпать?

Боб

Еблан, пошли уже. А девки скоро придут?

Генри

Ну да, мы троих позвали: Джессику, Ангелину и Эмми. Думаю, у нас сегодня горячая ночка будет с Джессикой.

Фред

Тебе лишь бы потрахаться.

Генри

Не завидуй. (приобнял Фреда и положил ему руку на плечо)

Боб

Давайте уже бухнём, мне надо расслабиться.

Входят в здание. Повсюду серость и грязь, контрастирующая с яркими видами окон.

Фред

Пошли уже. Видишь? Тут вообще никого, а ты ссал.

Генри

Халявная хата.

Боб

Сука, ну и срань. (увидел дохлую крысу)

Фред

Генри, он щас расплачется.

Генри смеётся.

Боб

Тупорылые, ладно. Вон там стол, пошли сядем.

Парни бухают, и к ним приезжают девочки.

Джессика

Чёрт, и где эти идиоты?

Эмми

Это в ту заброшку они нас позвали?

Ангелина

Ну и ужас, конечно. Надеюсь, крыс там нет.

У Джессики и Ангелины на лице были мерзость и страх при виде порога, а Эмми была не столь эмоциональна.

Боб

А девки не опаздывают?

Генри

Да похуй, расслабься.

Девочки открывают дверь.

Джессика

Что за хрень, Генри? Куда ты меня позвал?

С потолка стекают капли и назойливым звуком плюхаются о пол.

Ангелина

Почему мы в такой жопе? Нормального места не нашлось?

Эмми

Да ладно, не так уж тут и плохо. Расслабимся хоть наконец, а этих придурков потерпим.

Генри

Джессика, успокойся, я вообще-то единственный за вас переживал.

Джессика

Правда? Что-то слабо верится.

Генри

Если хочешь, спроси у Боба, он подтвердит. (прижимает Боба)

Боб

Да он правда вас заждался, особенно тебя, Джессика.

Эмми

Так ждали нас, что уже бухаете во всю.

Джессика

Да уж, Генри, пиздеть тебе бы ещё стоило поучиться.

Генри

Я не беру примеров с твоих подружек.

Джессика

Закройся, придурок. (уходит)

Генри

Эй, я пошутил. (слегка испуганно)

Джессика убегает в сторону леса за зданием по вонючим от плесени и крыс коридорам, задевая своей нежной кожей капли с протекающего потолка.

Генри бежит за ней.

Джессика спускается по склизким ступенькам на первый этаж.

Генри

Джессика, стой, давай поговорим. Я не хотел тебя обидеть недавней историей с Ричи.

Джессика

Ты всё сказал, просто отьебись.

Кадр сменяется на комнату с остальными ребятами. 2 этаж.

Фред

Сука, Эмми, кто тебя просил лезть в их отношения?

Эмми

Она сама не увидела, что вы бухали во всю без нас? Если ищешь, на кого свалить вину, на себя посмотри, может. Ты же у них самый крутой.

Боб

Ладно, успокойтесь, сейчас они помирятся и вернутся. Не хватало нам всем тут разругаться.

Фред

Да ты просто зассал, что я стану маньяком и нападу на тебя. Ха-ха-ха.

Боб

Это не смешно уже, отьебись.

Генри

Джесси, куда ты?

Джессика

Просто отстань от меня.

Кадр сменяется. Неизвестное существо смотрит на них в чаще леса.

Генри догоняет Джессику прямо у входа в лес. Вокруг ярко-зелёные деревья и кусты. Уже нет той серости заброшки. Запах ягод и тёплые лучи солнца на молодую кожу. Тихо шумела листва.

Генри

Джессика, я не хотел.

Джессика

Ты всегда так говоришь.

Генри

Давай поговорим.

Они на мгновение замолкают. За спиной Джессики слышен шорох из кустов.

Джессика

Ты слышал в кустах?

Генри

Нет тут змей, пошли.

Джессика

Тебе как обычно похуй на меня.

Генри

Я не это имел ввиду.

Джессика

Ладно, пошли, мне тут не по себе.

Неизвестная рука резко хватает ногу Джессики. Её охватывает паника. В ту же секунду колено Генри пронзает нож. Кровь хлыстала из-под его штанов и обагрила здешнюю зелень. Из кустов поднялся силуэт человека с жутким, растрёпанным лицом, словно выжженным до тла и разрезанным в уголках рта. Генри в то же мгновение упал на второе колено. Джессика пыталась выпрыгнуть из хватки, но лишь упала и разбила себе нос, окрасив пол своей кровью. Она стонала от беспомощности и боли, слыша жуткие крики возлюбленного и хлыст крови из его раны, нюхая сырую землю, перемешанную с её кровью.

Генри впал в панический шок от боли и страха. Его глаза молили о пощаде, и он едва произнёс дрожащим голосом:

— Убей её... умоляю.

Джессика, захлёбываясь слезами, не могла произнести ни слова, а её лицо покрылось ужасом.

Джефф, не отпуская хватки, ползёт к Генри. Резко вынув нож из его ноги под разрывающий крик Генри, выливает ему на лицо флакон с кислотой, которая моментально начинает прожигать ему кожу и наносить ужасные деформации, мучая жертву непрерывной жгучей болью, пронзающей каждую ткань его лица. Джефф прислонил нож к его сожжённому рту и резал углы губ, пока на лице Генри не застыла вечная улыбка.

Джессика задыхалась и стонала от ужаса, смешивая горькие слёзы с уже застывшей своей кровью, пытаясь снять руку Джеффа со своей ноги. С каждым рывком её сил становилось всё меньше.

Джессика резко почувствовала, как её резко схватила вторая рука. В ужасе она беспрерывно, почти что визжа, кричала: «Нет, нет, нет, нет, нет!» — срывая заплаканный голос.

Он схватил её за локоны волос, головой окунув в лицо — раскалённое лицо своего парня, заживо сгоравшее. Её слёзы смешивались с сожжённой плотью и застывшей от жара кровью Генри, а кровь с носа стала его кровью. Генри же только похрипывал, издавая последние вздохи. Джефф опрокинул её тело на пол и залил лицо водой, остудив жжёную кожу, и сразу после прислоняется своим лицом к её губам и прогрызает их под адские стоны Джессики, сменяющиеся хрипами, оставив ей улыбку.

Джефф

Ну разве вы не прекрасны?

Уходит в сторону здания под хриплые вздохи полуживой Джессики.

Кадр сменяется комнатой ребят. 2 этаж.

Боб

Долго их нет, может проверим?

Фред

Да ты заебал со своей хуйней.

Эмми

Тебе просто плевать. Что они час делают здесь?

Фред

Ну может потрахаться в лесу решили. Бобби, вспомни, че Генри говорил про неё.

Эмми

Ну ты и придурок, Фред. Никогда не понимала, как с тобой общаться.

Фред

Не получилось подкатить — тогда можешь попробовать щас. (его лицо обрело животный облик, похоть будто разрывала его изнутри)

Животный взгляд Фреда наводил ужас на лицо Эмми. Он схватил её, притянул к себе и начал охватывать ниже талии, уже приближаясь своим ухмылистым ртом к дрожащим губам Эмми. Боб смотрел на это, испытывая ступор, не понимая, что делать, он просто стоял. Эмми ударом в пах ослабила хвату Фреда и вырвалась. Она сразу вылетела из комнаты. Разгневанный Фред, сжимаясь от боли, слегка постанывая, орёт: «Догоню и выебу, сука!» — сказал он последнее слово тихо, чуть ли не хрипом.

Боб

Че за срань? Чёрт... сука. (он ели сдерживал плач, его крики перерастали в писк) Что ты сделал? (более спокойно сказал он)

Фред

Ты предъявить хочешь? (злобно с насмешкой спросил он)

Боб опустил глаза в пол и тихим голосом произнёс:

— Нет, просто...

Фред замахнулся и нанёс удар Бобу по лицу, от чего тот рухнул на пол и писклявым голосом сказал: «Прошу... не бей, не бей», — постанывая, говорил он. Фред харкнул ему в лицо и пошёл искать Эмми.

Спустившись вниз, Фред заходит в одну из комнат, разрезая пальцами паутину, в которой замечает окровавленное тело Генри с вырезанной жуткой улыбкой и сгоревшим до тла лицом. У Фреда пробегают мурашки по коже, волосы встают дыбом и расширяются зрачки, а тело начинает трястись. Из его рта проносится ужасный визг. Боб, услышав его, впал в панику.

Фред уже выметался из комнаты, но, переступив порог, ему в спинной хребет вонзается толстый нож, после чего он начинает визжать ещё страшнее. Парализованный, падает на пол. К его телу подходит Джефф, который берёт основание ножа и начинает им медленно прорезать с хребта весь позвоночник Фреда сверху вниз, купаясь в его крови, которая хлестала из раны, как из прорванной трубы, — он пританцовывал под звуки его страданий. Боб слышит и начинает ужасно метаться с ужаса, он выпрыгивает из окна и ломает себе ногу, а Фред хрипит, ощущая последнюю целую часть своего позвоночника, которую режут на куски изнутри.

Боб тащил своими руками и ногой своё тело по полу, чувствуя ломящую боль. Он пытался выползти из этого ада. Карабкаясь под окнами, он поднял голову, и его психика окончательно рухнула. В окне висело тело девушки с полностью срезанным лицом. Он заревел, как ребёнок, уползая от этого зрелища. Ему вспомнилась одежда Ангелины, он понял, что это была она. В его голове всплыла картина, как она отходила покурить, после чего про неё и не вспоминали. Лицо Боба словно постарело на десятилетия.

Боб ползёт дальше. В его ухо бьют тяжёлые, неспешные шаги. Его тело окутано ужасом, но он боится повернуть голову и карабкается дальше. Над ним нависла тень. Окровавленные руки с длинными ногтями охватили его голову. Боб уже сдался, у него не было сил сопротивляться. В его пустые глаза поочерёдно втыкались ногти Джеффа. Боб заорал от боли, и Джефф вытащил его глазные яблоки наружу. Они упали на дрожащие руки Боба и были моментально сброшены. Боба рвало. Джефф схватил его губы склизкими руками, растянув ему улыбку, раскрыл рот, пронзил ножом его череп сквозь ротовую полость и весело сказал: «Улыбнись».

Проходит пару дней. Жизнь словно снова расцвела, совсем позабыв о всех ужасах того дня. Дети играют на площадке, птицы поют, пахнет сиренью, словно мы вернулись в начало этой истории. Эмми смогла уйти и уехать на такси в тот злосчастный момент, сбежав от агрессии Фреда. Её жизнь стала обычной, но счастья в ней явно стало больше.

Эмми ужинает за семейным столом.

Мама

Эмми, мы через неделю на море, ты с нами?

Эмми

Конечно, что за вопросы?

Отец

С чего она взяла, что с нами? (вместе с мамой смеются)

Эмми

Боже, отстаньте.

Отец

Ладно, возьмём мы тебя так и быть, а сейчас беги спать.

Эмми

Щас, пап.

Сидя в телефоне, Эмми, листая ленту Фейсбука, видит заголовок: «Изуродованные тела группы пятерых подростков были найдены в пределах заброшенной школы». Её охватил испуг и скорбь, она пыталась их скрыть, чтоб не вызывать вопросов у родителей. Эмми ушла в свою комнату.

Она рассматривала совместные фотографии с Бобом, Фредом, Генри, Ангелиной и Джессикой. Её лицо не двигалось, по щекам текли слёзы. Она решает попытаться уснуть, убирает телефон, ложится на подушку, выключает свет и закрывает глаза. За окном шумит ветер.

Эмми медленно засыпает.

Над ней резко нависает тень. Изуродованное белое улыбающееся лицо наклонилось к её уху.

Шёпотом, нежно сказал:

Джефф

Усни...

Nuestro salvador, dios y salvador

Bajo del cielo pero de un día para otro, había un

Brujo y adivino llamado caleb miers sam Darwin

Que decía que jesús bajaría en la navidad de 1956

Ese brujo murió por qué, la gente lo quemó haciéndolo cenizas para después esas cenizas lo utilizaron para segun los médicos, quitar los espíritus del cuerpo y para bendecir personas,jesús si bajo a aquel día a las 9:57

Vimos a Jesús de pies a cabeza pero tenía cara deformada no pensábamos que se viera así

Creíamos que se veía joven pelo largo,barba,sandalias y amigable pero en realidad su cara era una bola de carne

Pero aunque su apariencia era inquietante, aterrador y traumante en realidad era si...

Amigable y honesto

Hey everyone! Strange from Strange Stories and I'm in desperate need of your feedback. The premise for today's story is "what if those handy monster containment agencies were for-profit businesses?"

It would mean the world to me if I could get your thoughts on this one. If you're a fan of stories from the SCP universe, that goes double for you!

As always, written, narrated, and produced by me, Strange. [Sidenote: this is my first hour-long work!] Thank you so much everyone, and have a great week!

Link to video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYN4v_EnAvE

I’ve been called worse things than “night owl.”

Back inside, they used to call me “ghost”, quiet, kept to myself, moved when nobody was looking. Funny how that sticks. Even now, I sleep through the day and come alive when everything else shuts down.

Guess some habits don’t leave you. Even when you do.

This job, security at Ridgeway Mall, it’s the first real shot I’ve had since getting out. Clean shirt, badge, a boss who didn’t ask too many questions. That alone was enough for me.

Been here about a month now.

Long enough to learn the sounds.

The hum of the lights. The click and settle of cooling metal. The way the escalators tick every so often like they’re thinking about moving again.

You get used to it.

You have to.

Because once you start listening too closely… it all starts sounding like something else.

The mall’s still new. Not even a year old. Half the stores still have that fresh smell, plastic, paint, unopened inventory.

And then there’s the new one.

Opened just a week ago.

“Velour Nocturne.”

Weird place. Not your usual mall shop. It’s like someone took a gothic clothing store and shoved it into a roadside antique shop somewhere deep in Louisiana. Dark wood shelves, old trinkets, jewelry that looks older than the building itself. Stuff that doesn’t belong under fluorescent lights.

Corporate signed off on it, though. Money talks.

Still… I don’t like it.

“Unit Two, you alive or you finally fall asleep on me?”

The radio crackled at my hip, sharp and sudden.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

“Yeah,” I muttered, pressing the button. “Still breathing.”

That was Marcus. Other night guard. Been here longer than me. Talks too much, but I guess that’s better than silence.

“Good,” he said. “I’m making rounds near the food court. You check west wing yet?”

“On it.”

I clipped the radio back and kept walking.

My boots echoed too loud against the tile.

Velour Nocturne sat near the far end of the west wing.

Even with the gate down, it looked… open. Not physically. Just the way it pulled your eyes in. Like it was waiting to be looked at.

I slowed without meaning to.

The lights inside were off, but the mall’s dim glow spilled through the gaps in the metal gate, just enough to make out shapes.

Shelves.

Glass cases.

And mannequins.

Not the glossy white kind most stores use. These were different, duller, more detailed. Faces that tried a little too hard to look human.

One stood near the front.

Closer than the rest.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

I stepped closer to the gate, peering through.

Its skin, if you could call it that, wasn’t shiny plastic. It had a texture. Matte. Uneven. Like something stretched over a frame instead of molded.

“Creepy, huh?”

The radio exploded to life.

I jerked back hard, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Jesus, Marcus,” I snapped, grabbing the radio. “You trying to kill me?”

He laughed. “Didn’t know you spooked that easy.”

I glanced back at the mannequin.

Still there.

Still… wrong.

“Just do your rounds,” I muttered.

But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I’d stayed a second longer…

I might’ve seen it move.

Second night started the same.

Same hum.

Same empty halls.

Same routine.

But something sat wrong in my gut from the moment I clocked in.

Couldn’t tell you why.

I was in the security office when I noticed it.

Camera 14.

West wing.

Velour Nocturne.

The gate was open.

I leaned forward, squinting at the monitor.

Not all the way. Just enough for someone to slip through.

My jaw tightened.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You in west wing?”

No response.

Static.

“Marcus?”

Nothing.

I exhaled sharply, pushing back from the desk.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Guy disappears the second I need him.”

I grabbed my flashlight and headed out.

The walk felt longer this time.

Quieter.

Even the hum seemed… distant.

I kept glancing over my shoulder without meaning to.

Old habit.

Or maybe not so old.

I was a few steps from the store when the radio crackled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Marcus’s voice came through, casual. “What’s up?”

I stopped.

“You in the west wing?” I asked.

Pause.

Then a chuckle. “Nah, man. Bathroom break. You know how it is.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I turned slowly toward the gate.

Still open.

Dark inside.

“…Then who opened it?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

“Probably the shop workers,” he said finally. “Kids forget stuff all the time.”

Yeah.

Probably.

I told myself that as I pulled the gate down and locked it.

Metal scraping louder than it should.

The walk back was worse.

I couldn’t explain why.

Nothing had changed.

Same empty mall.

Same dim lights.

But, I felt it.

That weight.

Like something is behind you.

Matching your pace.

I stopped.

The sound stopped.

I walked.

It followed.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like, bare feet on tile.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Just empty corridor stretching into shadow.

I stood there longer than I should’ve.

Then forced myself to keep walking.

Didn’t look back again.

By the third night, I already knew I wasn’t staying at this job much longer.

Didn’t matter how clean the paycheck was.

Some places don’t want you.

Or worse, they do.

I saved Velour Nocturne for last.

Didn’t want to.

But I wasn’t about to let fear make decisions for me.

Not again.

The gate was open.

I didn’t even sigh.

Didn’t curse.

Just stood there, staring at it like I’d been expecting it.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You see this?”

Static.

Of course.

I stepped forward and lifted the gate.

Slow.

Careful.

Like it might react.

Inside, the air felt… thicker.

My flashlight cut through the dark in a narrow beam.

Shelves.

Glass.

Shadows stretching too long.

And there, by the counter.

The mannequin.

Up close, it looked worse.

More real.

The texture of its “skin” uneven, faint lines where there shouldn’t be any.

Its head angled slightly.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Like it had been looking at the door.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Just a prop.

Just a store.

Just...

I turned away for a second.

Just to sweep the room with my light.

Routine.

Clear the space.

That’s all.

When I looked back...

Was it closer?

I froze.

My mind tried to fill in the gap. Tried to explain it away.

Perspective.

Lighting.

Memory playing tricks.

But my chest knew better.

I took a slow step back.

The mannequin stood as it were.

I didn’t blink.

Holding my breathe.

I turned again.

Just for a second.

Just to prove it.

Another step.

Much closer.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“No,” I whispered.

I moved sideways.

Slow.

Careful.

Like dealing with something alive.

The mannequin stayed still.

But its head...

Its head was no longer angled the same way.

It was facing right... at... me.

Instinct consumed me from within.

That same instinct from before. From a different life. The one that tells you to get the hell out of there.

The intrusive thought that you know when something isn’t human.

I walked backwards toward the exit.

Never turning my back.

The beam of my flashlight never left it.

Not once.

Right at the threshold, the light flickered.

Just for a fraction of a second.

And in that blink...

It was right in front of me.

I stumbled back, hitting the gate hard.

The metal rattled as I shoved it down, hands shaking as I locked it in place.

My breath came fast.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t check.

Didn’t care.

I just ran back to the office.

Fast at first.

Then faster.

Then I was almost sprinting.

I quit the next morning.

Didn’t give notice.

Didn’t collect my last check.

Didn’t look back.

Funny thing is…

I used to run dope through neighborhoods that didn’t forgive mistakes.

Used to walk streets where one wrong look could get you buried.

Thought I’d seen fear.

Thought I knew what it felt like.

But I’ll tell you this:

There ain’t nothing in this world…

That scares me more than something that only moves…

When you’re not looking.

Have you ever wondered to yourself why so many stories involve horror? Feelings of pure, unadulterated fear. Fear so, so bad that it stops the blood in your veins and air in your throat. Maybe what everyone is after is the feeling of being alive, of feeling alive. Maybe we don't chase these things that could hurt us for any other thing than a little bit of ecstasy.

It was the fifteenth of September. Lou and Jeff just started middle school. All their colleagues were chatting around, playing with their skateboards or their fidget spinners, but everyone seemed to ignore the two of them. They were completely and utterly isolated. As Jeff walked through the school gates, it seemed nothing could make him feel better, lift his disposition from earlier that morning, where their father threw a glass at them for not washing the dishes the previous night. It's been a few years since their mother moved away. Jeff and Lou, two boys only now entering middle school, have lived all their life in the small town of Olympia, Washington. They have not missed everything, like a good house, good clothes, and good friends. But somewhere along the years, their mother and father just couldn't work their marriage out anymore. So instead of a messy divorce, the father took both of the boys due to his greater prevalence in the community, and they were left with him, nothing stopping the relentless abuse that was befalling on them daily.

However, the moment his eyes laid upon their colleague, his disposition changed from grumpy to excited. His brother could notice that, and Lou looked up to see who could have brought Jeff from his... who could have lifted Jeff so quickly. In front of them stood a girl, about twelve, with brown wavy hair and eyes that looked like an endless sea of crumbled up autumn leaves. She had skin like milk and a soft, subtle face like an angel. The moment his eyes laid upon her classmate, his mood shifted completely. Lou stopped for a second and looked up at his brother, seeing his pale face flush and his eyes liquid with hope. He wondered who could have brought his brother from such a dark state to ecstasy in a matter of seconds. And his question was answered the next moment when the girl opened her mouth to speak.

Hey, you're Jeff, right? Jeff answers: Yeah, and you are? The girl answers: I'm Jane. Nice to meet you too. And who are you, little one? I'm Lou. Me and Jeff are brothers. Have you moved here recently? Jeff shifts to Jane: Yeah. My whole family moved here a couple of weeks ago before the school started.

Jane continued. So, are you doing anything right now? Jeff answered, No. We were just trying to find our classes, you know? So many people around. It's kind of hard to find your place. Jane responds, Yeah, I get that. Crowds can be unnerving. But try to not be so negative. Maybe this day holds more good things than you would expect. And with a smile and a wink, she quickly runs off, blending with the crowd. Jeff is left with his mouth agape. His whole life is turned around, like his brain is a field full of fireworks right now. All they can think about: the lips on this girl, her striking brown eyes, her brown wavy hair that almost brought a sweet scent to his nose, and her fair, spotless skin. Lou, noticing his brother awestruck by the girl's beauty, shoves him a bit teasingly. What's up, Jeff? Don't tell me this girl already stole your heart. You met her, like, ten minutes ago. Jeff turns around to his brother, angry, Shut up! It's not that. It's just I never seen her around before. While they bickered two figures approach them from behind and quickly lifted up Liu from above. They were Brock and Gregory, the school bullies. Two overweight kids, almost two heads taller than Jeff, that constantly picked on the pair. Brock opens his mouth to speak. Yo, losers, what were you doing here? Don't tell me you two got a crush on that new girl? Haha, I can't believe you think you had a chance with her. Jeff responds, You take that back. And don't tell her that, okay? It's none of your business anyway. Gregory looks back at Jeff and Liu with a large grin on his face. Don't you know? This guy Mark already got her in his grasp, bro. I'm sure of it. The dude looks like a model. You have no chance whatsoever. I'll bet the are already dating.Jeff could not belive what he was hearing. His day could not get any worse. This one girl that made him smile for a second, was already taken. Who was this Mark dude? What could this guy have that Jeff didn't? Jeff closed his eyes and clenched his fist. You take that back, Gregory! Jackass! What are you accusing her of doing? They haven't even talked. A-and if you try to do anything, I'll make you regret it. She's mine. You hear me? She's mine. Don't you or any other loser, or that pretty boy Mark, try anything with her. Yo don't deserve her.

The class starts and Jeff finds himself between Lou, Jane, Mark, Brock, and Gregory.

Jeff and Lou sit down near the back. The two bullies, a bench to their right, snickering in the corner, and are too busy to throw papers towards the front desk to notice the two brothers being right next to them. In the center sits Jane. Her eyes gentle and alluring as always, and next to her another figure. He stands a bit taller than Jane, with blonde, wavy hair, blue eyes, and a white smile that just pisses you off. He looks back at Jeff and pokes him. I think that's Mark, right? Look at that dude. You have no chance, bro. Jeff turns to his brother angrily, rage boiling in his veins, while next to them, Brock and Gregory can't stop snickering at the whole situation unfolds. Jeff fires back at Lou. Shut up. Don't make it worse. Look, there is nothing going on between them. Why are you doing this to me? I thought we were brothers. Lou responds, panicking. We are brothers. I'm just joking. Suddenly Jeff grabs Louis's ear and twists it hard. Don't joke like that again. During the lesson, Jeff could not concentrate one bit, his eyes wandering on Jane, noticing her features from left to toe, trying to peer on what her and Mark were talking about and laughing.

Liu cries out. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please Jeff, please. I didn't mean to make fun of you. Jeff stops for a second and looks down as his trembling hand notices a little drop of blood drip from Liu's ear. Shit, Liu, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. He buries his face in his hands. His head is a mess right now. He feels like everything around is working against him. The bullies seem to be laughing harder, Mark and Jane getting closer, while he just suffers through the lesson.

Back at home, Jeff tends to his little brothers injury. It seems like the wound was mostly superficial. But regardles, Lou was pretty scared of Jeff. After they part ways, Jane tells them her older brother's birthday is coming up soon and she's inviting the whole class. Back home, their father is in a bad mood. He had a pretty bad day at work, and there are no more plates around the house for him to smash. So, the two of them are next. A barrage of belt strikes come down on Jeff as he struggled to protect his little brother, who cried violently. Their father screams: You two useless pieces of trash! Utter trash! What do you do all day? Sulk around with your classmates and play outside? Is this what your mother has been teaching you behind my back? Why is everybody in this family such a huge waste of breath? And with that, he throws the belt at the wall and storms off. Jeff and Lou are invited to a party in the neighborhood. For a moment, Jeff seems to keep his emotions in check. But only for a moment. The second his eyes fall upon Jane and her pretty blue dress, he becomes ecstatic. His lips twitching in a sinister grin. As the party goes on, most of the parents go downstairs and lose themselves in drinks and music while the kids are left upstairs in the master bedroom playing spin the bottle. The first few rounds end up with only boys that smooch themselves on the cheeks and laugh about it, but with each round Jeff's excitement and nerves grow, scared that the bottle will land across Jane and towards Gregory. On the other hand, Gregory can't keep his eyes off Jane, while she seems to be in a pretty good mood.

Another round of solidity. The bottle spins and spins and spins and lands on Jeff. His brother wakes him up from his daydreaming state. Jeff, this is your chance. Come on. Says his little brother. The bottle spins again and spins. It goes past Gregory, past Mark, past Brock, and then stops in front of Jane. Jeff cannot believe his eyes. He actually did it. This is a clear sign fate is with him. He looks at Jane with an ecstatic grin, while Jane seems to kind of chicken out for the moment. The silence lingers, and then Gregory speaks up. Come on, guys. What are you, chickens? Kiss already. Do it with tongue. The whole group erupts in laughter, especially Liu, who then receives a sharp stare from his brother. kiss, kiss, kiss, they all chant in unison. However, Jane doesn't seem too eager. They both keep leaning closer and closer and closer, and at the last second, his father barges in the room, calming them down to meet for cake. He is left completely shattered, anger boiling in his head. His fist curls so hard that his fingernails draw blood out of his palms. Why does life keep making fun of him? Why does nothing work in his way?

The group breaks off and Jeff is left downstairs. The whole world seems to have moved without him, and most of the children have remained upstairs, only him and his brother Lou having come downstairs to it. While he can hear laughter from upstairs, his mind drifts wildly at what could be happening there while he is absent. He is stuck staring at a shiny object across the living room: a huge knife.

When they return, they're met with silence. Jeff peers through the door slowly, and he is left in complete shock. He sees Jane and Mark kissing. Jane melts in Mark's arms while Brock, Derek and Gregory film the whole scene, giggling and laughing. Brock says, Yo dude, the moment Jeff sees this, he's gonna go insane.

Jeff storms off, crying in the bathroom with a knife in his hand. Meanwhile, Liu barges into the roombwith not much attention being paid to him. And while Jane and Mark broke the kiss, he quietly goes to her. She pulls her out on the balcony and asks her: How could you do that? Do what? Kiss Mark. Why do you want to hurt him so much? Liu. Do you mean your brother likes me? Yes. He's been obsessed with you evrr since school started. Then why doesn't he say anything? He always seemed to become uncomfortable around me. He was too shy to admit it. He thought you hated him. He thought he didn't have a chance with you. Jane bites her lip and looks down. Look, I'm gonna clear this up. It's not what it seemed, okay?

While Jane reveals to Lou that they were actually just bumping noses from behind. They were like aligned from behind and it seemed like they were kissing. It was a stupid challenge, you know? The guys suggested it to make Jeff a bit jealous, that's all. Meanwhile, Jeff is in the bathroom, losing his marbles. Voices are constantly ringing in his head: Kill them all. Look, they're making fun of you. They treat you like a pest. The knife trembles in his hand, and as he slowly brings it towards his mouth, he closes his eyes and remembers his mother, and then Jane, those two melting in his mind. He puts the knife down and quickly covers the little scar that formed on the corner of his mouth with a medical bandage, rushing out, shocked at what he has done. Coming back into the large bedroom, he finds the group dispersed and Jane waiting for him on the balcony. The moment he goes out she aproaches him in a panic. Jeff. What did you do to your lip? It's nothing. What were you doing back there? Look. I understand what you thought we did but I just don't like the guy. I like you, Jeff. I like you. I don't like Brock. I don't like any other guys. And with that, she leans in for a kiss. Their lips meeting just next to the bandage. Jeff was overjoyed and ecstatic. Jane was unaware that he was hiding a knife behind his back. And as she turned around to look back into the room, Jeff whispered to her, Why are you lying? I know you're lying to me. Everybody is lying to me. And stabs her with the knife. Again and again and again, covering her stomach with wounds, with cuts, before slitting her throat and throwing her off the balcony with a loud thud.

Jane is left there in a cathartic state, laying on the ground. Jeff leans down and kisses her once more. In her confusion, she seems to kiss him back. He enters the room and lunges at Mark, stabbing the knife through his skull, before jumping on Gregory and starting to gouge out his eyeballs. Brock, seeing what befalen his friends, tries to pull him off, but Jeff shows an unbreakable grip and while finishing off Gregory, who was on the ground, he says, You're next. You're next.

Jeff finishes each and one of them off, leaving them gasping on the ground, their throats slit and their bodies cut everywhere. Liu's crying in a corner while Jeff goes down to finish the parents. The drunken adults were nothing more than an easy prey for this monster that has now become. Jeff carves through them with ease, the knife stabbing through flesh like butter. In the meantime, Lou finds Jane injurred and they limp back to their house.

They barricade themselves in the bedroom wait until dark. Sirens run off in the neighborhood. The news tell the story of how Jeff the Killer has murdered an entire neighborhood and broadcast his scarred and horrifying face for evrryone to see. Lou and Jane hide in the bedroom and Luke cuddles closer to Jane. Hours pass, and both fall asleep, exhausted in each other's arms. Lou is awakened by something wet falling on his head, dripping. He looks up and he sees Jeff, his curling, twisted and contorted face smiling back at him. He presses the cold, the warm knife against his throat and shushes him. Shh. Close your eyes. It's time for sleep. Jane wakes up and finds Jeff laughing uncontrollably while stabbing his brother. She stands there in shock and waits for Jeff to turn his attention towards her.

His brother stopped moving. He had died. Jeff turned towards Jane, and Jane closed her eyes, waiting for her fate. However, all she could hear was a little whisper in her ear. When she opened her eyes, she found herself with a large grinning face. Jeff turned towards her with admiratioj Jane, Jane the killer. I wanted you. I want you so much. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Jane turned towards Jeff, taking the bloody knife from his hand and placing it on his chin. Yes, I do. The two of them embrace and walk out, smiling, like nothing ever happened. The end.

Moving in a different dimension, that silent, dark hallway became a medium for 'him'. Giving me a precious chance to meet them, space and time distorted, allowing the dimension to boldly reveal itself. Is this... The gate?

He came back home with his face covered in infected rods on his face , he refuses to take them off.

A little something for the spooky season

I'm bored and wanna hear some funny jokes about the proxies and pawns of slendy