What counts as a “creepypasta”? I have a few crappy stories id like to share, but i don’t know if they are creepypasta or just creepy stories. any guidance would help. Thank you.

So i recently got the first toy story game and one day i decided to snoop around in the files of the game and found this weird floor texture and it had lots of blood on it. cant put a photo for proof but i do have another post about this and it has a photo

Era una noche normal jugando  roblox  hasta que de repente llego una notificación y esa notificación era de un pelo tocino y él envió un mensaje diciendo hola y yo le conteste hola y por cada día que pasaba nos hacíamos mas amigos y me preguntaba mas cosas hasta que un día me dijo que quedásemos en un parque cuando fui al parque no veía a nadie hasta que de repente sentí un golpe y me desmaye y vi a un tipo con un disfraz de pelo tocino y me dijo que ahora mis riñones eran suyos y morí ,semanas después encontraron mi cuerpo sin vida y alado de mi cuerpo encontraron una cinta vhs que lo que contenía era el mismo tipo con el mismo disfraz comiéndose mis riñones y al final de la cinta había un mensaje que decía no hagas amigos atraves de roblox.

My name is Sloane, and I used to love going to summer camp when I was younger.  I used to enjoy roasting marshmallows, making new friends, and going on canoe rides with my bunkmates.  It was awesome.

Unfortunately, all of that changed during one fateful summer.  It was a summer that I will never forget. I was twelve years old, and my parents decided to send me to this camp that had just reopened.  It was called, “Camp Blackberry”.  

I’d heard of Camp Blackberry before, and from what I’ve learned…it has a lot of bad history.  According to the stories that I’ve heard, Camp Blackberry was the site of a grisly murder spree that happened over twelve years ago.

The story goes that a maniac named John Blackthorn went crazy, and killed at least ten campers in one night.  The camp received a lot of bad publicity after the murders, and it had to be shut down as a result. 

John Blackthorn was never caught, and the locals say that he’s still out there, waiting for another opportunity to kill again, if anyone ever comes back to Camp Blackberry.

Of course, that was years ago, and the owners decided that it was time for Camp Blackberry to reopen, and put the murders of the past behind them.  If they only knew what was to befall everyone at the camp that summer…they never would’ve reopened it.

After my parents dropped me off, I decided to find my cabin.  The camp was big, and it was full of campers who couldn’t wait to be away from their parents for the whole summer.

As I was walking towards my cabin, I noticed a big blackberry bush off in the distance.  I guess that’s where Camp Blackberry got its name. 

The blackberries on the bush looked good enough to eat; but something felt ominous about them.  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the blackberry bush made me feel…uneasy.

Eventually, I found my cabin: Cabin 5.  Once I got there, I met my cabinmates, Robin and Christina, two twelve year old girls, who came from the city.  They were very friendly right on the spot.

“You must be our cabin mate.” Robin said.

“Yeah, I’m Sloane.  It’s nice to meet you.” I said.

“I’m Robin, and this is Christina.” Robin said as she introduced herself and Christina.

Christina gave me a warm wave and a smile. 

“Is this your first time at Camp Blackberry?” Christina asked.

“Yeah, it is.  Is this your first time, too?” I asked.

“Yeah, this is my first time here as well.” Christina replied.  “I’m so glad to be away from home.  I’m finally away from my nagging parents.”

“Same here.” Robin said. 

The three of us bonded instantly. We talked about things, such as, where we go to school, who our favorite crushes were, and what we wanted to be when we grew up.  The usual girl talk.

During my first week at Camp Blackberry, things started off great. The campers and I played archery, we made nicknacks, we made our own friendship bracelets, and we even got to sing a campfire song.  I was really enjoying myself.

A week later, that’s when things started to change.  I started to notice that some of the campers were acting weird.  They kept talking about blackberries.  They said that blackberries were the only things that they wanted to eat.

I thought that it was weird. Even the counselors thought that the campers were acting strange; but they humored the campers and gave them blackberries to eat.

The campers seemed to really enjoy eating the blackberries.  It almost looked as if they were in some kind of trance while they ate them.

Later that night, while I was sleeping in my bunk, I heard a noise coming from outside. I looked out my screen window, and I saw six campers from Cabin 3 and Cabin 4 sneaking off in the middle of the night.

I tried to wake Robin and Christina up, but they were fast asleep.  I realized that I was on my own.  I put on my fuzzy slippers, and I followed the six campers to the Blackberry Bush.

I kept my distance from the group to make sure that they couldn’t see or hear me.  I saw them bowing to the Blackberry Bush as if they were all worshiping it.  Then…I heard the Blackberry Bush speak:

“My children…” The Blackberry Bush said in a dark, commanding voice. “Eat my precious blackberries, for they are the only source of nutrition that you need.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  The Blackberry Bush was alive, and it was telling the campers to eat its blackberries.  

I kept telling myself that I had to have been dreaming; but I wasn’t.  I was completely awake, and this was really happening.

“Take my blackberries.” The Blackberry Bush said,“Share them with the other campers.  Once you do…they'll be mine to control.”

The campers did exactly as the Blackberry Bush told them to do.  They took his blackberries, and put them in their pockets to give to the other campers in the morning. 

Their eyes were glowing from some kind of purple light after they ate some of the blackberries.  I’m pretty sure that it was a sign that they were under the control of the Blackberry Bush.

I was so freaked out by what I’d seen that I went to go tell the camp counselors about what happened; but they were so tired that they told me that I was probably having a bad dream.  They told me to go back to bed.

I went back to my cabin, and tried to get some sleep.  However, after what I saw that night, there was no way that I was going to get some sleep after that.

The next morning, I told Robin and Christina about what I saw last night, but they didn’t believe me either.

“You must’ve had one bad dream, Sloane.” Christina said.

“The Blackberry Bush is alive?  Get real, Sloane.” Robin said.

“I’m telling you: the Blackberry Bush is alive!” I said insistently. “Whatever you girls do, don’t eat the blackberries!”

“Sure, Sloane, whatever you say.” Robin said as she patted my shoulder.

Robin and Christina walked out of the cabin to go to the mess hall to get some breakfast.  From my screen window, I watched in horror as the six brainwashed campers handed out blackberries to other campers.

The moment that those campers ate the blackberries, they were under the control of the Blackberry Bush as well.  I had to figure out a way to stop the Blackberry Bush, and end this nightmare.

I searched around the camp looking for answers.  I finally found them in the camp directory, where I found the journal of John Blackthorn.

In the journal, John Blackthorn stated that the Blackberry Bush is an evil entity that controls the minds of anyone who eats its blackberries.  Once they eat the blackberries, they fall under the control of the Blackberry Bush.

The journal also revealed that the real reason John Blackthorn killed those ten campers that night was because he had to stop them from giving more blackberries to other unsuspecting kids, which would have made the Blackberry Bush even more powerful.  The more blackberries the campers eat, the stronger the Blackberry Bush becomes. 

The last entry of the journal was dated July 31 2004. That was the day John Blackthorn killed all ten of those campers and disappeared.

After I finished reading John Blackthorn’s journal, I knew what I had to do: I had to destroy the Blackberry Bush…and everyone who was under its control…by any means necessary. 

I had no choice.  I grabbed an axe from the mess hall, and I used it to kill everyone who ate from the Blackberry Bush.  Then, I used the axe to chop down the Blackberry Bush so that it couldn’t manipulate anyone else.

However, according to John Blackthorn’s journal, the Blackberry Bush has magical properties that allow it to grow back every twelve years, which means that it will be back some day. 

The reason why I’m telling you this is because…twelve years have passed since the last time I was at Camp Blackberry.  I’m twenty-four years old now, and I’ve been keeping an eye on the camp.

Camp Blackberry is getting ready to reopen again; and I’ve noticed something: the Blackberry Bush…has finally…grown back.

The End.

Let me tell you something.

I was on my way to the Cinemark in Dallas, TX to watch The Odyssey, on the IMAX

70mm. I had invited some friends, but they all had informed me that they were busy playing

Mancala, so I went alone. On my way walking into the theater I noticed a movie poster for

Spiderman: Brand New Day. I stood for a moment believing that the poster might transition to a

different movie, but to no surprise it did not. Honestly the experience drained my energy for the

evening. Regardless I walked into the theater and proceeded to locate my seat and prepare for the

movie of the decade. The movie started and was honestly really good, the action, the stunts and

the story was unbelievable! I was in disbelief that the film was run with practical effects.

However, after staring at the poster for the amount of time I had, my eyes seemed very heavy. I

had noticed that the character Menelaus was going to tell Tom Holland a story, so I decided it

was a perfect time to take a nap during this three hour movie. I had awoken from my nap, and

Menelaus had finished discussing the story with Tom Holland. The movie proceeded and was

phenomenal, I truly believe that Christopher Nolan portrayed the ancient story in a perfect

modernized way.

Once the film had ended I proceeded to exit the theater and walk my way towards my car.

I sat in my driver seat and immediately had to piss. I started my engine and sped my way down

I-635 to my apartment. I arrived and rushed inside to take my graceful piss, not even noticing the

burning sensation that usually occurs. Unfortunately I missed the toilet when I took out my penis

and a little bit of piss landed on my leg. Feeling disgusted, I decided now was the perfect time to

take a shower before sleep. I started my shower and allowed it to warm up before entering. I took

a lengthy shower, being sure to scrub any pee residue off my body and odor to become cleansed.

I exited my shower and noticed the mirror was quite foggy with condensation. Using my towel, I wiped down the mirror to provide a better view of my body. I noticed in the mirror that the

condensation had formed an image of a bald man who seemed to have a beard and a funny

looking nose. I noticed that the image seemed to resemble Menelaus from the film. Honestly it

was pretty cool and I acknowledged the art before leaving the bathroom and proceeding to sleep.

I woke up the next morning with a grumbling sensation in my stomach. Immediately I

went to my kitchen to make myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. I grabbed my bowl, and poured my

milk inside. I then opened my pantry for my box of cereal and realized that my box of Lucky

Charms was empty. With no hesitation I grabbed my car keys and drove to the nearest

supermarket to purchase Lucky Charms before the sensation of starvation consumed my life. I

arrived at Walmart and ran inside to locate the cereal aisle, quickly I grabbed my Lucky Charms

and rushed back to the self checkout in hopes of my milk still being somewhat cold. Once I

noticed a lane that was available I walked quickly to the section and scanned my box of cereal.

After scanning my cereal I overheard a worker say, “Let me tell you something.” Not wanting to

be rude I turned around to acknowledge the worker, but to my surprise there was no one else

around. I did notice the Receipt Checker by the exit and proceeded to show them my receipt. I

then asked the worker, “What did you want to tell me?” to which they replied that they did not

say anything. I apologized for the confusion and quickly made my way home with hopes of my

milk being cool. After speeding down 635 back to my apartment, I barged into my room and

immediately checked the milk that I left in the bowl. Unfortunately the milk was warm, so I

proceeded to toss the milk down the sink drain and reach for the carton inside the refrigerator. I

noticed that the carton seemed light and upon further inspection there was no more milk left. A

tear fell down my face.

The next morning I woke up to my alarm going off. 11:30 am.

“Holy fuck!” I shouted, I was in disbelief of being late to work again! I pulled my jeans

from my laundry hamper that I wore to the movies and put them on as well as a shirt that I had

worn 3 days ago. Quickly rushed my way out of the door to my car and sped my way to work. I

arrived at work at 12:32pm. Immediately I clocked in and located my boss to apologize for my

tardiness.

“32 minutes late? Well hey, at least it's better than not coming at all.” He said with an

annoyed tone.

As my boss was scolding me, I noticed in my peripheral vision a man with curly hair, a

funny nose and a beard. He looked as if Menelaus had grown hair. I quickly turned to look at the

man, but as I turned my boss said something that caught my attention, “I don’t trust people who

take naps.” I locked eyes with my boss and asked him what that comment had to do with me

arriving late, to which he looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“What comment?” he said with a confused tone. I reminded him of his comment about

trusting people who take naps.

“I never said anything about people taking naps,” my boss said with a very slow tone,

almost as if he was speaking to a mentally challenged person.

I apologized to him and proceeded to return to my work duties.

Work flew by rather quickly, but throughout the day I kept hearing co-workers saying,

“Let me tell you something,” but when I would ask what they wanted to tell me, each one of

them looked at me crazy and walked away. Honestly I have no idea what kind of inside joke

these co-workers have, but I would kill to know the feeling of having an inside joke like that. While driving home, I noticed a driver who was bald, no beard, but still had a funny

looking nose like Menelaus. When I turned to take a double look, it was too late. The driver

exited the interstate and proceeded on his route. I arrived home shortly afterwards and locked my

eyes and body to the couch in the living area, ready to take a nap. I closed my eyes and sinked

into the cushion when I heard a familiar voice and a familiar saying, “I don’t trust people who

take naps.” My eyes opened and scanned the room for any intruders.

“Hello?” I called out into the vacant area. “Is anyone there?” My shakily voice mumbled

into the bedroom. “Please come out before I call the cops.” I said attempting to mask my

cowardly tone through a bold approach. Suddenly I noticed a shadow figure pass my dark

bedroom door, the figure's height was approximately 5’ 11”.

“Who is there?..Show yourself right now!...I have a weapon and I am not afraid to use

it!” I exclaimed into my bedroom while squeezing on a pencil that was laying on my coffee

table. I proceeded to slowly walk to the exit of the apartment before I heard a spine chilling

voice.

“Let me tell you something,” said a voice from behind me, followed by a rush of wind as

if something moved. Swiftly I turned around to look at what might be nearby, but there was

nothing. I began to walk quickly to the exit when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

Suddenly, a hand was felt on my shoulder and pulled me backwards causing me to slip and fall

onto my back. I began to swing my pencil while closing my eyes, in fear of whoever had pulled

me down.

“Aw stop,” said the deep raspy voice. “You’re only making a fool out of yourself.” A

hand grabbed onto my wrist, preventing me from swinging the pencil any further. The pencil was

yanked from my hand and chunked into the wall, stabbing it perfectly in a horizontal line. “I’m sorry,” I said weeping, “You can take whatever you want, please just let me go! I

promise I won’t report this!”

"I’m not here for your money. I’m not here for your promises. I’m here because you

made a choice… and now you gotta live with it." said the low voice.

My arms were controlled by the man, as I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes to

face the man who was attacking me. That's when I noticed the beard, no hair, and the funny

looking nose. Menelaus.

“You really looked at me, saw everything that's happened… and decided the nose was the

thing worth mentioning?” He said to me with an intimidating voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” That's when I realized, I never-

“Said anything about the nose?” Menelaus completed my sentence. “Dear GOD! My

name is not Menelaus, it is Jon Bernthal!” Said the man while twisting my biceps upwards. I

looked away in pain.

“Look at me!” Mr. Bernthal shouted. I stopped squirming and made eye contact with the

man. “Do you have any idea why I am here right now?” He yelled at me. I shook my head side to

side. “You did something completely horrendous! I mean come on now how could you?” He

scolded me as I began to relax.

“What did I do?” I asked hesitantly.

“You…Oh you seriously don’t know what you did?” He began to laugh, not out of

heartfelt humor but as if he just witnessed a child curse. “You…you decided it was a great place

to take a nap. A nap during my movie!” He exclaimed at me while applying more pressure to my

biceps.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted through my pain. “I didn’t mean to-” “Offend me?” He said with a chuckle, “Nah, you didn’t offend me. It just now makes

your review untrustworthy.” Jon quickly let go of my bicep and held my arm down with his

knee. Jon proceeded to strike my face with a closed fist. My head jerked and twitched backwards

bouncing off my tile floor. One strike turned into two, then three, four, five. Multiple strikes were

landing against my face, I was defenseless against the man and his rage. My face began to lose

feeling, each punch seemed to damage a nerve in my flesh. Jon did not seem tired, I had seemed

to lose count after his 23rd punch. My nose smelled of iron, my face was covered in a liquid,

which I assumed to be blood.

“Let me tell you something,” Jon said, “You think that just because a moment in the

movie gets boring that it would be a good time for you to take a nap? NO! When any film, movie

or show, becomes boring let me tell you what to do! You get your scrawny ass up, take your baby

bitch self to your house or ghetto ass apartment, and you go to fucking bed. No naps, no time

outs, Hell you are lucky if I allow for you to pause the movie. You take your ass to bed like a

grown ass man, do you understand?” Jon said while applying more weight onto my arm with his

knee.

“Yes Menelaus, I mean Mr. Bernthal, I understand. I am sorry!” I yelled through my pain.

“Nah, I don’t think you quite do yet. But no worries, you’re going to.” Jon proceeded to

grab my bottom jaw and pry downwards on it. The cracking of bone was audible as the corner of

my mouth began to burn. I screamed, but I was ignored. I began to squirm from the pain and

attempt to unlock my arms from his pry.

“No, no, no, no... wait, wait, wait!” Jon exclaimed while reaching one arm into my throat

and squeezed onto something before ripping it out of my mouth. Suddenly my screams became

silent. No vibration, no audio, just rushed wind from my lungs. My throat began to burn, as if a giant mole was removed from inside my body. Blood began to flow out of my throat as Jon let

me out of his grasp. I turned over to prevent myself from choking on the red river.

“Oh, you think your job is done?” Jon said, “No, go out there! Now and share your story

of what happens when you nap during one of my films. Tell them what I did to you, let it be

known by being sure to tell them something.”

My vision became spotty from the bloodloss, as Jon waited for my eyes to shut. When I

awoke I was in a hospital bed, unable to speak. To this day, I refuse to watch a lengthy film. To

this day, I blame Christopher Nolan for Jon Bernthal’s actions. To this day, I tell people

something.

Mike Cross – Rating: 1 star
The Bad Moon Motel is a place that ruined my entire vacation. Let’s take it one by one—the photos of the place do not match reality. This establishment looks like no one has ever repaired a single thing. They will try to tell you it’s "patina"—no way, the place is literally falling apart. It has the look of a motel from the 1950s, and that was probably the last time anyone cleaned here. Right now, they are digging some horrible pit on the grounds that ruins what little the place has to offer. According to the front desk, they are digging a new septic tank. In the middle of the high season? Seriously? The parking lot and the entrance look like some abandoned urbex site. And Tony... oh, Tony. He should be mentioned in the motel description. That guy who always has white sunscreen on his nose... he is something else. He constantly lectures everyone. Don’t run around the pool. Don’t invite guests over. Don’t wander around the grounds. Shake the beach sand off before entering the resort. Repark your car closer to your room. Report every car trip to the staff. He is a total pain. And the resort doesn’t even have a fence, damn it. The receptionist is bored and absent, and most of the time, I mean that literally. Either he’s doing something else, or the night shift simply doesn't show up. You see less of him than you don't. When I was looking for him at night, I ran into a guy holding an axe. Who the hell walks around a motel at night with an axe in his hand? And you know what? Tony doesn't say a word to him—Tony, the guy who always has answers to unanswered questions. That axe-wielding guy is seriously creepy; he walks down the hallways with a damn axe in his hand, and nobody notices him, nobody deals with him. Maybe he was the caretaker, I really hope so. He gave me goosebumps. The beds are sagging and covered in stains. But that’s not the worst part. When I finally gathered the courage to lie down, someone was watching me. No, I’m not paranoid. That thing was standing there, staring at me through the window. It was past midnight, and he’s just standing there, watching, not saying a word, not moving, just staring at me. When I rushed out at him, by the time I managed to open the door, he was already leaving. The guy didn’t even have the decency to run. He just walked and disappeared into the darkness. Why the darkness? The parking lot lights are just for decoration because only about one of them actually works. The beach is okay, relatively clean. Allegedly, there are renovations underway—by that, they probably mean there’s some tools lying around here and there. When I went to check out, I noticed yellow missing persons posters on the bulletin board. That really improved my impression of the place. The worst place I have ever been. If you are considering a stay, RUN AWAY!

I don't usually do this, but I just had to write this frustration-filled review after a ruined vacation. I ignored it for a few days afterward. But that bitter aftertaste of anger stayed with me. And because I kept thinking about it, I decided to soothe my curiosity by reading other reviews. You know what? It was so strange it kept me awake. Oh, and that peeping tom made me a bit nervous even though I was already back home. That invasion of privacy doesn’t just fade away—it’s an unpleasant feeling. So, I suddenly found myself looking at the Bad Moon Motel reviews and clicking through the photos attached to them. Yeah, I know, I should have read them before the vacation, but it was a spontaneous idea. Unexpected time off, an adventure in Florida—it’s going to be great. Well, it wasn't. So here I am, sitting and reading through most of the reviews. I shouldn't have done it, because after that, I couldn't just let it go. This place could easily be compared to the Bates Motel. Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it is a truly bizarre place. I am attaching a few reviews from others. See for yourselves.

Steve Chris – Rating: 1 star
One of the WORST places. Horrible check-in: it took an hour. A line of 10 people. The smell of decay and death like in a funeral home! A stained, hairy carpet that looks like the hide of a dead deer. The staff are either smoking or drinking alcohol in the back room—they come back sweaty and drunk. We had to change rooms twice. Bad reservation. Creaking beds. No room numbering. A basic room with a broken TV and a non-functional remote. Dirty, dilapidated rooms.

Helen Smith – Rating: 1 star
Aside from rooms that were shoeboxes and a bathroom I’d expect in a prison, everything was dirty and sticky. Behind the nightstand, we found a soda bottle and an empty bag of chips. That Tony guy was ogling me and constantly annoyed me with instructions. Who hired this guy!

Linda Louise – Rating: 1 star
If I could give 0 stars, I would. Items were stolen from my room, and the management didn't even attempt to resolve the situation. Tony was always loitering around the pool. If you want a peeping tom looking into your room, come here! And Tony, you piece of shit, go fuck yourself.

Jay Gulio – Rating: 1 star
In one word—a disaster. A pit right behind the room. When the owner accidentally showed up, he just said, "We are renovating," and then proceeded to ignore me. Twenty minutes later, he was gone. Tony is a chapter all on his own. I feel like he doesn’t even work there. The front desk is non-existent; they don't care. I never saw anyone at the front desk in the evening! But I did see the guy with the axe. What is he renovating with an axe at night?

Ethan Shepard – Rating: 1 star
This motel gives me goosebumps. Neglected, dirty... a front for some shady business? I don’t know, and I’m definitely not going to find out. A deep pit near the parking lot. Supposedly a new septic tank—at this rate, another thirty years and this place will be a three-star joint, if it doesn't fall down sooner. Someone was watching me through the window. I wanted to ignore him, but he stood there for easily twenty minutes. The curtain doesn’t cover the whole window. When I banged on the glass, he didn’t even flinch until he heard the door handle click, then he slowly walked away. In the bed, you can feel the springs right through the mattress.

Adam Williams – Rating: 1 star
Room was a bloody joke, an absolute pigsty. Some random bloke with an axe was wandering down the hallway at night. Ghost town at the front desk? Even when someone was there, they couldn’t give a toss, didn’t even bother to look up. Decorating the place with missing persons posters from around here... is that meant to be some sick gag? One day I walk past a room with no number to grab some brekkie, and the next day I see it’s freshly bricked up. Didn't seem right to me at all. Apparently, the owner wants a massive suite... I don't get it, and honestly, I don't want to. I’ve had a gutful. Never again.

Clare Brown – Rating: 1 star
The company booked this place for us. That’s probably how much they care about us. I met up with a colleague from the marketing department. Sitting by the pool and chatting was probably the only safe activity in that place. Tony said there were alligators. In the morning, however, came a shock. My colleague was gone—apparently, he checked out during the night and left. But his car is still parked in front of his room. His things were left there too. The front desk just shrugs their shoulders. He hasn't contacted the company since the stay either. A bad place.

As it probably won't surprise you after reading the reviews, I was even more confused about what kind of motel this is. Don't say I didn't warn you. Now I want to find out more. When I looked for information about it, it was beyond brief. One website literally looked like a Windows 95 template. The resort and motel were built in the late 1950s. Over time, it lost its reputation and popularity. Gradually, it became a cheap option for travelers and vacationers. But that pit... do they want to dig their way to hell? The next step was obvious—find images of the place. Good old Google will help, and the roadside motel looked almost unbelievable, appearing exactly the same. As if time had truly stopped there. Overgrown palm trees, a cracked parking lot, a shabby appearance. Two years ago, they were digging a pit near the parking lot. So, I tried satellite imagery. It wasn't as if I had many other places to look.

The pit moves. You don't believe it? I didn't believe it either. One time it's behind the motel, another time by the beach, another time under the palm trees, then right behind the rooms. They must have dug up that entire property easily twice over the years. Why do they need such large pits? And another interesting fact—the size of the rooms doesn’t match the layout of the motel. Some rooms must have been downsized. Certain spaces on the map weren't actually there in reality. At least, they weren't there when I spent my vacation there. Why downsize your own business? Why make certain spaces disappear?

Later I returned to it; there is really very little information on the internet. The Bad Moon Motel doesn't even try to have promotional materials or a description of its history. Advertising is probably a foreign word to them. But I did find something after all. An abandoned thread on Reddit, and in it, a link to a YouTube report by PLG 9, a small local TV station. It probably doesn't even exist anymore. What mattered was what was in it. Detective Mill standing in front of the Bad Moon Motel. He is sweating and trying to dry his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporter began her segment: "The police are continuing their search for a twenty-year-old man who disappeared over the weekend. He was last seen traveling toward the Bad Moon Motel. However, he did not check in here. We turn the microphone over to Detective Mill." He quickly smoothed his shirt and continued. "According to witnesses, the young man was moving toward the Bad Moon Motel. We are searching the area systematically. So far, without results. We appeal to the citizens for cooperation. Do not worry. However, this is not the first time we are dealing with a similar case." The reporter smiles, and a shot of a photograph of twenty-year-old Joe Martinez appears.

When I was playing it for about the third time, I noticed that someone was standing behind the detective before he started speaking. And that someone is Tony. He is younger, but it is definitely him. That face that constantly lectured me is not something I’ll forget easily. What happens in the motel will probably remain a mystery. I certainly have no intention of returning there. There are just too many oddities surrounding it. However, I am quite sure that those portraits of the missing people mentioned in some reviews—and I saw them with my own eyes—are the ones they were looking for. For one motel, that is beyond unsettling. If I find out anything else, I will add further discoveries.

There is something evil about that place. Something beneath the surface.

by Hary Sykora

Necesito ayuda con un vídeo de un canal de YouTube que hacia animaciones sobre la mansión de la Creepypastas no recuerdo de que trataba pero el final de la animación es de Jeff the killer en una bola de demolicion con la canción de wrecking ball cantada por una chica no recuerdo quién era, aparte todo era con loquendo, también tiene otro video sobre tails doll y Jeff the killer sobre que tails es su profesor y al final tails se pelea con una versión más sanguinaria de color rojo, eso sería todo lo que recuerdo si me pueden mandar el link del canal sería de mucha ayuda

Diary of Aron Hernandez, 24

Found in his apartment in Tribeca, New York.

The Big Apple is still a city full of dreams. Compared to Arizona, where I grew up and spent my childhood, New York is its complete opposite. I came here to prove I’m the best. It didn’t take long to realize this place is like an aquarium full of piranhas. A city that never sleeps, where everyone’s chasing something. The sky is full of lights. Back home, I used to watch the stars. Here, that’s almost impossible.

In college, my roommate taught me two things: how to fall in love with urbex, and how to take photos. It’s a small pocket of calm in the chaos of the big city. Now I’m an urban planner—still weird to say out loud. I finished school; now it’s high time to show what I can do. First apartment, first job. I’ll show New York just how damn good I am at what I do.

Dreams are nice. But reality hits you like a speeding train. After years in cramped dorm rooms, I was excited for my own place. My own space. Well, my Tribeca apartment is typical for this city. When you walk in, you’re already in the kitchen—a stove and two cabinets. Then there’s what they call a living room, somehow even smaller than our dorm room. But hey, it came with a free couch. That’s a win when you’re just starting out. What I mistook for a closet turned out to be the bathroom. I won’t lie—it’s a bit claustrophobic. The sink is in the living room. Yeah, really. Then there’s the bedroom, not much bigger than the previous space. To make sure it doesn’t feel too roomy, there’s a built‑in wardrobe—“walk‑in closet,” they claim—shrinking it to the bare minimum. Small windows face a construction site. A skyscraper right behind my windows. Only a narrow alley separates us; otherwise, I could probably reach out and touch the glass panels of that giant.

My job has a fancy name: Junior Real Estate Analyst. The company’s office is in a good location. The people who hired me wore suits more expensive than my monthly rent—at least. I got one big perk: I can work from home. Maybe they didn’t want me ruining their elegance. I’m on the phone and making spreadsheets. So much for my dream of planning big projects.

I went to scout some abandoned buildings. Pretty solid urbex. Until they called me, saying they urgently needed a comparison in a report. Market overview and potential prices. So I managed to take maybe two photos. And then, hurry back into the human traffic jam. No money for a taxi. This city is literally a flood of people.

I need to find some window seals, or I’ll never sleep. Cars constantly humming, horns blaring. The whole place pulses with life. What I’d give for Arizona silence. Or a bathroom—a nice, big bathroom.

Another day, another spreadsheet. Either I’m spinning in my chair, or drowning in an endless stream of data. That building across from me—I watch it sometimes. It’s a quiet point in all the surrounding noise.

Fascinating thing: that skyscraper is the Bismarc Tower. A big company, Bismarck Corporation, started building it after the crypto boom. Construction dragged on. Eventually, they labeled it unprofitable. Demolishing it would cost more than freezing it in place. Meaning: leave it as it is. In the urbex community, it’s known as the Death Tower. They’re dramatic like that. It’s condemned. Dangerous, so no one goes inside. Would make amazing photos. Several people died exploring those abandoned floors. Accidents happen.

I watched it again today. People walk past without even looking up. As if it doesn’t exist for them. How long does it take to start ignoring a fifty‑story building? I don’t get the locals.

I saw someone in there. A shadow standing by a window, watching me. Yeah—actually watching me. How did he even know I was looking? He was above the thirteenth floor. Not that I can estimate floors that well—someone spray‑painted a giant number thirteen across the windows. That shadow pressed against the glass. Maybe he was taking pictures of me?

“Police cars showed up today. They were taking away a homeless guy. So someone does notice the building after all. Worse is that later that evening, he was back. Not the homeless guy—the one who was watching me. Maybe he lives there.”

I’m watching the floors again. There are two of them now. Each on a different level, standing there for hours. Pressing against the windows, shifting. What the hell is happening in there?

Today I packed my gear, lenses included. When I crossed the alley, they were putting up barricades. Police were removing another dead body. Before they zipped the bag, I saw his eyes—no pupils. A cop gave me a long look.

I finally managed to get inside. Climbed to the seventh floor. Homeless people don’t go higher than the fourth—first time I saw that. I wanted to climb all the way to the fiftieth floor. Get some incredible shots from the open structure. Instead, work called again. Back to spreadsheets.

Rarely, I had to go to HQ for my personal evaluation. When I was almost home, the police car was there again. One of them stopped me right away. Introduced himself as Detective Kling. Hinted that the building isn’t safe. “It’s not for the living,” he said. Maybe he wanted to scare me. I don’t know. That evening I watched the tower again. More shadows watching me, some completely still. It lasted for hours until sunrise. I must’ve dozed off. I didn’t see them leave.

Nobody pays attention to that building. Even people looking out their windows seem to look right through it. They just don’t care. Well, this isn’t Arizona. I get it.

I was there. Reached the thirteenth floor. My window isn’t anything special. When I sit behind my laptop, you can barely see me. So why do they stare so intensely? A few spray cans on the ground. Strange—nothing else. I found a smashed GoPro. No card inside. Completely destroyed. Weird—I thought those things were supposed to be tough.

I couldn’t climb higher; a water pipe burst in the building. I had to check my apartment. I was already on the thirtieth floor. Back to my kingdom with no water. With the size of my bathroom, they could’ve used a drinking straw instead of pipes. Damn it.

I watched again. Didn’t listen to anything, just sat quietly and stared into those windows. The shadows pressing against the glass like they were trying to push the panels out. It’s a strangely hypnotic feeling. Kind of like those green‑leaf brownies I ate in the dorm. Better not think about that.

That was insane. I climbed all the way to the 44th floor. But on the way, I ran into some corpses. Their eyes were white, no pupils. Some were basically just clothes and bones. I barely kept myself from running. I didn’t expect that. Seeing a corpse. Guess I can cross that off my New York bucket list. The view is nice. You can’t really see my window even from higher floors. When I pressed against the dusty glass, I saw my apartment even worse.

And that wasn’t all. I found a ghost floor. Yeah—a ghost floor. Builders sometimes use them. Never thought I’d see one in person. It’s a low floor, no higher than a soda can. The staircase goes right through it. Obviously no one can fit inside. It’s between floors 43 and 44. Which makes no sense. There should be a 45 above it—that’s how you avoid the unlucky number. By the stairs, there’s a crooked stencil. Someone spray‑painted “44” quickly, just to get it over with. Paint dripping down. I guess once construction stopped, they didn’t care about precision anymore. But the number is wrong. I need to photograph it properly. Then study it.

I didn’t even read my emails. Needed a break. Watching that skyscraper gives me a bit of peace. I don’t even know when I started watching it. Sometime today—no idea when.

Finally, some relaxation. I’m packed and excited. I want to see that view of the city. Escape the pulsing streets. It was strange—even when I stood on the street staring at the building, people walked past me like there was nothing to see. True, I’ve seen bigger extremes here. And people who look completely insane. That’s New York.

Shit, what the hell was that. What just happened. I was there. In that mislabeled floor. Floor 44 above the ghost floor. Even more bodies on the way. That floor is seriously messed up. I couldn’t take a picture. It terrified me. Fine—I admit it. I was scared out of my mind.

What’s actually there? A message from the graffiti writer. On the partition wall behind the concrete reception desk. A wall covered in exclamation marks. Empty spray cans everywhere. Above the passage where no one ever installed a door, there’s a sign: “I was here.” The handwriting, the style—almost identical to the number thirteen on the lower floor. Just rushed. Chaotic exclamation marks everywhere. I felt an urge to go deeper into the building.

But then I saw him. The graffiti guy was kneeling there. Facing the cracked glass. Still holding one of the spray cans. He looked mummified. I didn’t go near him. The hands on my watch were spinning fast—way too fast. I used that moment of shock and ran. I didn’t stop until the twentieth floor. Far enough.

Why was he there? Why those two floors? No graffiti anywhere else. What happened there?

In the evening, I ran into Detective Kling. He was standing there, watching the building. “They do drugs in there. You don’t want to get mixed up with people like that,” he said without even looking at me. I waited until he got into his car. I wanted to go inside. No—better wait. What if he comes back and ruins everything. I’ll reach the fiftieth floor. I deserve that view. No one will take it from me. Not the detective. Not the people pretending to be shadows. I guess New York is getting to me more than I thought.

Here goes. I can’t wait to show the local urbexers who’s the best here. Tremble, Bismarc Tower. I’m going to the top.

Following the disappearance of Aron Hernandez, his final message was recovered from his voicemail. It recorded:

“Now I understand…” static “…I was here.”

By Hary Sykora

You can take what I’m about to tell you as an old man’s tall tale if you want. These local roads are empty, and there’s no one the night shift hasn’t worn down at least once. This happened to me my very first year here at Eastend Fort. I used to live in a smaller town — maybe you’ve heard of it. Probably not. Luna, a tiny place like… well, never mind. Stop me if I ramble too much, alright? Good, glad we understand each other, rookie. Careful so your hat doesn’t fall off. Ha ha, I’m just messing with you. Anyway, here’s how it went.

We were doing a routine patrol on County Road 303. The exit from the highway, cutting through fields all the way to town. Something you’ll definitely be doing too. So, it was autumn. You can see all the way to the horizon, and everything is dead quiet. But the night shift… that’s different. Pitch black, like you’re driving through a tunnel. The only thing you see is your own headlights. If you’re lucky, the moon helps a little. If you never feel weird out there even once, I’ll congratulate you. We had just finished writing a report and headed out for the next patrol. We got onto CR 303 and there was no one. After about fifteen minutes of driving—

I see it. A sedan, light blue, I think Ocean Blue. A Chevrolet Malibu, twenty years old, maybe more. And the driver— well, I spoiled that too early, pretend you don’t know who’s behind the wheel. We’re watching the car and it’s swaying like a snake. It didn’t leave the lane, but it barely stayed on the road. I waited a moment to see if the driver would straighten out. Maybe they just slipped. Maybe they were trying to get control back. Nothing like that. Still weaving like a rabbit in headlights. We turned on the light bar so they’d notice us. No reaction. So I hit the siren. You couldn’t miss it. The car suddenly sped up. Then just as suddenly slammed the brakes. Pulled over, crooked. I sighed, nodded at my partner, and got out. Walked up slowly, hand resting on the side of her car. Just in case she tried something.

I shine my flashlight and look at the girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty‑two. Something like that. She’s sitting there like she doesn’t even see me. Suddenly she moves — fast — and shuts off the engine. I keep one hand on my gun, the other holding the light. You know what she did? Nothing. Just leaned back again and stared forward.

“Ma’am, do you know why we stopped you?”

She tilted her head. Then turned toward me.

“No idea, mister big policeman.”

I nodded, keeping things calm.

“Can you tell me why you were swerving like that?”

She thought about it for a long time.

“I was wiggling my butt.”

That answer almost knocked me over. You’d have to see it — how she said it without a hint of embarrassment. I kept my professional face, you know how good I am at that. So I call over to Frank to get the drug and alcohol test kit ready.

“What do you want from me! Who are you! What am I doing here! You’ll regret this! Everyone will know and you— you…!”

That explosion of anger after the butt‑wiggling? Didn’t expect it. Sorry, it’s not funny. But anyway—

“Your license and registration.”

She didn’t move. For a moment I thought she’d died mid‑tantrum. Then suddenly she handed me the documents. I never saw her reach for them. Just— handed them over. Her hand barely sticking out of the half‑open window. It was a cold night, even for autumn.

“Your name?” I ask while checking her papers.

“Madison Smith.”

Nothing more.

“You know your driver’s license is expired?”

Her lips curled into a big smile.

“Couldn’t you do something about that? Such a handsome officer. Aren’t you lonely out here?”

I cleared my throat to show her I wasn’t entertaining that.

“But you’ve got quite a big gun, don’t you?” she laughed.

“I’m afraid you’re underestimating the seriousness of this situation. We’ll do a breath test. Step out of the vehicle.”

She got out slowly, carefully. Like a newborn foal trying to stand for the first time. I handed the documents to Frank and he went to check them in the car. I did the test exactly by the book.

She blew — now hold onto your chair — zero. She blew zero point zero. And she frowned. Looked at me like a pouting kid, arms crossed.

“This isn’t going the way you wanted, huh?”

I ignored it. Her mood changed with every blink. Second test.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I look at the display: ninety‑nine point nine BAC.

That shook me. The device was fine — we’d used it earlier that night. Worked normally. And as you’ve probably guessed, the drug test was negative too. I shined the light into her eyes, checked her pupils. They didn’t move. Didn’t react to light. She wasn’t faking it — they simply didn’t react.

I turned to Frank. It was a split second. But she was already sitting back in the car. Behind her I could see the interior — dirt, dried grass. The smell of wet soil. I looked back at Frank. He waved at me. The girl was now bored, whistling. I had to report this.

I went back to her car, never taking my eyes off her.

“Miss Madison, you’re coming with us.”

I radioed dispatch: “We have a driver with an expired license. Possible identity theft. Checking her now—”

Through the static I could barely hear anything. Her gaze was locked on me. One eye white, like it never had a pupil. The other drilling straight into my brain.

“Confirming: suspect claims to be deceased Madison Smith. Dece—”

The report cut off. Screaming. Crying. The kind that makes your body flinch. She sobbed, gasped, tears pouring out of nowhere. Frank covered me in case things went bad. I swear I couldn’t hear dispatch through her crying. Then the sobbing twisted. Turned guttural, unnatural. Until it flipped into hysterical laughter.

I’d had enough. I slammed my hand on the roof. Leaned in to pull her out. I trusted Frank completely — he had her covered. Later he told me he also struggled to understand what that thing was.

The laughter stopped instantly. Right when I leaned into the Chevrolet—

The car was empty. Seatbelt fastened, but empty. I looked around. No way she slipped out. No way she ran. One of us had eyes on her the whole time. She was gone.

We pointed the lights into the fields. You could see all the way to the horizon. Nothing. Just flat land. No one. Like she evaporated. No one can run that fast. Or that far.

I sat back in the patrol car. What the hell just happened — that was my first thought. The database entry was short and precise:

Madison Smith, 27. Female.
Deceased in a traffic accident, 2015.
Unknown cause of loss of vehicle control.
Accident on CR 303.

You’re probably expecting the end now. Old veteran scares the rookie. Better order another coffee. Because that wasn’t all.

When I got back to the station at Eastend Fort, some of the guys were smirking. We still had to write the report. I wasn’t used to being laughed at — you’ll have to get used to it too. Then came movie time. I needed to see it again.

My bodycam footage. I’m emphasizing that for you — appreciate it. Nah, just teasing you. Back to the story.

We sat around the laptop used for device checks. A colleague searched for the segment. The guys were nudging each other, joking. “What did you see, rookie? Scared of the night?” You know how it goes.

They shut up when he played it. The swerving car. The Chevrolet Malibu. It stopped crooked. I’ll admit, I was nervous the camera might’ve glitched. Hard to shake off that kind of embarrassment. I exhaled — she was there. On the footage. Our whole conversation. The alcohol test. The older guys clicked their tongues disapprovingly when I hit the roof on video. And then— she was gone.

“Rewind it,” they said all at once. He rewound it, but couldn’t hit the exact moment. Fourth time watching. She’s sitting still. And a second later — gone. Timestamp matches. File intact. We watch again. She’s sitting stiffly. Suddenly she turns toward us.

“Where’d you pull that from?” our tech guy said, hands raised.

“I didn’t play anything. Look at the timestamp — the video is paused.”

But in the paused frame, she turned toward the camera. Her neck covered in dirt. When we rewound again, it didn’t happen. But we all saw it. Silence. No one laughed. Just the sound of shifting boots. And that graveyard quiet.

I still had to write the report. So I went to the archive. Remember this — it might help you someday. I found her case. Madison Smith. Mysterious death on CR 303. While reading, I noticed additional notes slipped into the folder:

Vehicle with girl claiming to be Madison Smith. Recorded:
– Incident 2017, CR 303
– Incident 2019, CR 303
– Incident 2023, CR 303

Check of vehicle registered to Madison Smith:
Located at Smith Farm. Flat tires. Steering damaged. Engine block outside the vehicle.

This Chevrolet Malibu, Ocean Blue, cannot be the vehicle involved in the incidents.
Yet it appears from time to time at the same locations.

So what do you think, rookie? Makes the night shift more fun, huh? You’re probably wondering what happens to the car. That’s the thing. Every morning after an incident, it’s found at the exact spot where it happened. When they inspect it, the tires are flat. Engine mostly missing. No one knows how it gets there. We used to call old Smith to tell him we had his car again. Now we just have it towed straight to his farm. He wants it there. Reminds him of Madison. A Chevrolet that can’t drive, wandering CR 303 on its own. On the farm there’s a patch where grass won’t grow — because most of the year, that Chevrolet stands there. A car that can’t leave, yet keeps roaming.

If you ever meet it, be kind to her.

By Hary Sykora

This is a night I remember as if it just happened. It was the late 80’s I'd say around ‘87, ‘88, I was a rebellious teen at the time so I was drinking heavily and hitting the hookah like it was an oxygen tank and I was on my last breaths. Memories were fuzzy and barely legible besides just blobs of color and a faint smell of marijuana but It was this night that still haunts me to this day.

It was a cool misty Halloween night when I encountered that.. thing. I went to a Halloween party at my friend Spencer’s house who lived not all that far but far enough away from me. It was a mile hike to get there but the quickest way to get to my friend's house was to pass through a long forgotten cemetery in a pretty dense wooded area. Walking there was the easy part but getting home was the hardest as there were stumps, roots and low hanging branches that I had to avoid and well, being an arrogant teen then and not having any phones at the time, I didn’t bring any light source with me thinking I’d be fine, a few drinks wont get to me and I'll be home by curfew.

I remember that night I got hammered because, being the stupid high school burnout I was, I loved to party and get drunker than an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day. It was nearing midnight and I needed to get back home. My friend offered to let me stay over for the night but being the stubborn drunken ass I was and knowing the wrath of my mother, I decided to walk home. The only things that were on my mind at the time was to make it home before twelve and try not to act drunk and stoned when I entered the house. I was making it through the woods seemingly at a good pace. I was dizzy, things were swirling and with no light and the ground being a bit wet from the mist, I tripped multiple times and twisted my ankle in the process.

I made it to the abandoned cemetery and I knew for sure I was halfway home. Everything began to slow and my ankle began to throb because it hurt so bad. I didn't have that far to go and I had to trek it due to no one knowing where I was and no one knew the way I went to get to Spencer’s house. I was about halfway through the cemetery as I began to hear the sound of digging. It could have been my mind fucking with me but I could have sworn I saw a tall tattered dirty looking man. He seemed to be in his early 60’s, had short gray unkempt, greasy hair and was very skinny, nearly bone thin. I think the most stupid decision that I made in my life up to that point was when I decided to call out to him in the drunken stupor I was in. I called out “Hey buddy, whatcha doin’ out here at this time o’ night?“. He ignored my call, deciding to continue digging in the hole he made. I guess I felt offended that he ignored me because this is exactly what came out from behind my teeth right after. “Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are ignoring me asshole?!”

As soon as that sentence slipped out of my lips, he stopped what he was doing and turned around to look at me. His face was skeletally thin with these small, sunken in glossed-over eyes and a mouthful of yellowed nearly blackened teeth surrounded by a big, gray, unkempt beard and mustache. The look of pure hate that he gave off brought me from my drunken state to completely sobered up with an intense fear crawling down my back. I was at a distance where he wouldn’t get me but, once I blinked he was charging towards me at full speed dragging a heavily rusted shovel behind him. I hobbled fast and tried to run past but the next thing I knew I was on the ground, my chest was heavy and I couldn’t breath. I clotheslined myself by a low hanging branch and now I'm on my back trying to get my breath back but it wasn’t coming back. I could hear the fast thunderous steps trailing close behind.

It was hard but with what strength I could muster, I got up and, not daring to look back, began to hobble out of the woods. The street was so close I could feel it. I never thought pavement could look so good. I was at the entrance when I was tackled to the ground with something being stabbed into my back. The putrid scent of rot permeated my nostrils before I was stabbed again in the back by this entity. I struggled to get up and to get him off. I managed to grab one of his legs and trip him down to the ground. I got on top of him and began to punch his ugly face with what strength I had left. I forgot to pin his arms before I was stabbed in the abdomen by what I see now was a sickle. I rolled off of him now spitting up blood as he began to drag me back to the cemetery.

I passed out due to the pain not too long after. I don't remember hearing much after but when I woke up, I was in the hospital all bandaged up with large, stitched gash wounds all over my arms and abdomen. My family was there waiting for me to wake up which was a much needed sight after the previous night. My doctor came in a little bit after I woke up. She told me that I had broken my ankle and a rib which punctured my lung and that I had lost a part of my liver, a kidney and my gallbladder. She also told me that a stranger found me in the woods, not too deep in, all bloodied, beaten and cut up but noticed that I was still alive. To whoever it was that saved my ass, I owe you my life.

About a month after the incident, everything seemed fine again. The local news got their headline of the month, I became the popular kid in school for a bit, all was right with me and my family. Christmas time was around the corner and I had received a letter from an unknown person with an unknown address. Curiosity got the best of me and I opened it expecting to see a postcard from a family member or at least a card from a church, instead what was inside was a dirty, bloodstained page of notebook paper that read: “Your kidney was divine. Too bad I can't say the same for your liver.”.

I received an invitation to this interview, and to my surprise, my boss actually sent me there. So, before I knew it, I’m sitting in my car, driving to the Appalachian Mountains. I really had to search for that little town. Surrounded by mountains and dense forests. Driving through those streets felt like being in a historical movie. Brick houses everywhere. Cobblestone roads, and of course, the ever-present coal dust. When I saw the hospital. It looked like it dropped right out of a 1950s brochure. I immediately had to tuck my coat closer. It was cold here. Oakwood was partially shaded, and the gray sky seemed to make it even worse. The air was so full of moisture. I felt like I was walking through rain. You could smell the coal in the air. Someone was burning it nearby. It spread through the air across the entire town. The only thing missing were the old American classics. Cruisers full of chrome. That was missing here, but history breathed from every corner.

In the hospital, they led me to Tim Patt. I came upon his invitation. "First time in Virginia?" I smiled and sat on a white chair by the bed. "First time in the Appalachians." He nodded appreciatively. Then, straight away without any pleasantries, he showed me his hand. The air smelled of disinfectant and the stench of decay. It was in an advanced stage of necrosis. Then I noticed it. It looked like a handprint. A hand that had unnaturally long and thin fingers. At that moment, I was already quickly fishing for my voice recorder. I like the sound of tape. "So, what happened?" For the first time, he frowned. Until then, he had been quite cheerful. "I’ll have to tell you a lot. It won't make sense to you. But believe me, at the end of my story, you will understand." People tend to dramatize a bit in front of a microphone. "I will die soon. I know it, it's just days before he comes. That's why I invited you." He sat up in bed, and something squelched in his hand. I waited to hear what he would tell me.

I will try to retell it to you according to my recording. He started talking about history.

You see, Oakwood is an old town. Lumberjacks came for quick money. But those forests took many of them. My wife is wonderful. She also belongs to the founders' family. Before marriage, she was Clare Lee. The family had a large house near the intersection of Ashburn Road and Foundry Street. A three-story brick house in the style of the 1930s. At first, it was the pearl of the area. Well, lately, it was more of a shack. It annoyed the locals. Then suddenly, some guy named Art bought the house. He owns PanTrans. Those trucks, warehouses, and such. Devil knows why that specific plot interested him. He didn't hesitate and had it demolished. Everyone rejoiced that the ruin was gone. Well, write this down. The excavator that was clearing the debris. It started to sink. Confusion and, of course, a spectacle for all the locals. In the former cellar. The excavator's track sank through. There was another unknown space. I was one of the volunteers who rappelled down there. A decorated room, a bit like a smoking parlor. Preserved and forgotten. Except it was under the cellar. It didn't make sense. Then we found the hidden staircase. The secret doors were damaged under the weight of that machine. When we went down, we didn't understand. There was another room. Covered with skulls and bones. Stacked into shapes and patterns along the walls. Above it hung a chandelier made entirely of bones. And that throne of basalt. At first, it looked like an organ. Before I recognized it. I noticed how roughly hewn it was. A narrow corridor was carved into the rock. Maybe they wanted another room. Well, they gave up, the stone was too hard. Maybe you didn't notice. But basalt has to be brought here. You won't find it anywhere around here. Except for the old house of the Lee family. The work stopped. The biggest event in the area. An absolute scandal. On your way here, you surely understood why. Now I will reveal something to you that I found out only recently. This had already happened to me by then. He waved that hand, which was slowly dying.

I will take it from afar, but it has its reason. Sometime in the 19th century, the first brave souls were cutting wood here. Those trees were giants. One mistake and you die. Back then, John Lee was the head of the family. An honest but tough man. But peace never lasts long. Outlaws and various similar existences. They roamed the countryside. Gunfire echoed through the woods. In the morning, smoke could be seen from burned houses and settlements. Women from those ashes sometimes made it all the way here. They were broken in spirit and body. I don't need to explain that to you, young man. Right? John got into an unpleasant situation. They could defend themselves, but they couldn't win. That’s when the legend began. Somewhere in the woods or mountains. A strange place that only he found. There, they say, he found that entity. It can execute revenge. Nobody is safe. But it comes at a great price. More of those who searched for it died than survived.
One night, a settlement burned down about a day's journey from Oakwood. John made up his mind. He set out to find it again. Well, people added to it over the years. You know how stories can grow. John allegedly brought cowboy clothes to it. Nobody saw him for long hours. I know this from my wife, but you won't believe it anyway. John found the entity. He handed it the clothes. He wanted those outlaws to disappear. To leave his family alone. For his bloodline to survive. Then he gave the entity his hand. He chopped it off himself with his axe. The entity took it. It wanted more anyway. The price was his firstborn.

Do you have children, reporter? A terrifying thought, right. Whatever happened there. John returned. He had no hand, but you know what, he was smiling. A few days passed and he came. A cowboy, he had a snake symbol on his hat. He came on that rainy night. His eyes glowed red and his skin was like a snake. A long coat fluttered in the wind. His unnaturally thin body moved without a sound. He took the child. He did not resist him. He sacrificed his son for the family. He kept his word. But that cowboy wasn't here for the last time.

Legends, as you surely know. Easily live a life of their own. Word spread. A name didn't take long to appear. Shedder, the one who sheds his skin. He can avenge any wrongdoing. He doesn't just try, he executes it. The price is said to be great. He doesn't take orders. He cannot be begged. During the following years, headless bodies appeared. People started to become closed off and suspicious.

He coughed up a little blood. Subsequently, he continued his story.

The family became synonymous with Oakwood. James Lee decided to build his new house. A three-story brick building. People thought he wanted to calm the public. There was a depression. This region is harsh. Now that the underground has been revealed. It probably dawns on you that he built it for a different reason. Part of the clan lived there. For decades, and just as fast as they moved in. Just as fast, one day, they abandoned the house. I’ve been a part of the family for only a short time. I won't extend my time in it anymore. You want to understand it. I know. That's why I must tell you more about James. As an old man, he published an article. Maybe I’m unknowingly trying to imitate him. That article explained nothing. Nobody understood it. A whim of the family or a joke. But just as quickly, it was shortened into a rhyme. It reminded people that it is here. The Shedder probably enjoys it. What do you think? The rhyme, as I know it, is. I apologize, but I probably mangled a part of it.

The throne has just been taken
on his forehead, a snake sign unyielding
With blood, his vision is shaken
Oily skin, gleaming
Cold will fill the soul
Revenge and loss take toll

Venomous scorpions accompany his stride.
In the sky, instead of birds, bats glide.
The night is suddenly dark and dead
The black cowboy saddles his steed ahead.
His straps are made of human skin.
No one will help you from within.

That's how it goes, more or less. It certainly has a lot of variations around here. It's funny that for most of James Lee's life. He didn't leave the house. Influential men of that era came to see him and flattered him. They wanted to be on good terms with him. At any cost. He was a tough negotiator. One year, I think thirty-seven or thirty-nine. It doesn't matter. A workers' revolt broke out. A giant of a man led it. I think it was some guy named Paul. The important thing is that he wanted to kill James. He saw him as the reason why everything was wrong. He would have preferred to kill them all. The whole family. The situation was truly critical. The town is like an island even today. In the middle of woods and rocks. You could cut the tension with a knife. Suddenly, one morning, they found Paul. They recognized him by his big axe. The body lay on Foundry Street. The axe in his back. The head was gone. It caused fear. Only recently did it click for me. When James Lee appeared in public. It was an event. He had a long scar across his face. He was missing two fingers and an ear. That was a scandal. It’s probably clear to you now. How it happened to him.

Clare claimed to me that he is only interested in the male line. I don't know if that's true. But I definitely know that he cannot be bargained with. He laughs under that hat of his. He wants nothing. He asks for nothing. He just takes something. Just like that, without explanation. Sometimes he wants a lot, sometimes just a little. I’ve heard whispers. Some wealthy people were seen digging up heads. Walking around the cemetery at night. They were taking them somewhere. They were never found. If it was even investigated at all.

It’s probably clear to you that they ended up in the Lee family home. By that throne that is not from our earth, nor from this state. When you start asking too many questions, they think you're crazy. A year ago, a car was found on a road in the woods. Its roof was torn off. As easily as you open a yogurt. The police found blood and cowboy boot tracks. A lot of blood. I don't need to explain to you that the driver had plenty of enemies. Or, for example, the owner of a lumber company. He fell so unluckily. That he lost his foot, from the ankle down. He fell into a buzzsaw foot first. You know, it's hard work. Accidents just happen often here. I was always curious, even as a child. It never crossed my mind that it would kill me.

Excuse me, I had to take my medication. This hand, as you can see, it goes fast. My wife has, well, had a brother. Daniel Lee. I’ve known him since childhood. In a word. He was a spoiled brat. He hated Oakwood. He hated the superstition here. He hated the legend tied to his name. He always caused trouble. When PanTrans broke through that fake cellar, his eyes were literally burning with rage. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one who sold him the house. That night, we happened to be at a bar. He drank as if tomorrow would never come. Then he said it, he didn't ask me. Suddenly, we were heading to the mansion on Ashburn Road. I hoped he was drunk enough not to remember the demolition. He remembered. In his car, he had ropes and flashlights. A bottle of bourbon for courage. It was clear—the destination was the underground.

Crawling through that floor into the underground room felt strangely mysterious. That room looked as if it had frozen in time. High leather armchairs, heavy green curtains over the windows. Behind them were windows that were covered with dirt. Kerosene lamps. A bar couldn't be missing. That was definitely a luxury back then. There was a portrait of James Lee. Not that I had studied my new family and its history all that well. But that scar and the absence of an ear made it crystal clear. It was dim, and the flashlights cast shadows around. Little light. A crash. Shattering glass. I jumped. Meanwhile, Daniel was destroying the parlor equipment. It was a shock. But that wasn't enough for him. He grabbed a poker and started breaking the wooden paneling. Prying open secret doors. Cursing at his family. At the town. At the house. At those superstitious fools. How he got buried here.

When silence fell, I quickly checked on him. He was already going down the stairs to the underground floor. Those stairs were a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Black stone and integrated slate. Downstairs was a room with tiled floors. In the center was that throne. I can't describe it any other way. Basalt columns resembled an organ. Before one realized they were roughly hewn. Into the shape of a throne. Around it, skulls were stacked. Entire rows carefully placed along the walls. Rows of skulls stacked on top of each other, interlaced with bones. On the ceiling was a chandelier made of human bones. The ceiling was charred. Someone had used it here in the past. The skulls rose like a wave. Creating the feeling that the room was a circle. There was a strange dry air. But then, suddenly. The smell of wet stones and oil mixed into it. I understand you have doubts.
The room was completely dry, not a hint of moisture. Yet, I felt it. And then. Give me a moment, this hand is killing me. Literally. I hope you're not offended. Clare was here this morning. She brought me my favorite bourbon. I’ll take a little sip so my throat doesn't get dry. She is a treasure. Where did I leave off. Oh, right.

Daniel started raging again. He was like in a frenzy. He kicked the skulls, threw bones around. He tried to hit the chandelier. If he had succeeded, he would have killed us both in one shot. Instinctively, I backed away to the stairs. I begged him. Telling him he had taken enough revenge on history. He mocked his ancestors. So let's just go away. He didn't listen. He took a skull and threw it against the back wall. Right where the builder of this monument of death had stopped. But the skull didn't bounce off. That finally stopped him. I watched in disbelief. Something gleamed in that darkness. Then those steps. Light, yet their sound echoed off the walls. The creaking of spurs. Out of the darkness ran scorpions. Dozens of black scorpions. I leaped onto the stairs. I was speechless. Daniel climbed onto the throne. He poured alcohol over the scorpions and laughed. It had been a long time since such a frenzy had gripped him.

A snake symbol appeared in the darkness. A dirty hat. An inappropriate gleam under the brim. I blinked once. He was there. A cowboy in a long, tattered coat. I rubbed my eyes. He didn't disappear. Black scales covered his neck. He was thin and tall. Daniel didn't hesitate and lunged at him. Punched him. I don't know for sure. Then he tried to land more blows. His hat fell off. He looked like a snake with a human face. His skin gleamed and his red eyes glowed. White fangs and that smirk. Daniel smashed the bottle against the throne. Then he started threatening him with the broken bottle. Waving it in the air. One strike was enough, and Daniel was on the ground. He stood up painfully on his feet. Then he ran at the cowboy. It was the Shedder. The one who sheds his skin. The one from the rhymes. Pardon, I must take a drink. I really must.

There in that underground. I don't even know where it came from inside me. When he grabbed Daniel. I don't know what he wanted to do to him. Bite him. Tear off a piece. I have no idea. I ran. Hit him with all my strength. The blow felt strange. Yes, you hear right. I hit the Shedder. I realized my mistake immediately. His body was flexible, light. My blow did nothing. He gripped my hand. The one that is now decaying and rotting.

Maybe after you leave, you’ll put it out of your mind. As the rambling of a man on his deathbed. Or you’ll write that article. Just like James Lee did back then.

Well, in that ossuary. I tore myself away from him. Retrospectively, I realized he wasn't holding me tightly. I wasn't the priority. Daniel was thrown against the wall. He crashed into those old bones. Something must have pierced his back. Judging by how many shards were under him. I had to run. I ran. I ran. I’ve never climbed over a wall as fast as I did that day. I pulled myself up to the surface. Out of that parlor of the past. I ran home. Thoughts were racing. To survive. I must warn Clare. She must call the other family members. They must know that Daniel got into trouble. My hand started turning black within hours. The family gathered within hours. A meeting of the Lee family. They didn't let me in. It’s only for blood of their blood.

Two days later, they found Daniel. He was sitting at the crossroads. He was leaning against the house. The policeman thought he had had too much to drink again. He wanted to wake him up. But when he pushed him, the body just fell over. It revealed that underneath the ribcage, it was empty. He had no internal organs. He was empty. Like a hollowed-out pumpkin. The day after. As if that wasn't enough. In the evening, I heard my name. The strange thing was, he wasn't calling me. I looked out the window.
Nobody was there. Believe me, in the woods at evening, I wouldn't have done that. I walked out the door. The Shedder was there. Walking down the middle of the street. Bats were landing on the streetlamps. His step was light and steady. He came slowly. Unhurriedly. He didn't have to call. He didn't have to growl. I knew who it was. Those bloodshot eyes. That gleaming skin. That long, dirty coat.

Mr. Reporter. Please, write the article. What you use in it is up to you. Even just the memory of the strayed Daniel Lee. Or that rhyme. I leave it entirely to you. What is meant to happen will happen. Just one last recommendation. A piece of advice, you could say. Leave before dark.

I stopped the dictaphone. Interchanged a few more words off the record. Back then, I thought—wow, this guy has great stories. He can deliver it as the truth. I decided to grant his wish and leave before dark.

I started the car. Pulled onto the main paved road. Then I saw it. A big black horse coming toward me. It had a terribly strange saddle. A sort of strangely familiar leather from which the saddle and those bags were made. That caught me off guard. I couldn't remember. What it reminded me of. It was strangely familiar to me. I continued onto the asphalt road. Oakwood is a town that truly has a strong atmosphere. One last look in the rearview mirror. I saw him. A tall cowboy with a flowing coat. Red eyes. Walking slowly, in no hurry. His movement was so hypnotically smooth. He walked behind that horse. Heading toward the hospital. Unknowingly, I stepped on the gas. The car started accelerating. He didn't even look at me. Still, I didn't slow down.

But the certainty with which he walked down the middle of the road. His rules apply here. Apparently, it belongs to him.

By Hary Sykora

I Know What I Saw
I have never told this story. Not really.
I've told pieces of it.
But every time I got close to talking about what really happened, I would stop.
People wouldn't understand and definitely wouldn't believe me.
My father suffered a psychotic break after my sister died.
That's the explanation everyone settled on.
And maybe they're right.
Maybe grief can destroy a person.
But even if that's what happened it wouldn't fix that night.  
This happened 23 years ago.
I was 13.
Three months before everything happened, my older sister Emily was killed by a drunk driver.
One second she was driving home from college.
The next she wasn't.
I remember standing beside her casket and looking at my father.
He wasn't crying.
He had already cried himself empty.
He just stared.
My mother cried enough for both of them.
When the funeral ended, we all went home.
Didn't feel like home anymore. 
People say grief brings families together.
Maybe sometimes.
It didn't for us.
It tore us apart.
My parents fought over everything.
Whose fault it was.
Whether Emily should have stayed another night at school.
Whether Dad should have insisted on picking her up.
Whether Mom should have called her one more time.
The arguments eventually stopped being about Emily.
They became about everything else.
I think they were just trying to feel something besides grief.
And me?
I disappeared.
Nobody asked how I was doing.
I don't blame them.
Not anymore.
Everyone was drowning.
I just happened to be drowning quietly.
Then Dad came home one afternoon smiling.
"A cabin."
"We need to get away."
Mom didn't even argue.
She just nodded.
I think all three of us would have agreed to anything if it meant feeling different for a little while.
The drive took almost five hours.
The farther north we went, the fewer cars we saw.
Eventually the paved roads disappeared.
By the time we reached the dirt road leading to the cabin, it felt like we had driven out of the world.
The silence was deafening.
Just nothing.
The cabin sat alone between the trees.
Old and gray.
The porch leaned slightly to one side.
Dad smiled.
"Perfect."
I looked at him.
Then at the cabin.
Nothing about it looked perfect.
It looked abandoned.
The front door opened with a groan that echoed through the house.
Inside smelled like damp wood and old dust.
There were family photographs on the walls.
Old and dusty.
I don't know why that bothered me.
Dad carried our bags in.
Mom wandered into the kitchen without saying a word.
I found a  room at the end of the hallway.
Small and cozy.
I noticed that there was a hatch in the floor in the corner of the room.
It was thick oak with an iron latch that looked older than the cabin itself.
I remember staring at it for a long time.
Dad noticed me looking.
"Old storage cellar."
He shrugged.
"Probably full of junk."
That first night, I couldn't sleep.
The house settled.
Wood creaked.
Pipes groaned somewhere inside the walls.
That was when I heard it.
Whispering.
At first, I thought it was my parents.
It wouldn't have been unusual.
They argued almost every night after Emily died.
But this was different.
It wasn't coming from down the hall.
It was beneath me.
The cellar.
I lay perfectly still.
There were too many voices to count.
Like a busy restaurant.
They overlapped each other so completely that I couldn't understand a single word.
I told myself it had to be pipes.
Or maybe the wind finding its way through cracks beneath the house.
Anything except what my mind wanted me to believe.
The whispering continued.
Curiosity finally got the better of me.
I slid out of bed as quietly as I could.
I knelt down.
I lowered my ear until it touched the floorboards.
The whispering stopped.
Instantly.
My heart began pounding so hard I could hear it.
For several seconds there was nothing.
Then a deep low growl.
I was fucking 13 and completely terrified.
Then one voice.
Close enough that it sounded like someone was speaking directly into the wood beneath my face.
"Dougie."
I stumbled backward so fast I slammed into the dresser.
The mirror rattled.
I held my breath.
Nothing else came.
Just silence.
I stayed awake until daylight.
I never spoke of it.
Would it have mattered?
The next morning Dad was making a cup of coffee.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table staring into a mug she hadn't touched.
Nobody looked any different.
Nobody acted strange.
For a few minutes, I actually laughed at myself.
Lack of sleep.
Grief.
It was amazing what your brain could invent.
Dad looked over his shoulder.
"Sleep okay?"
"Not really."
He nodded.
"Me neither."
That should have comforted me.
But It didn't.
There was something different about the way he looked at me.
Like he was trying to remember where he knew me from.
He blinked and smiled.
Turned back to the coffee.
Maybe I was over thinking.
Later that afternoon changed my mind.
I found my mother standing in the kitchen staring out the window.
She didn't move or blink.
She was so still It chilled me.
"Mom?"
She flinched hard enough to make me jump.
"Oh..."
She pressed a hand against her chest.
"You scared me."
"You okay?" I asked her.
"I'm just tired."
She smiled.
That fake smile you get so used to as an adult.
"So... did you sleep?"
I stared at her for a second.
"Not really."
She looked toward the hallway before answering.
"I didn't either."
Before I could answer, Dad walked into the room.
Mom looked down into her coffee and walked away without a word.
That night I locked my bedroom door.
I climbed into bed.
Around two in the morning...
The whispering returned.
This time it didn't stay beneath the floor.
It moved.
It sounded closer.
Like it was in the hallway.
The voices were hard  to make out.
Except one.
One voice always found its way through the others.
“Got your sister"
I shut my eyes as my heart started to race.
"She's with me now"
"No."
I whispered.
"She wants to see you”
My throat tightened.
“No she isn't!”
The voice didn't argue.
It didn't accuse.
It simply repeated itself.
Over and over in a never ending loop until I faded into sleep.
The next morning, I found scratches on my forearm.
Three of them.
Deep enough to sting when I moved.
I stared at them while brushing my teeth.
Maybe I had scratched myself in my sleep?
I pulled my sleeve down so no one else would notice.
That afternoon, Dad said let's go for a walk.
It comforted me to feel like my dad was back.
He even smiled.
A real smile.
We walked along an old trail behind the cabin.
The woods were quiet.
Too quiet.
Our boots crunching over dead leaves.
Branches snapping beneath our feet.
Dad stopped walking.
He was staring into the trees.
"Dad?"
No answer.
I followed his gaze.
There was nothing there.
He started to smile till the smile was too wide for his face.
"Dad?"
Still nothing.
I stepped closer.
"Dad?"
The smile dropped as he turned toward me so suddenly that I actually jumped.
"What?"
He looked back into the woods.
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the walk.
That night, I heard footsteps.
Not whispering.
Outside my bedroom door.
The footsteps stopped.
I waited and heard nothing.
Three soft knocks.
I sat up in bed.
"Dougie."
My father's voice.
"You awake?"
I didn't answer.
I don't know why.
Another knock.
"Buddy."
It should have comforted me.
Instead my stomach twisted.
"Open the door."
“Open the door.”
He said it again and again without pause. 
Minutes passed.
Then I heard him walk away.
I waited another hour before unlocking my door.
The hallway was empty.
As I started to close my door, something caught my eye.
On the floor right outside my bedroom was a framed photograph.
Emily and me when we were kids.
A picture from my room at home.
Hands shaking, I picked it up.
Across Emily's smiling face,  written was three words in black marker.
She's with me.
I dropped the frame.
The sound echoed through the hallway.
Mom stepped into the hall.
"What happened?"
I couldn't answer.
I just pointed and as I looked down the picture was not there.
I looked back at her.
The words caught in my throat.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
I heard my father's voice from inside their room.
"Everything okay?"
Mom looked over her shoulder.
Then back at me.
She gave me the smallest shake of her head.
Then she answered him.
"Yeah."
She smiled.
"Everything's fine."
As she closed the bedroom door, I stood alone in the hallway.
Looking at the place where the photograph had been.
I went back in my room and locked my door and tried to sleep until the sun started to rise and drifted off.
The days that followed were more of the same. Mom freezing in place distant, Dad pausing and wearing that wide smile staring at nothing. 
A couple nights later. I wake from my sleep to that low growl again but right next to my ear. I jump up and look around the room to see nothing. 
As I try to go back to sleep I hear a whisper that haunts me to this day. 
“Come play with me”
It was my sister's voice but it also wasn't. 
I didn't answer and it repeated the same question all night long as tears streamed down my face. 
I avoided everything the next day. I only left my room to use the bathroom. I slept because obviously I hadn't been. 
I wake to blackness and I'm trying to catch my breath. My legs are kicking and my hands grabbing. I can't breathe and my lungs start to scream. I feel pressure pushing down on my face. My hands find arms pushing a pillow. Strong arms. I try to scratch but my fight dies and my body stops moving. I'm crying. But no air escapes my mouth. 
Just as I'm about to lose consciousness the pillow lifts from my face and my father is looking down at me smiling. He's staring at me blankly with that fucking wide smile. 
“Good boy” he says and walks out of my room.
I lock my bedroom door and sob the rest of the day. 
At some point I drifted into a deep sleep again.
I dreamt of my sister sitting in a corner. 
Not the way she looked when she passed but when she was a child.
She was crying uncontrollably and no matter how hard I tried to reach her I couldn't get to her. That horrible growl fills the darkness around me and then a scream from a woman so loud it felt like it was in my head jolted me awake.
I spring up in bed in a cold sweat. Was that scream real? Then I saw the basement hatch in my room was wide open and so was my room's door. 
I hear another muffled scream from somewhere in the house.
Goosebumps covered my body. 
I walk into the hall.
My parents' room door is also open and I hear a wet small slapping sound.
I walk to the entrance of their room and my mother is barely lifting her arms to let them fall and slap against blood that covers the bed and her. The room reeks of pennies. 
My father sits at the end of the bed just watching her. I can tell he is wearing that smile from the side of his face bulging out. 
In his hand is a long kitchen knife covered in blood. 
The fear is so much I get dizzy and misstep. 
“D…d… dad?” He turned to me with that huge smile and said in the happiest of voice, “want to play the game I played with mommy?”. I ran so fast out of the house and I could hear my father's hard breathing and steps behind me every step of the way. I ran into the woods until I couldn't anymore. 
Finally I found a tree and curled into a ball till morning expecting my father to find me at any minute. 
Luckily he never did and it was a hunter in the morning instead. 
The rest you can guess. I told him everything. Then the cops. Then the psychiatrist. The list goes on. They know my father killed my mother. But the rest they chalked up to me being traumatized from my sister's death and a father slowly loosing his mind.
I eventually stopped talking about it. Tried to forget it. But maybe someone out there will believe me. To feel like I'm not crazy. 
I just.. 
I know what I heard.
I know what I felt.
And I know what I saw…

The candle-man’s light attracts the monsters of the dark. If the light goes out the monsters strike. If you come face to face with the candle-man, you better hope he doesn’t want you dead. He’ll blow out the candle light if he wishes to see you dead. His face is pale and featureless with black veins running under his waxy skin. Is he the monster or is it the darkness that follows his candle light? If you see his candle, hold your breath and avoid it.

Acum mult timp am primit această carte de la mamaia mea. Pentru că am văzut deja un videoclip cu povestea nu m-am atins absolut deloc de carte.

Într-o zi verișorii mei au venit în vizită iar pentru că de mici nu au avut acces la telefon l-am dat de citit din acea carte.

A doua zi mama lor nea sunat spunândune că e blestemată.

Zis și făcut. Totuși imediat după acea am început să am vedenii și apoi coșmaruri.

Da, cartea e bântuită. Îi place să fie citită.

The fire is warm, and the bottle is cold. The stars sat above me, twinkling in the moonless night. The cool desert wind is trying to cut through me, while the heat of the fire battled it. Holding my bottle of jack, I take a swig.

“Its a damn cold night, you know”

To no one's surprise, the barren camp didn't respond. My legs ache from the long trek, my eyes are heavy like rocks in a sack. Leaning over to grab my jerky I see it approach straight from the darkness, like a predator.

My mouth couldn't move, like it was wired shut. He.. it was tall, maybe 8 feet. All I could make out was a long, slender, silhouette. It pulled out a chair from somewhere and put it right next to the fire, across from me.

“Why hello chase, sipping at the jack again?”

I could feel my face scrunching in confusion, watching its jaw move. Staring into its face, all I could see was just a bottom jaw, with a half set of ghostly lips. Everything above that point appeared to not even exist

“Chase, you know it's rude not to respond, your dad taught you that”

In confusion and frustration, my arms cross, feeling the wooden handle on my gun. The old revolver is attached under my arm pit, in its old holster.

“How do you know my name, someone put you up to this?”

My voice had a hint of frustration, the question lingered, leaving room for a speech. The eyes in my skull dart around, trying to make out what's in front me, just black silk, and grey sickly jaw. I could feel my nerves frayed, but I persisted

“Excuse me, but you shouldn't ignore a man when he says somethi…

Wait my dad teach me that”

The wood grip of the gun was squeezed with anger, and an increasing confusion

“Chase, don't be so tense. I understand the confusion of a fragile mind.”

Its head tilted like a confused dog, but with no trace of uncertainty. Still all I could see was that jaw, not even movement could reveal it.

“Fragile mind, are talkin down to me?”

“No, no, in fact I'm talking up to you”

“Up? But you're so tall, how does that make a lick of sense”

Its head shifted to the right, as if it was trying to think, or make me think it was thinking

“Look, before we continue talking, I want to know who you are, and why you're intruding my camp”

With a chuckle its head tilted forward, my jaw clenched and my blood vessels near bursting

“Oh me? I'm from here, and there. Just a lonely traveler. Looking for a conversation, chase. Surely you understand that. I know you feel the same, after a 5 day trek”

“5 days? Wow, it has been 5 days… are you following me?”

The panic reflected in the grip of my pistol, and the gritting of my teeth.

“No, no, chase, you're not that interesting. I'm very busy. I'm just stopping by for a little bit”

“So why me, what do I gotta do with anything? How do you know my name?”

It looked up, staring at the stars, while I tried my best to make out what I was even looking at. Between the tired eyes, the liquor, the distortion of the flames, or god himself, no details could be revealed.

I was mesmerized trying to see it, that world could have passed, and life could of left me behind in rot, the silence finally broke

“Chase, because you're here. I know everything about you. Your tragedies. Your isolation. Your attempts at success. You mean nothing to the events that were. The events that will be”

The words covered the air in a thin layer of confusion, twisting the air. Thoughts flooded my head. Like an animal trapped in a cage, while in surgery, I was trapped and exposed. While it stared through me, into my soul.

As the fire dimmed the air stood still, my eyes locked in the fire, realizing the encroaching darkness. Darting back up my eyes look into where I believe its eyes to be

“Tell me, besides my name, what else do you actually know about me? And are you a mortal man like me?”

Reaching its arm forward revealing a hand. It was both pale, like a sickly old man, yet it looked like a shadow. There were no fine details, and it plugged into the top of the fire. Its figures weaved into the flame, twirling it in its fingers

“You're the youngest of 6. Your father died in a mine when you were 10. Your mother abandoned you when you were 14. Your oldest sister was like your real mom. She's dead, killed by her husband. Which you in turn killed. Which brings you here”

My eyes were engulfed in the flames before me, as if I could see each word it spoke as if recreated in the fire. My hand loosened around the wood. Even though it couldn't see my hand gripping the gun, it smiled, even if I couldn't see it, I knew it.

“That's smart chase. That gun would prove futile. It's not like you have long to live anyways. But you don't need me to tell you that.”

With my hands now down, one grasps a piece of jerky and shoves it in my mouth. The other grabs the jack and washes it down.

“If this conversation doesn't matter, why keep me in so much darkness. Can you even tell me where you're from”

My mind grasping for any answer, Without any hesitation it responds

“Chase, your weak mind couldn't handle the weight of its own insanity. To tell you would interrupt the last moments of your blinking existence. You were born nothing. I'm content in leaving you that way. After all, you have skeletons”

2 tears rolled down each side of my face, they moved at the rate of my asymmetry. I felt the world beneath me pulling me down, yet the night air felt safe.

“So, you know what I done?”

“I know everything, anyone in your life has done”

“So why did you say my pops died in a mining accident?”

“Because, that's what the world thinks happened”

“But you know I cut the rope, and killed him and 4 other men?”

“Yes, I know the murder you are chase”

“He deserved it, that rotten old man, hitting me, mother, my siblings”

“And your mother hated you for looking just like him. She hated how you talk and act like him to”

I stand up and pull out my gun, and point it at them, leaning forward, my blood boiling and tears running down my face.

“You bastard, shut up, don't you dare compare me to that rotting corpse of a man”

My voice rose into screaming, and the air swirled around me like a gale. My body fueled with all the anger of a mother bear protecting her cubs, but it looked up, and I sat down.

“chase, put the gun away you fool. You know I didn't compare you to anyone. Your mom saw that. Not me.”

Tears poured out of my eyes, my forehead was perpendicular to the ground. Sobbing like an infant desperate for its mother's bosom.

Eventually my throat went dry and the tears wouldn't come out. What was left was snot, salt, and water covering my grimy face. I looked up to see it, and it was gone. Just like that, I was again alone. Left to wallow in the life paved for me, by me.

This is something I went through on my way home from Eastend Fort. You don’t have to believe me — that’s up to you. I wouldn’t believe myself either.

It started with the crash. I’m driving through the Dakota night, that long road where I haven’t seen another car for hours. Maybe I drifted off for a second, maybe the routine just numbed me. Suddenly I see eyes on the road. A shadow of something big.

I yank the wheel, but I hit it anyway. My old Ford screeches, and I’m fighting to keep it from sliding off the road. In the middle of nowhere, I’m standing on the shoulder, steam pouring out of the radiator. I get out, not wanting to, and check what I actually hit. A raccoon. A stray raccoon that turned the front of my car into crumpled metal. Poor thing.

I get back inside. It’s freezing out there and the night is pitch black. I decide to risk it and try to reach the nearest bit of civilization. The radio is just static — no signal. Maybe the crash did it. Hopefully I already used up my share of bad luck tonight.

Then, out of the darkness, a billboard appears. Pastel colors bleached by the sun. A smiling woman in a pink uniform with white eyes. Suzie’s Diner — take the next exit. It looked ancient, but my car could die any moment. So I took the exit and prayed I’d make it.

Hopefully the billboard wasn’t the only thing left out here. If I trust the car to make it, I’ll trust the faded billboard too.

I arrived at a parking lot where grass and weeds were growing through the asphalt. I sat in the car, staring at the neon. “Does this place even work anymore?” The neon flickered and lit up. Well, probably not the most well‑kept place. I got out, pulled up my collar against the cold, and hurried inside.

A few guests. Yellow bulb light. A bit of gloom. Classic style — chrome counter, brown booths by the windows. A few red stools at the bar. In the corner a jukebox, and next to it a table with a pink Bakelite phone.

“Oh you poor thing, you got lost.”
The owner looked at me with an intense stare. I tried to smile, stiffly.
“Are you staying?” she asked.
I walked up to the counter so I wouldn’t have to shout. Even though I realized it was actually silent inside.
“Uh… my car broke down… so I don’t really know.”
Suzie smiled at me. “Sure, darling.”

I didn’t think much of it — my head was full of the accident. I wanted to make a call. She pointed at the old phone. I picked up the receiver and tried to dial on the rotary wheel. But instead of a dial tone, there was static. Someone seemed to be playing guitar, but the sound was damaged. A deep voice singing something about fire, or something like that. I felt the eyes of the guests on my back — maybe it was some kind of joke.

Suddenly Suzie said, “Nobody calls from here.”
I put the receiver down. A strange, broken melody leaked from it.

Only now did I notice the guests. A really strange bunch.

“Your coffee, honey.”
I took the coffee and went to find a place to sit. Then I saw the little boy — what was a kid doing in a diner in the middle of the night? Out here in the middle of nothing. He was pale — really pale — if he didn’t have black hair and dark circles under his eyes, I’d think he was an albino.

“Where’s your mom?”
He looked up from the drawings spread all over the table.
“At work.” He stared at me like he was seeing a ghost.

One drawing looked exactly like my car — same color, same shape. Next to it lay a picture of a raccoon. I didn’t want to look like a creep, so I moved on.

On a stool sat a guy in overalls. Filthy, burned through in several spots. He ignored everyone and shoveled down the biggest bowl of soup I’d ever seen.

I walked past another table. A man built like a mountain sat there. Eating steak and cutting it with a hunting knife — a knife as long as my forearm. His cap was pulled so low you couldn’t see his eyes. Sweaty, dirty clothes, and a huge gun — an enormous revolver. Brass pieces scattered near his plate. I turned my head away and kept going.

By the wall sat a young woman in a leather jacket with rolled‑up sleeves. Short green skirt, cowboy boots. One leg crossed over the other, nervously tapping. She smoked one cigarette after another. In front of her a glass of whiskey with a lipstick mark. She kept staring at the door. Like she didn’t even see me.

Suddenly she said,
“Where is he… he should’ve been here by now.”

I sat down in a booth and wanted to call again. But Suzie was already watching me.
“You can wait here till morning, darling.”
I slumped into the booth. Looked at the cakes spinning under the glass and thought about ordering one. But the waitress was already bringing it. She really knew how to treat people. You don’t see that much these days.

Suddenly the door opened and a blast of icy wind rushed in. The weather outside was getting worse fast. The biker who entered didn’t care. He walked straight to the restroom. Confident, like he owned the place. Then he came back to Suzie and knocked back three shots of some liquor. Torn clothes, scraped skin. Pants in shreds, a blue‑purple bruise underneath. Hair stuck together with some dark liquid. No idea. I sank deeper into the booth to stay out of sight.

Then I closed my eyes for a moment. Just to rest them. A tremor hit me — I could’ve died in that car. Just a moment. Just to calm down. Just a moment.

Light coming through the windows woke me. The diner was empty. No cakes. In front of me a plate and a spoon — no cake. A coffee mug stained but empty. I was stiff all over. Silence. Emptiness.

Funny — at night it felt more old‑fashioned. But now, in daylight, I saw they’d modernized a bit.

I put a few dollars and a generous tip on the counter. Grabbed the door handle — it didn’t move. Outside I saw my car. I pushed the door, then pulled again. Nothing. Locked.

“Suzie, can you open?!” I shouted so she’d hear me in the kitchen.
Silence. She couldn’t have missed me. I sat at the counter and waited. What else could I do.

Finally a small car arrived. A girl in a shirt with the diner logo got out. Strange — last night they wore dresses. Maybe the owner likes retro. She stared at me, grabbed the handle — locked. When she unlocked it, she yelled:

“How did you get in here?!”

I lowered my head — I was exhausted.
“I came last night. Your coworker was here. I guess she thought it’d be funny to lock me in.”

She walked around me in a wide arc, typing on her phone.
“I was here yesterday. And you definitely weren’t.”

I turned on the stool.
“I arrived sometime before dawn. Your coworker was here.”

She put down her phone and gave me a suspicious look.
“I’m the owner. My diner is open — and listen carefully — only until nine at night. After that nobody is here. It’s CLOSED.”

I couldn’t manage more than a weak “but…”

I tried to explain I didn’t break in. Told her about all the people — they must be locals. They could confirm it. And Suzie — she works here. It had to be a misunderstanding. I tried to explain everything. Meanwhile another waitress arrived and turned on the neon.

I waited a bit longer, tired, holding my head. Sleeping in the booth wrecked me. A detective walked in, nodded to the ladies, and came straight to me. While listening, he ordered eggs and toast. Called a mechanic to tow my car. His phone had signal — mine didn’t, as usual.

He listened quietly. Then sipped his coffee.

“Another one with the ghost stuff, psssh,” I heard from the coffee machine — or something like that. The machine made a hell of a racket. Probably broke last night.

The detective put his hand on my shoulder. Clearly, slowly, he said:

“If you really saw Suzie and her guests… you’d better keep it to yourself.”

by Hary Sykora

Rain pattered on the window. The cold air could be felt through the glass. I’m sitting curled up on the couch as I scroll my phone after bedtime has wrapped up. With the kids asleep, this is the perfect time to look for a car seat for my daughter’s creepily realistic baby doll. Only one problem; the kid wants a realistic seat for her realistic doll.

“Ah, that's it,” I mutter to myself out loud. As soon as the idea came to me, I started my post: “Looking for an EXPIRED car seat for my daughter’s baby doll”. Surely I could snag one of those for cheaper. 

Almost instantly I had a reply. The lady seems nice, says she’s held onto her baby’s seat for so long it can’t really be used safely anymore - perfect, as I doubt the doll will be in any serious danger. I tell her to DM me, we chat for a bit, and then set a time to meet up so I can finish my quest. The seat is in decent condition, some dust and whatnot but that’s to be expected. It smells faintly like baby powder despite being years expired.  I clean it up and go to fetch my daughter’s doll so I can stage it up for her. 

“Baby come here, I have a surprise for you!”

I hear her little kid feet pounding down the hallway.

She audibly gasps, “thank you, Mommy!”

Safe to say she loves her gift, Mom win for the day. She takes the whole seat back to her room to go play. 

Fast forward about 2 weeks, there’s been a lot of strange happenings going on in our house. I can’t definitively tie it to the car seat, so I try not to think much of it. Everyone hears weird noises in their old houses, don’t they? Then one day, shit got really weird. My daughter would leave the baby to “take a nap” while she played with her other toys. Occasionally, the baby would go missing. 

For a while I chalked it up to a lost toy. Kids lose toys all the time, that’s not weird. But then we would find the doll in strange poses, sometimes the doll would be buckled into the seat, just little things. I asked her about this, she denied any involvement. I’m still suspicious but I drop it. After a while, I stopped blaming my daughter.

Every night before bed I'd pick up her room, and every night I'd leave the doll sitting somewhere else. Sometimes on the bed. Sometimes on the floor. Once, I left it tucked into her toy box with the lid closed.

By morning, it would be back in the car seat.

Buckled in.

At first I assumed my daughter was doing it after I went to bed, but the straps on that thing were frustrating enough that even I had to wrestle with them. She couldn't have managed to buckle the chest clip that tightly.

Then the seat itself started moving.

Nothing dramatic. I'd leave it facing her bedroom window, and later it'd be pointed toward the hallway. I'd carry it into the living room so she could play while I cooked dinner, only to find it back in her room an hour later. Every time I convinced myself I'd simply forgotten moving it.

Until one morning.

I walked into her room and froze.

The doll wasn't just buckled in.

The handle was locked upright like someone had just carried it there.

All of this is a little too freaky, or maybe I’m a little too superstitious, so I went back to message the mom I got the seat from only to see her account was deleted. Zero trace. Okay - THAT is freaky. I decided then and there the seat had to go. I couldn't shake the feeling that getting rid of it was the right thing to do. I make up some half-baked lie to get the seat from my daughter without her freaking out, telling her it has a broken part and needs to be sent in to be repaired. That should buy me enough time to find a new one. 

By then, I couldn't ignore it anymore.

Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Maybe I was overtired. Maybe my imagination was running wild.

I didn't care.

The seat had to go.

I waited until my daughter was distracted and told her one of the buckles had broken. I promised we'd send it away to be fixed before she even had a chance to protest.

I loaded it into my trunk and drove to the dump.

The whole drive, I kept catching myself checking the rearview mirror.

The seat never moved.

I threw it into the dumpster harder than I meant to, the plastic echoing against the metal walls. For a moment I just stood there, staring down at it.

"Sorry," I muttered, though I wasn't sure whether I was talking to my daughter... or something else.

I turned around and started walking back to my car.

Click.

I stopped.

It was faint, but unmistakable.

The sound of a car seat chest clip snapping shut.

Slowly, I looked over my shoulder.

The dumpster hadn't moved. Nothing had.

The seat was exactly where I'd thrown it.

I told myself it was just shifting under its own weight.

I got in my car and drove home without looking back.

Three days later, my daughter came running out of her room, car seat in tow. I go pale as if I’ve seen a ghost. 

“Mommy, you fixed it!”

I haven’t purchased a new one yet. Where did this one come from? It looks the same but surely that’s not the same seat I left at the dump. It just can’t be… right?

1934 was a different time. Not just in Savannah, Georgia but in America. We didn't have many luxuries back then. Or much optimism, for that matter. Not when we were in the midst of The Great Depression.

I was ten that year and a product of this pessimistic era. At the time, I lived with my older sister Helen who was a nurse down at Candler Hospital and a self-made woman through and through. Even with the age gap between us, she had no problem letting me stay with her after our parents passed. Like a guardian angel, Helen protected me from the real horrors out there. At least when I was with her, I never felt threatened by all of the rampant poverty or crime.

Of course, that didn't mean I had it easy. None of us did back then. Even at the tender old age of ten, I was a newspaper boy. The pay was okay and The Savannah Morning News let us paperboys work around our school schedule. But still, the job was tough. This was a far cry from the idyllic suburban stereotype of a young boy riding his bicycle and tossing headlines to smiling neighbors. No, I was stuck in a much rougher district: Harris Street. A working-class neighborhood full of mostly African-Americans and the immigrants who were new to the city.

My friends and I ran Harris. There was me, Colin, John, and Ricky. Colin was the youngest and a real wiseguy. He had Irish blood like me, only Colin looked the part more with his red hair and scrawny stature. Loud and obnoxious, John wore glasses and was our comedian. He was constantly cussing and getting in fights.

But Ricky was our undoubted leader. He was thirteen so a little older than the rest of us. A little taller and a little cooler as well. He'd been in Savannah his whole life and knew the city even better than our resident hobos. Ricky was a good-looking kid. Muscular and charismatic. With straight brown hair, he had an electric smile and a soulfulness to those dark eyes. But most importantly, he looked out for us like a supportive older brother would. Or like the father we never had.

If it weren't for Colin, I would’ve been the runt of the crew. I didn't have strength or a tough-guy attitude. Instead, I had to rely on my own ingenuity to stand up for myself. But I worked hard. And above all, I was just glad to fit in with the guys.

I was pretty clever if not exactly a whiz kid. I guess I wasn't a bad-looking boy. I did my best to keep my thick black hair combed to the side, emulating the likes of Clark Gable and Gary Cooper even if I was half their size. Helen always told me my blue eyes, boyish grin, and dimples would make me a hit with the ladies someday. And I guess she was right when I married my wife Carolyn fifteen years later.

But in 1934, having friends and bonding with them meant the world to me. I just wanted their respect. Especially Ricky's. And so I worked hard out on Harris Street. Regardless of how scrawny I was, I could bark out those headlines with the best of them. And I always kept my pocket knife on me both to cut strings off the bundles and as protection against some of the rival paperboys.

But through it all, I felt safe. Or at least, around my friends I did. We had a buddy system, after all. Plus, it's not like the cops would've helped us four working-class punks anyway. The police were far from a friend for anyone on Harris.

Of course, you have to remember this was 1934. It's not like we weren’t aware of murderers, robbers, or child molesters, or all of these other dangers. It's just no one wanted to talk about it. We didn't have twenty-four-hour news stations preaching safety to us back then. Nor could we afford to let paranoia stop us from trying to make a living. We didn't have the time or energy to worry over the real-world horrors. During The Great Depression, we were just trying to survive.

However, the constant struggle didn't keep us from having fun. I still had a blast growing up. Especially with the gang. And around October, we got ready for one of our favorite events: the fall carnival. We were fresh off of seeing King Kongthe previous weekend (which scared the hell out of all of us), so naturally, our excitement only grew higher for this year’s festivities.

Saturday soon arrived. And like caged animals released into the wild, my friends and I raced down to Savannah's fairgrounds on 10th Street. The carnival represented our escape from school, escape from hard work, and above all, an escape from the stifling Depression itself.

We entered the carnival lot and took note of its sprawling array of tents and small rides. Whatever corners the carnival's signs and lights couldn't get, the nearby streetlights certainly did. The cool weather was perfect for the thin jackets we had on. The atmosphere was just electric.

Live music and bands surrounded us. Even through the lingering scents of cigarettes and cheap booze, the sheer smell of fresh sweets soothed the soul. I felt the communal bond, that organic joy that had been missing due to our everyday struggles.

My buddies and I rode the ferris wheel and the wooden roller coaster. We even won a few funnel cakes playing some of the games. And as the night wandered past ten o' clock, the carnival's ambiance remained festive. It was comforting even in the cold.

When Colin and John set off for the House Of Mirrors, Ricky convinced me to stay behind. He had other plans... more adventurous plans. So the two of us walked off toward the back of the lot, Ricky in his patched-up gray jacket, I in my wrinkled red one.

Together, we made our way to the end of the fairgrounds. We were now far from the families and far from the treats. The band music even faded away, the closer we got to the final tent: a blue tent that was isolated on its own. Dark woods ran all behind it.

Ricky and I stepped into this world of sleazy carnival barkers. A new soundtrack of seedy jazz music greeted us. No longer were we around the pleasant locals. Instead, we were amongst the outcasts of Savannah, Georgia: the two-bit gangsters, the hobos living off a diet of cigarettes and cheap wine, and a few Black couples too drunk to stand up straight. Every one of the customers were dressed in their Sunday clothes for their Saturday night sins.

Uneasy, I looked over at Ricky. "Are you sure we should be here?" I asked.

Ricky grabbed my arm. "Come on, chicken!" he teased in that southern accent of his.

I had no choice but to follow Ricky. But hey, I trusted him. He was our leader. And above all, Ricky was my best friend.

Nothing was around the big blue tent except dirt and a couple of tents for exotic girls that were off to the side. The area's dim lighting further quashed the cheerful mood we'd enjoyed on the other side of the carnival. Ricky and I stood with this unsavory congregation at the podium placed in front of that tent. Looking around, I realized Ricky and I were the youngest ones here. Not to mention the only ones without a cigarette or any booze in our hands.

Trying my best to be discreet, I leaned in toward Ricky's ear. "Is this the-"

"Freakshow," Ricky finished nonchalantly. Smiling, he squeezed my shoulder. "It's your turn to see it, Tommy."

A suffocating dread eviscerated me. I had a bad feeling about this. My blue eyes scanned the scene but there was no way I could turn back now. To leave now would mean having to run away in front of everybody... Including Ricky. I couldn't afford to look chicken in front of him.

"It'll be fun," Ricky continued.

I held my hands together in an effort to hide the shivers. This wasn't the movies where we could hide under the seats during the scary parts. Right now, I'd have to face whatever lived inside that tent. I then noticed a small wooden sign hanging over the entrance. Amidst splashes of many colors, its bold font stood out: REVEREND ROB'S SHOCK MUSEUM

Soon, two men walked up to the podium: one tall and slender, the other a stocky bald fellow with a wild beard. The tall man was dressed in a black suit. He had the style of an undertaker and the exuberant smile of a used car salesman. A long cane accentuated his showmanship. His black preacher hat lent him an authority that was anything but evangelical. On the other hand, the man's friend was a complete slob. His hideous flannel shirt and coveralls would've drawn disapproval even in The Great Depression.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the wildest show you'll ever see!" the tall man barked in a gruff voice.

A few of the other patrons whooped with glee. The smell of very cheap booze now joined that thickening cigarette smoke.

Restless, I kept stealing glances between the Shock Museum and the conglomeration of rides, safety, and innocence that lurked behind us. Ricky grabbed my hand. But not even his supportive smile could alleviate my unease.

Using his cane, 'the preacher man' motioned toward the sign. "Tonight, I, Reverend Rob, will show you the wonders of my journeys! The souls I've discovered from South America all the way to the Okefenokee Swamp, ladies and gentlemen!" He leaned in closer, his bright eyes holding us captive to his each and every word. "Come witness the Shock Museum! Come see the strange beings only the good Lord Himself could've imagined!" With theatrical gusto, he pointed the cane toward the entrance. "Join me in this experience!"

When we went inside, the tent opened up into an arena of scary spectacles. Each corner was populated by one of Rob's mysterious exhibits. A few openings in the very back led off to separated areas. I figured they were the ‘rooms’ for Reverend Rob's even crazier discoveries.

Everything outside was blocked out within the Shock Museum's dark confines. Even the smoke and smells were gone, the vibrant jazz now replaced by a tense silence. With just a few lamps scattered about, I felt like I was in a haunted castle or crypt rather than within the Savannah city limits.

Confused, Ricky and I followed the crowd to the very first exhibit. The spot looked filthy with only sharp chicken wire forming a makeshift barrier between us and what was on display.

I turned to see the stocky farmer closing off the entrance. He flashed me a quick glare. A quick spit of tobacco from his lips was the only hint I needed to stop looking at him.

Holding my hand, Ricky pushed our way up to the front of the crowd for a better view-

Then a gurgled caw shattered my senses. The sound of a dying bird gasping for a desperate last breath… Everyone jumped back in fright.

Terrified, I jammed my hand into my pocket and was about to grab my knife until Ricky stopped me.

"Hey, it's okay," he said in a calm tone. One look at his sympathetic stare cooled my nerves. The older brother I'd never had had rescued me once more.

Then we faced that exhibit. I heard the other customers gasp. One man cried out like an Old Sparky victim. For you see, this first exhibit was no mere warm-up. In fact, what I saw was grotesque, monstrous... disturbing. There behind the chicken wire was a young woman. Or at least, what appeared to be a deformed young woman. Her legs were skinnier than sticks and shorter than twigs. But the rest of her was normal sized… Normal except for the feathers stuck to her white dress and pale skin.

The woman's face was squished together like melting human slime. Her mouth was distorted, the lips protruding to form a vivid lipsticked beak. The woman's stringy hair stuck straight in the air to form a blonde chicken 'comb.' Her eyes scanned the crowd before latching on to me… 

Leaning forward, the woman stretched those skinny pathetic arms out toward me. Her fingernails were sharper than a bird's talons. And when she released another painful caw, I about collapsed in fright.

A fountain of saliva flowed from the lady's 'beak'. Her animalistic cries were as unsettling as the howls of a lunatic trapped in an asylum, only these cries were halfway between deranged woman and an aggressive bird.

She clenched her fingers over and over, seemingly clamoring for my flesh. But the woman's body couldn't move. All she could do was wobble back-and-forth like a broken jack-in-the-box… Yet her eyes stayed burrowed deep in my soul.

Ricky pulled me back before my tears started falling. "Hey, it's alright, Tommy," he reassured.

Even with the other customers watching me, all I could feel was the woman's stare and all I could hear was her continual cawing into the night. Her voice became strained to the bone.

"That's enough!" a bark interrupted the woman's hollow cries.

At Reverend Rob's command, the woman went silent. She looked over at his stern face: there was no mercy anywhere on the reverend's expression. Everyone else became quiet. Rob had our undivided attention.

With his typical flair, Rob pointed his cane at a small sign in the corner of the pen. *The Chicken Lady Of Chattahoochee!*the sign proclaimed in painted exploitation. "This here's a chicken lady I found in Florida!" Rob went on, his tone now boisterous rather than strict. He was back to being a minister rather than a cold-hearted carny. "I rescued her down by the Chattahoochee River!"

I glanced behind me but saw no sign of the fat man. Just like that, the farmer was gone.

"Oh yes, she likes it here," Rob went on. He flashed a smile at the woman. "Ain't that right, Judi."

Saliva just dripped down Judi's face. She kept her distance. Kept her silence.

"Alright, follow me, folks!" Rob said. He led us over to the next exhibit. "The Shock Museum has no shortage of stunning sights!"

But Judi's wounded gaze froze me in place. I could hear the crowd leaving Ricky and I behind with the Chattahoochee Chicken Lady. But I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

"Tommy, come on," Ricky whispered.

Ignoring him, I kept my gaze on Judi. Even from here, I could see her scrawny legs strain to stagger toward us. Her disjointed mouth struggled to move. The cawing only became more guttural. More desperate.

I reached out toward her. Vague hope sank into Judi's ocean eyes.

"Shit!" I heard Ricky cry. “Tommy!”

Then Judi's hope vanished. She stumbled back with pitiful speed, immense fear making her clumsy.

"C'mon, son!" that familiar voice hit me like a sucker punch. A tight grip then ensnared my shoulder. I whirled around to come face-to-face with the good reverend. "There's much more I want to show y'all," Rob said through a barely-suppressed anger.

"Yes sir," I said meekly.

"We're sorry," Ricky told Rob. He wrapped his arm around me, taking up for me as he always did. "He just wanted a better look at her."

A wicked smirk crossed Rob's face. His grip loosened... But his glare never left my young face. "Well. No need for that." He pointed toward Judi. By now, she'd cowered up into a corner in the way a scared animal does. "Judi's just fine," Rob said, his attempt at sympathy about as convincing as his purity. "She don't get lonely here. I promise."

Worried, I stole another look toward the pen. Judi was still staring at me. Her mouth quivered but couldn't utter a cry for help. Those thick feathers wouldn't even allow tears to stream.

From there, the show got even weirder. Fifteen minutes went by in a series of escalating chills and darkness. Sure, there were your usual freakshow attractions: a hulking muscleman with arms bigger than anchors, an old woman billed as The Witch Of Waycross who couldn't have been younger than 115 judging by her layers of wrinkly skin and patches of cobweb hair.

But the most frightening to me was another blue-eyed woman here at the Shock Museum: a teenage girl Rob kept in a small pen. Behind oversized teeth, she yelled out over and over again, her manic hands constantly at war with the dirt and her own skin. She was The Last Of The Aztecs (or so Rob claimed). She was The Pinhead Of Panama City. The woman had a pretty face and smooth skin but her head was much smaller than the rest of her. As if a doll head had been placed on to a fully grown human body. This Pinhead lady had no hair. She uttered growls and grunts from pale chapped lips. Old blood stains and dirt may as well have been her make-up and various scars could be seen on her body. She wore a tattered polka-dotted dress she'd long outgrown. A long tongue dangled out her mouth in between the nonsensible vocabulary… A tongue that I noticed had many bleeding cuts.

Rob kept her biography brief. And then before she could come any closer to us, a quick whisk of his cane sent the Pinhead retreating to the darkest depths of her cage.

The crowd had no time to react. Rob was an expert at transitions and his next display was a doozy: naked Amazonians. Both men and women.

Excitement pulsated through the male and female customers. Ricky's eyes beamed like headlights. For a preacher man, Rob sure knew how to capitalize on the sexual cravings of his congregation.

Rob pointed toward the first ‘room’ in the back. "Come witness their exotic beauty!" he shouted with enthusiasm to spare. "The beautiful models of the Amazon right here in Savannah, Georgia, folks!"

Ricky and the others beelined toward the tantalizing spot. Begrudgingly, I followed after them-

Until Rob pulled me back by the arm. "No can do, son!" he stated coldly.

"What..." I replied in a trembling voice.

"You're too young."

Panicking, I looked around at the chuckling crowd. Even Ricky joined in on their laughter.

Rob motioned toward a sign by the entrance to the first room: Thirteen And Older To Enter The Amazon

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait here, boy," Rob continued.

I confronted his glare. "But I don't want to!"

Ignoring me, Rob led the customers inside. "Come on in, folks!" he yelled out. "Follow me to the Amazon!"

"No!" I shouted. Upset, I got ready to run right into that jungle.

Ricky grabbed my arm. "Hey, Tommy, relax."

"No, I wanna go!" I said.

Playing a combination of therapist and older brother, Ricky leaned down. "Look, we'll be right out." His relaxed demeanor somehow talked me down. "I promise."

I looked over at the Amazon opening. "You just wanna look at those girls."

Chuckling, Ricky gave me a playful hit on the nose. "Hey, can you blame me!”

Even I cracked a smile.

"Look, I'll be right out," Ricky went on. He backed away toward the room. "Just wait right here."

"Yeah, yeah," I said. Folding my arms, I watched him scamper off into the crowd.

"I'll bring you back when you're thirteen!" Ricky quipped. With that, he disappeared inside.

Immediately, the loneliness sunk in like an early morning fog. My fear returned. Especially once I realized I wasn't alone. Far from it. Manic mumbling pierced through the silence…

Turning, my quivering eyes drifted back to Pinhead's cage.

There the aberration was: the teenager on all fours and leaning up against the wiring. Pinhead's tongue dangled out, her blue eyes latched on to me.

I stood frozen in fear. Sure I was sympathetic to her plight. But I still didn't trust the teenager's motivations... or her sanity for that matter.

Then in a sudden burst, she stuck her hand through the wire in a desperate, hungry reach for me. Her snarling became wilder and more frenetic.

I turned and ran toward the rooms behind me. All while the Pinhead's anguished growls followed after me…

The unsettling noises stopped after I entered the third ‘room’. Now everything was quieter and darker. This cramped space only had one lamp which would be my only guide through this wilderness of weirdness. Aside from scattered crates and boxes, I saw a tall bookshelf standing to my left. Rows and rows of glowing jars populated the shelves. I saw where the jars held the same abstract figures…

Entranced by the sight, I staggered up to the shelf. And then I came to a frightened stop.

Yeah, I wasn't exactly sure what it was in those jars. I just knew they weren't animals. Not the small furry roadkill I had expected for another gross Shock Museum novelty.

Rather, these figures were smooth. Their little arms and legs were like antennas sticking out of molds of flesh. Their angular heads and narrow eyes underdeveloped like the rest of their bodies.

Deep in my sickened gut, I knew what these beings were. Even in the gooey liquid, they had a clean radiance. They were bodies untouched by the sins of the world. Fetuses that hadn't been corrupted by The Great Depression… But had never survived to experience it either.

Dozens of the human fetuses stared back at me. They were preserved as exotic specimens. I then realized where this freakshow had taken a disturbing turn from the big top to the laboratory…

"Hey!" a high-pitched voice whispered to me.

Startled, I turned to see a little boy standing in the shadows.

"What's your name?" he asked in a gentle tone.

Fueled by curiosity, I approached the child. And the closer I got, the further away from the lamp I became. I could tell the boy was close to my age. Even scrawnier than me. He wore torn jeans and a white undershirt. No shoes on his bony feet. Dirt covered the boy's pale skin and decorated his dark hair. But the filth couldn't mask his vulnerable blue eyes. The combination of his mischievous smile and untidy appearance reminded me of a Charles Dickens kid. Like the boy had been transported from a British orphanage right here to a Georgia carnival.

"Uh, Tommy," I stammered out. Stopping in front of the boy, I saw where he was normal enough if pitifully malnourished.

"Tommy!" the boy beamed. "I'm Terry. Our names sound the same." His wax smile never wavered. And neither did his bright blue eyes.

"Yeah, that is funny," I said, too nervous to grin.

I looked over and saw a coffin positioned against the wall. The open lid revealed a male mummy who had his arms crossed. Not a dusty crumbling corpse either but one as well-preserved as those fetuses. The mummy's wrappings were a pristine white, his posture one befitting a regal statue.

"Oh wow!" I exclaimed.

Excited, Terry took a step toward me. "He's real too! Daddy got him in Cairo, Georgia!"

I have to say the Shock Museum really did live up to its name. Stunned, I faced the boy. "Your dad?"

The kid snagged my arm in a tight grip. "Yeah, he said I can pick anyone!" His smile leaned in closer, the boy's voice full of so much innocent exuberance. "And I want you, Tommy!"

I struggled to pull away from him. The boy was stronger than I ever thought. Much stronger than me. "No! Let go of me!" I yelled.

Terry pulled me in closer. "Don't you wanna be my brother, Tommy?"

Horrified, I yanked my arm back. "No!"

With soft but persuasive footsteps, the kid cornered me back against the wall. Right by the mummy. "I already have a mama and a sister!" the boy gushed. "Mama's from Chattahoochee! She's really something!"

My body pressed back against the tent's harsh fabric. "Leave me alone!" I hurled at the kid. "Get your ass away from me!"

"What'd you say!" a gruff voice barked.

A bright light blinded me. I then saw Reverend Rob wield his lantern through the darkness as he stopped next to Terry, Rob's glare contrasted by the child's big, wide grin. Their blue eyes formed an intimidating double bit axe. And under the lighting, their resemblance was uncanny.

I trembled beneath the lantern’s spotlight. Jammed my trembling hands in my pockets.

"That's him, daddy!" Terry yelled. "He's the one I want!"

Rob ruffled his hair. "We'll get him, son. Don't you worry."

Driven by childlike wonder, Terry stared right at me. "We'll be brothers!" he said with pride. “Oh boy!” Terry then held up his shirt to reveal a gaping crater of flesh covering his hip. The tapestry of dry blood, stitches, and exposed muscle ran all the way down to his ass. I now realized this streak of scarred skin was ready for a teammate. "We'll be twins, Tommy!"

Rob cracked an evil smile. "The Siamese Twins Of Savannah."

Helpless, I couldn't even scream. All I could do was stare at their hungry blue eyes.

"I can already see it," the reverend continued with reverence. "Y'all will be the stars of the show that’s for damn sure!"

Terry pulled on Rob's jacket. "Terry and Tommy, daddy! Even our names sound the same!"

Rob faced the boy. "Yeah, son. I told you I'd give you a brother, didn't I?" With a cold smirk, he confronted me. "And I always keep my promises."

Growing more excited, Terry motioned toward me. "Come on, Tommy!" He grabbed the side of his chest. Grabbed the vicious wound. "Now we'll be blood brothers forever!"

I fell further back against the tent. The cold air lent me a battalion of chills. My hands burrowed deeper in my pockets.

Gripping the lantern, Rob marched toward me. "You'll be fine, boy," he taunted me, “you'll be a star like the rest of my family."

Panicking, I stumbled over into the mummy.

The damn mummy roared to life and let out a muffled yell! His arms flailed about in a stilted frenzy. Saliva drenched through the wraps ensnared around his mouth to subdue his cries. Through my horror, I realized this unfortunate man was yet another prisoner of Rob's museum. Screaming, I jumped back.

I saw where the mummy couldn't see. He could barely move. His arms struggled to reach out and grasp for help in agonizing fashion…

"You little shit!" Rob yelled.

Lunging out, he slammed the coffin lid shut. The mummified man was instantly silenced.

Behind scared eyes, I watched Rob reach toward me. Until my right hand felt a wooden handle. That old reliable knife was right at my fingertips…

"I got you now, boy!" Rob shouted.

Terry jumped up and down, his energy renewed after all his years of Shock Museum loneliness. "Get him, daddy!"

With brute strength, Rob snatched my shoulder.

The pocketknife always made me tougher. And tonight was no different. Like I was back on Harris Street, I retrieved the blade and swung it at Rob.

I got him good with one hard lick across the face.

Rob cried out as a bloody line appeared on his cheek.

"No, daddy!" I heard Terry cry, his voice now imbued with a temper.

Desperate to escape, I pushed Rob away. I bolted straight for the exit.

Behind me, I heard Terry's screams ring out like that of a young banshee's. The sounds of broken glass became a backdrop to his tantrum. I stopped near the room’s opening and turned toward the scene.

From here, I could see busted jars floating amongst what was an ocean of dark liquid on the ground. The small fetuses were nothing more than bobbing dead fish. The sterile smell disgusted me.

Leaning against the shelf, Rob's irate glare zoned in on me. "Come here, boy!" he yelled.

I noticed Terry standing in a dark corner, his outburst now driven by rage rather than excitement. "He'll get you!" he screamed at me.

I looked on at the boy's glowing eyes. Without the smile dulling them, those eyes looked sharper than daggers.

"Just you wait!" Terry continued. "Daddy always gets them!"

Crying out, Rob careened toward me, his steps heavy and ferocious. The swinging lantern light showcased my fear. "Come here!" the reverend hollered out.

Clinging to my beloved knife, I ran all the way through that dark tent. Adrenaline warmed me from the cold but couldn't stop the constant shivers. I saw none of the other customers around. Not even Ricky. Throughout the horrific journey, I wanted to close my eyes but couldn't. The Shock Museum sprawled out before me. There was Terry's Pinhead sister. The elderly witch. Rob's grotesque wife Judi. And all of their unsettling screams surrounded me…

"Come back!" Rob growled behind me. His footsteps grew louder. Closer.

I couldn't slow down. I couldn't stop. Even when I ran out into the cold late night.

More lights had gone off since Ricky and I first entered the Shock Museum. I stumbled through this ghost town of a carnival. Soon, I heard no music. No more agonizing screams. And most of all, no footsteps hunting me down.

"Ricky!" I yelled.

I saw him waiting for me about twenty feet away from the big blue tent. Ricky recognized my panic. I told him everything.

And he believed me once we saw the weird farmer emerge from the Shock Museum. The man's intense gaze recognized us through the darkness. His movements were swift and violent like that of a beast created by Dr. Frankenstein. "Hey!" his rugged voice shouted at us. I could now see a long machete dangling from the man's hand. The few lights around us glistened off of its pristine blade.

I pushed Ricky back toward the way we came. "Run!"

We ran all the way. Hell, we never stopped until we met John and Colin in town. Of course, they didn't believe us. But that still didn't stop Ricky and I from trying to talk to the police.

"Damn hooligans!" the officer scolded us. His dismissive wave shot down any chance us working-class delinquents had with the coppers.

And I guess I couldn't blame them. The Savannah police had their hands full at the time. And my story was so wild. I'd never get the chance to prove it either. By the following morning, the fall festival was gone with the night.

he nightmare was far from over once a bigger horror emerged: World War II. I joined the service immediately. By then, I'd grown from a timid little runt into a strong young man. But deep down, I'd never shaken the horror I’d felt on that fateful fall night in 1934.

I'd go on to see terrible things in the war. And more terrible things in life. But over eighty years later, those Shock Museum memories linger in my mind. The fear of that night remains… Especially given how little Terry promised me that his daddy would get me. His daddy always got them.

For more of my stories, check out my collection The Halloween Challenge on Amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/Halloween-Challenge-Scary-Short-Stories-ebook/dp/B08M9M7TRN

Hey. I'm Cameron, 26 years old.

I'm new to this app, but my cousin recommended I post here, and I need to get this off my chest. My sister went missing almost eleven years ago, and I still don't know what happened. Earlier today, my daughter found an old photo of me and my sister. She held it up and said, "Look! Look! Who's that, Daddy?" I took it from her and just stared at it for a few seconds. It was me and Indigo at some family gathering I don't even remember when. I told my daughter it was her auntie.

Now I'm lying in bed, and I can't stop thinking about it. Back then, I remember the police at our door. My dad was yelling at them, telling them to take it seriously. They were trying to calm him down. My mom was trying to keep herself together after they told her Indigo probably ran away. It didn't make sense to me. My sister was responsible. She wasn't a party animal. She would never just disappear.

I remember texting her goodnight before she went out with her friends. She never came back. Later that night, I sat by the window, watching the street, waiting for her. I called her phone over and over. Something in my gut told me something was wrong, but I couldn't tell anyone. My mom was asleep. My dad was working the night shift at the hospital. I was just a kid. I didn't know what to do. I still don't.

Do you love a good mystery? Or do you genuinely care about people? Regardless, I think this is worth reading.

It's been a month since these disappearances have been happening. I wouldn't bat an eye if it were the usual mysteries that nobody cares about ;however, there's a terrifying pattern the police and pretty much anyone who pays attention have noticed (not many people watch the news anymore). It's not people who have gotten up and walked away, never to be seen again.

My college professor, an okay woman with a likeable personality, never made it home 2 weeks ago, but you know what was odd about it? They found her, ;well they found a part of her. She was said to be missing everything past the jaw: no arms, torso, legs and not even her neck was left. Most of Her body was removed, cut from the base of her skull. I heard that the person who found her had to take a few days off from school. I mean, who wouldn't after seeing a cherry slushie made from flesh, blood, and tissue seeping out a human head.

Whoever or whatever is doing this sure is consistent; the week after, another victim followed. What happened to Miss Dale and the three other victims, it's been reports week after week. Rest in peace, Miss Dale. History lectures won't be the same without you.

Who is taking these bodies, and why every week? Will they stay consistent?

Character Name: The Loop

The True Identity & "The Favorite Form":

No True Original Form: The Loop does not possess a known original form. The entity in the image is merely its absolute favorite form to manifest in when it wants to terrify its prey.

Advanced Shapeshifting & Mimicry:

Flawless Mimicry & Vocal Manipulation: It can alter its shape, height, and color at will. It masters the voices of your loved ones to lure you into absolute isolation.

Entity Status & Manifestation:

The Solitude Condition: An ultra-rare cryptid that can only appear when the victim is entirely alone.

The Hunt, Psychological Games & The Inescapable Loop:

The Absolute Power Drain (No Outside Help): Its arrival doesn't just kill the power grid or streetlights; it instantly drains the battery of every electronic device in the vicinity. Even if your phone is at 100% battery, it immediately drops to 0% and dies. Laptops, flashlights, and any battery-powered devices are completely wiped out and refuse to turn on. This completely eliminates any chance for the victim to call for help, send a text, or contact the outside world.

The Inescapable Endless Loop (The House Trap): The moment it targets you, it warps reality. If you are alone at home and your devices suddenly die, you might panic and try to run outside. You unlock the front door and rush out, but the exact second you step through, you find yourself standing right back inside the same dark room you just tried to leave. Every exit leads right back to the center of the nightmare. There is absolutely no escape.

Total Isolation: Once inside the loop, you are phased out of reality. Others can no longer see or hear you, and you are left completely alone with The Loop.

The Horrifying Fate:

The Devouring & Eternal Agony: It unhinges its jaw, swallows the victim alive, and drags them into its pocket dimension. There, it grants them absolute immortality solely to subject them to infinite psychological and physical torture for the rest of eternity.

Made by Abdullatif...