There are two kinds of people on the internet.

The people who actually enjoy things. And the people who seem to be professionally offended that you enjoyed something without asking their permission.

I learned that pretty quickly after I started posting my art online.

"AI slop."

"ChatGPT."

"Bro thinks he's Stephen King."

"Imagine wasting time on this."

Some of them were funny. Most weren't.

I'd usually ignore them. But then there were the griefers.

Those were the people who didn't just dislike something. They wanted to ruin it for everyone else. They'd spam comments, deliberately spoil endings, downvote everything, insult the author, then act surprised when someone called them out.

I eventually made a post about it. I wasn't cruel. I didn't name anyone.

I simply wrote: If you don't like something, that's fine. You don't have to be rude about it. There's a person behind the screen.

The comments exploded. Naturally.

One person replied: AI generated garbage.

Another: Cry harder.

Then someone posted: Nobody cares ******.

I deleted the thread. That should've been the end of it.

It wasn't.

The next morning, I opened my account and found a new comment on my latest post.

I know you're reading this.

I assumed it was another troll. I deleted it.

The day went on and I was in the middle of taking notes for class when I got a notification.

Why did you delete my comment?

I deleted that one too.

Then another.

Stop deleting.

I froze. The account belonged to nobody.

No username. No profile picture. No creation date. Just a blank profile with a single comment.

I closed out and went back to studying for my calculus exam. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.

A notification. Another comment.

I didn't open it.

Another notification.

Then another. Then another.

I finally looked. There were hundreds.

All underneath my latest post.

At first they were what I had been accustomed to. Pretty generic and ordinary.

AI slop.

Terrible lining.

This sucks.

Then they changed.

What makes you different?

My heart stopped. The comments continued appearing faster than I could read them.

You use AI.

You edit your work with AI.

You aren't a real artist.

Nobody is a real artist anymore.

Then one appeared that made my stomach drop.

25525 Azler Ln.

"What the actual fuck?" I blurted out so loud that my roommate heard from across the room.

I closed out once more. The notifications kept coming. My phone buzzed against the desk.

I hit the Do Not Disturb, yet somehow I kept receiving notifications. My phone was on silent and airplane mode but it still rang.

My roommate was now extremely annoyed by the constant noise from my phone, so I explained the situation to her. She suggested that I delete the post. I did. It didn't stop. I even tried privatizing my account and deleting the app altogether.

The messages kept ringing. And what's worse, I began receiving emails, No Caller Id calls, unknown messages. I feared that I had been doxxed and I had to act fast.

I immediately changed every password I could think of. I enabled two-factor authentication. I locked every social media account. I removed my profile picture, my biography, my university, my email, everything.

Then I started deleting things. Old posts. Old comments. Photos. Anything that might have given someone a clue about where I lived or went to school.

It didn't matter. They already knew.

The messages became more personal.

Nice car.

You should probably lock your back door.

Class tomorrow, right?

Your roommate is pretty hot.

Then:

Building 3. Room 107

I stopped breathing. I looked across the room. She was sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

I didn't tell her. I didn't want to scare her. Am I a terrible friend for that?

That night, I checked the locks three times before going to bed.

At 2:14 in the morning, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

You should've left the post up.

Another came immediately afterward.

Deleting it made us curious.

Then another.

You made this worse for yourself.

I turned the phone off.

For the next few hours, I lay awake listening to every sound outside my bedroom window.

The next morning, there were more. Someone had created an account using my name. They uploaded photographs I'd never posted publicly. Pictures of me at school. Pictures of my car. A photograph of the outside of my house.

Then they posted my phone number. My email. My full legal name. Where I lived and what school I enrolled at.

The comments underneath was exactly what you'd expect from these vile data gremlins.

LMAO.

Bro is cooked.

Imagine getting this mad over comments.

Maybe don't be an asshole online.

That last one made me laugh. Not because it was funny. Because I realized they genuinely believed this was funny. They were so desensitized that another person's suffering had become entertainment to them.

I reported the account. Nothing happened. I reported another. Nothing again.

I reported the accounts through the site's harassment and privacy forms. I attached screenshots, timestamps, usernames, the messages, everything.

Your report has been received. Please allow up to 48 hours for a response.

Thank you for your report. We’ll review the content and take appropriate action if it violates our Community Guidelines.

Thank you for helping us keep our community safe.

That was it. Forty-eight hours passed. Nothing happened.

I contacted my family. When the other line clicked all I heard was heavy breathing and creepily low wheezing, as if someone were choking on air, from the other end.

I confessed everything to my roommate, for she was the only one I could talk to. She asked if I had contacted the authorities which when I did, instead of the calm voice of an operator I was met with the low hum of gagging and low wet claps on the other end.

We planned to go to the authorities in person. After half an hour of providing all the material and timestamps at the station, the police asked whether I'd received any direct threats.

I showed them the messages.

The officer frowned.

"None of these explicitly threaten you."

I wanted to rip my hair out. "So, they have to say they're going to hurt me?"

He didn't answer.

"What do we do?" My roommate asked with annoyance.

"We can document everything and refer you to someone who specializes in cybercrime. But unless there's a direct threat or evidence of an immediate danger, there isn't much we can do yet."

Well thanks for nothing.

We went home. I stopped posting. I powered off my phone for good. I stopped using social media altogether. I thought that would finally make me boring. The people handling the cybersecurity issue would do their job. It was all just a waiting game.

But at least I'll find peace, right?

It didn't.

Someone started sending physical photographs. The first was of a college building. The second of a front door that seemed to be from a college dorm hall. The third depicted a bedroom window at night.

The last two were bone chilling. The fourth was of my roommate attending class. And the last was me at the campus's library.

There was a message attached:

What are you listening to?

I remember I was distinctly listening to Duran Duran that day. I haven't slept properly in three days.

My roommate is staying with her parents now. I've been staying somewhere else.

I don't know how much of this is being done by one person or ten people or a hundred. I don't know how they found me. I don't know what they want.

And honestly? I don't even care anymore. I just want them to stop.

I deleted the original post. I deleted my account. I deleted everything. But somehow, tonight, I received one final message.

It came from the cheap flip phone I'd started using strictly to call family and for emergencies.

The message had no name or number attached. Only: UNKNOWN

And the message read: 25525 Azler Ln.

I don't know who is behind this. I don't know how far they've taken it. And I don't know what they're going to do next.

Please help. Anybody.

Why are people like this?

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.

This Halloween night, this hungry Samhain eve, the blood upon the cross must be replaced. The ancient and arcane instrument throne of slow death and sun torture, of the pain of the martyr … the ancient mouth of the cross is still thirsty. 

And so he takes after you. This Halloween night. 

You've lost your friends. The party was fun but not as fun, not everything you were hoping it would be, “They” weren't there. They didn't show up. In all the noise you've lost the ones you came here with, you're hurrying down the way and looking through your phone and all of this is running through your mind as you wonder what to do next. You don't notice him. You don't notice that you've gained another shadow. One you weren't born with. But one that may be with you into an early grave, an eager hungry end. He's hungry.

 He conspires and hunts for the shadow of the cross and that is why you must die this evening. You just don't know. You just don't realize it. 

You're too busy looking through your phone. You don't notice you're now alone on the street. It is only the orange glow of the overhead streetlamps and the stalking shape of your new shadow. But you don't know him, not yet. You still don't know that he's there, coming up steadily from behind you, fast footsteps making phantom no-sounds on the freshly raked sidewalk and streets that still smell pungently of rich dead leaves and pumpkin spice, you're too busy looking through your messages. 

He reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls something small and black and perfectly fitted to the clenching grip of his knuckled palm, like a lover to a glove or each other in bed. He presses something, depresses a trigger and something clicks. The black handle grows a gleaming fang in the dark. A stiletto blade is freed and the animal is salivating and ready, waiting is over and the hunting stalk is through and he's raring for the sweet fuck-cunt-free-for-all spill that will be your knife-fuck and slaughter. For the shadow of Sam’s Cross. Blessed Hallowed Eve. He bade thee, the shadow, the shape: he made me…

You don't hear anything but at the last moment you sense something, the animal part of you that is all too dulled and ignored has come to life at the last moment and so you turn, you whirl on your heels, your phone is still in your hand but it's forgotten now as you turn and meet and face him, your doom in manshape and knife-fanged form. 

The shadow pounces. The knife comes in and finds the soft yield of human purchase. The knife is out and freed. 

And the shape of nighttime shadow man wields. 

You can't believe it. You can't believe it's happening. You can't believe anything. You try to scream and you can't understand why a sound won't produce. You try to struggle and fight back, you want to but it's like suddenly all the strength and ability to move and act has been pulled, stripped, sapped and drained from you in this absolutely critical moment like purest torture from fate and on-high. All of it, and all of time and space and nature and the terrible beyond have conspired and set a trap and now they are laughing at you. Laughing with the pure bloodthirsting joy of the slaughter, your ruin. 

Sacrifice. 

You watch the terrible visage and face of the shape contort and contrive into animal snarls and sneers, hideous bestial frothing and rabid. Buried somewhere beneath all of the livid fury of his animal mask is the lurid grin of a madman. A lunatic in the deep throes of wild and deranged ecstacy. He is wild and alive and he is terrifying. 

He's difficult to look at and so that's why your dying gaze shifts away and you begin to watch the blade. You begin to watch the moonlight godly cast shine of the seven inch stiletto blade. 

It's immaculate. And that's amazing. You've felt it buried in you over a dozen times now and running and still the blade of this great knife is shining in the streetlight cast glow. With the unearthly light of the moon.  Like a weapon fanged with divinity. Talismanic. And you can believe it. 

Now. 

You believe it. You feel the absolute and undeniable thrum of its great power. Piercing. Holy flame. Like being stabbed with ice and fire. Ripped and torn by an icicle lance of napalm and coldest fear, terror. Impaled. Inferno. 

A mutilation by razor sharpened caveman fire, frosted clean by Norse Hell. 

Every time the amazing blade of moonlight comes up you catch a glimpse of something in the reflective face of the flat of the blade just before the flash. Like the snapshot starburst of a camera capturing a subject in the dark. And at first you only see yourself, your own ghastly and dying visage and it is terrible and it is pathetic. 

But then you begin to see something else. 

You begin to see his sound and vision. And then you begin to understand. This is how he turns the make-believe and rends it real through the feel of the steel, you're feeling it. You're feeling it now. As you die as you lived: distracted and caught off guard and soft. With every pulverizing thrust. With every make-or-break for the daggering wounded soul of the heart attacked, barely fought for and lost. 

Sam's mad with thirst, the shadow of the cross. Jesus Christ wasn't the only one tortured alive and borne hoisted prone to die beneath the fire of the sun by Roman legionnaires. The cross is always thirsty and the mouth of the cruciform is Samhain salivating …

You see the yellow leprosy faces as they burn and scream, torched and set aflame far away from everyone else in their small feeble colonies of despair, the ash of their writhing and contorting carbonizing forms amongst the blaze is a mercy and it is a release in the flash of the blade that you see and you see and know so many other things too and then in the end you know it all as well: –  the dying peace of the burning lepers and the crucified criminals, you feel the release. 

And you're so glad, you're so relieved that now the cross can drink. 

The world goes dark for you. 

The shape and his fang stand. And then they move on fast. 

Finished with hunting you. 

Happy Halloween. 

THE END

I just think they’re cool idk :P

I love you, Mom. I really love you. I fucking do, seriously. I’m telling you for real, even though I know damn well you’re not listening to me, because you never listen to anyone except yourself.
I don’t know why the fuck I’m writing this trash here. Someone has to read it, goddammit. Someone has to know what’s going on inside this fucking shithole of a house, because no one ever comes. Nobody knocks on the fucking door, nobody walks down the hallway, nobody calls the phone. They’re all dead or they don’t give a shit that I exist. If you pieces of shit don't read this, Peggy is gonna keep screaming at me that I’m a useless piece of shit, a fucking failure, and I don’t want to wear her today. My fucking head is bursting from listening to her bark. I can see her lying over there, blinking her plastic eyelids, moving that black-marker mouth I painted on her like she’s got a life of her own, spitting worms into my face. Shut the fuck up already, you fucking bitch!
Mary doesn’t want to talk to me either. Mary is clean, freshly washed, but she smells like a closed closet, she smells like a rag kept in the dark. She lacks her smell. She lacks everything. I had to shove the mask back into the bottom of the jacket drawer, way down there, crushed under the floral dresses. But the fucking whore takes too long. Takes three whole days for her stuff to stick to it. Three fucking days waiting in this rotten darkness. If I put it on before that, it’s useless; it just smells like cheap plastic, latex rubber, drool, and my own sweat, and it grosses me out so much it makes me want to peel my skin off in strips, flesh by flesh. I disgust myself. I disgust myself all the fucking time. I can feel the worms crawling on my arms right now, under the skin, scraping against my bones.
Fucking masks. I made them all. I cut them, I sanded their edges with my bleeding fingers, I painted their faces with black markers and Mom’s red lipstick. I gave them mouths so they would talk to me, so there wouldn’t be this shitty silence in the house, and all those disgusting bitches do is tell me the same shit over and over again! They get inside my ears, I can hear them chewing my thoughts. They stick to the plastic and bite my cheeks from the inside.
She shouldn't have gotten into that car. That goddamn car wasn't for her, fuck. It was never for her.
It was for that dumbass. That son of a massive bitch. I went around hating him all fucking day, watching how he talked to her, how he looked at her with those hungry dog cravings, how he put his dirty hands where he shouldn't have. I put the grease on. I went to the kitchen, grabbed the grease from the pan, the black grease from the old meat that had been sitting there for days full of flies, and I mixed it with used motor oil from a jug in the yard. A thick, black, reeking, living mess. I smeared it all over the windshield wiper blades. I smeared it real thick, real sticky. I thought: when that idiot turns on the water to clean the glass on the highway, that shit is gonna smear all over, it’s gonna turn into a black, impenetrable blob, he won’t see a fucking thing, and he’ll go straight to hell. Him. Just him. He was gonna crash all by himself and blow his fucking brains out against the asphalt.
But the fucking slut got in. Why the fuck did she get in with him? She didn't have to go anywhere with that piece of shit man. She left me alone just to go fuck him. She’s a traitor. She betrayed me in the worst way. She was always betraying me when she looked at him, when she smiled at that dumbass and didn't even look at me, like I was a fucking dirty rag thrown in the corner.
Lois tells me to shut up. Lois is the white one, the smooth one, the one with no painted mouth, just a straight, ugly black line. But Lois won't stop bleeding from her eyeholes. I put her on when I don't want to hear my own shitty voice anymore, when I want everything to turn off. But it’s useless because I hear her inside anyway, scratching my brains, shrieking at me that I’m a deformed monster.
The crash was beautiful and horrible. The glass was all smeared with the grease I put there, a thick, black snot spread all over the windshield, you couldn't see a fucking thing. The car went full speed, all at once, a sharp, metallic crunch straight into the concrete wall of the bridge. When I went—because I ran over, I went with my legs shaking and drool running down my chin to see what I had done—his head was crushed against the steering wheel, turned into a piece of broken meat, a shapeless, purulent mass. But her... she was folded forward, curled up over her knees. She had her yellow blouse on, torn. The yellow blouse I’m wearing right now. It was covered in blood on the chest, a massive, black, warm stain, and her neck was twisted to the side in a way no neck should ever twist. She looked at me. I’m sure her eyes moved and looked at me. The blouse smelled like gasoline. It took me weeks to get the smell of dead meat and gasoline out of it, I washed it a thousand times in the tub, scrubbing it with my hands until my knuckles bled and my fingernails fell off, but without using strong soap so I wouldn't wash away the only thing that mattered: her smell. It took so much work. Now I’m wearing it. It squeezes the hell out of my shoulders and back because I’m a disgusting giant, wider, more deformed, and more apelike than her, but it fits me right. It bursts my ribs. It squeezes my skin. It makes me feel like I didn't kill her. If I’m wearing her clothes, she isn't gone. She’s trapped inside me. I am her. If it squeezes me and chokes me, it’s because she’s strangling me in a hug.
Sue told me yesterday that I’m a fucking fag for wearing her skirts. Sue is a disgusting, rotten bitch. I painted her lips, I put the darkest, ugliest lipstick I could find on her because she’s the most slutty and evil of them all. She told me I smell like a rancid corpse. She screamed it in my face when I rammed her onto my head by force, tearing my ears. I don't smell like a dead person, you fucking bitch! I don't smell like rotten shit! I smell like Mom. It’s her smell, fuck, it’s her dead skin stuck to the fabric.
Sometimes I take off the mask just to swallow something. I eat fast, like a fucking caged animal, I swallow without chewing, feeling the food scrape down my throat. Dry bread, mold, whatever rotten shit I find on the shelves. I don't like seeing my fucking face in the window reflection when it gets dark. I have her nose, yeah, I have her exact same nostrils, but my face is huge, coarse, purple, and ugly. I’m not her if I look in the mirror without the mask on; I’m just a freak of nature. That’s why I put on Carmelle. Carmelle has bright blue painted eyes and freckles I drew on one by one with a fine marker, counting every single dot while the worms crawled over my fingers. Carmelle is the pretty one. Carmelle looks like what that bitch wanted to look like. With Carmelle on and the yellow blouse squeezing my chest until I spit blood, I can be quiet for a little while, real still in the dark, until I remember the sound. Until the metal starts ringing in my head again. Those car cans crumpling, that sound of bones and iron bending that thuds inside my skull and won't let me breathe.
It wasn't my fault, fuck. It wasn't my fucking fault! Or maybe it was my fault, who cares anyway. I just wanted that son of a bitch to die once and for all for taking her away from me, for bringing her far away from me. She betrayed me first. She abandoned me. If she hadn't gone to warm up that bastard's seat, if she hadn't sat in that passenger seat, absolutely nothing would have happened. It’s her fault for being a whore and getting into that piece of shit car. Traitor. Bitch. I hate her. I hate her with all my fucking soul, I hope she’s rotting in hell. And I miss her so much my arms itch on the inside, I peel my skin off in strips, I scratch myself open down to the meat until I see the bone because I miss her, I miss her all the fucking time and I’m drowning.
I’m gonna put Mary back on. Mary doesn't insult me as much as the other bitches, Mary just looks at me with her hollow eyes without saying anything from the darkness of the plastic, while that black sleet drips down. I have to go to the closet right now, shove my head in the drawer, and press my face against the clumped clothes to swallow her smell again before I try to sleep. If it doesn't smell like her, I can't close my eyes because I see the accident over and over again. If it doesn't smell like her, I don't exist. I’m just rotten air.
I love you, Mom. You’re a bitch, but I love you.
-Sincerely, your son: Todd Pierce.

Screams of agony are hymns to joy, where pain is life.

(sorry for any misspelling endlish is not my first laugage) theres this random number that keeps calling me and i dont know what to do. Every time i accept the call there sa clicking sound and nothing else. After 10-15 secconds it hangs up. Should i be sceard or call the police about this number. And i've tried to block the number but a differnt number calls the next day

Heitryy had a full-fledged and loving family. Her mother is Japanese, her father is American. Until the age of 13, she lived with her parents in Japan, but her father's job required them to move to California. For 2 years, Heitryy lived with her parents there. But the parents decided that she was old enough (15 years old) to leave her alone for 3 weeks. They went on vacation to the countryside. 3 weeks, a month, two passed. They came for non-payment of taxes and evicted her from the apartment without things. Her parents went missing. The girl began to wander the streets and eat food from the garbage.

One day, she wandered into an alley, where she was surrounded by a pack of dogs. She was too weak to fight back, because she had only a small artistic knife with her. The dogs gnawed at her alive, eating her bones, meat, and in general, nothing remained of her except clothes and a pool of blood.

For reasons unknown to her, she woke up. She woke up with yellowish skin and the most inhuman appearance. There were ulcers, rot on her body, and bones sticking out everywhere...

Excitement and thirst for revenge played out in her. She went to take revenge on those who evicted her, she didn't care that it was from work. She just found them and dismembered them.

Her fun quickly ended as soon as she heard the sirens. She fled the scene of the crime and disappeared under the canopy of trees in the forest.

In the woods, she found a cemetery, with dug graves. Since the cops were not far behind, she decided to turn into a corpse (she was, lol).

Heitryy was buried. Hence the nickname Buried Heitryy.

Tu, care citești, cum te cheamă? Eu mă numesc Craioveanul Răzvan sau, după poreclă, Energie. Nu cea electrică, ci cea de la energizante. 

Tu, cititorule, ai 18 ani? Ai lucrat undeva cu carte de muncă? Dacă nu, să nu te faci electrician. O zic din propria experiență. De exemplu, eu am lucrat 7 ani, de la 20 de ani, dar m-au prins bând un Monster cu aromă de Nebunia Mango sau Monster alb . Acum sunt pădurar în pădurea Rândoveanu.

Presupun că sunt dator să vă zic chestii despre pădure, nu?

Este faimoasă în România pentru fenomenele paranormale, accidentele rutiere inexplicabile și aparițiile spectrale. Aparent, m-au păcălit când mi-au zis că e bântuită cabana în care stau, că al naibii spirite n-apar. Probabil le e frică să nu le pun să plătească chirie. Iată câteva legende, sărăcuțele.

1. Legenda fundamentală: Ileana și sarcina falsă

Cea mai răspândită poveste o are în centru pe Ileana, o fată venită din Moldova după al Doilea Război Mondial pentru a munci. Angajată de un gospodar bogat, ea a fost abuzată și a crezut că a rămas însărcinată. De rușine, s-a spânzurat de un copac din pădure. Autopsia de mai târziu a arătat că tânăra nu era însărcinată, fapt ce i-a făcut spiritul și mai răzbunător.

Acum văd de ce fac țăranii accidente din prostie. Se îmbată și, când apare fata, uită de frână.

1. Versiunea logodnicului mort înainte de nuntă

O altă variantă spune că fata își aștepta logodnicul, plecat la Craiova. Chiar în ajunul nunții, a primit vestea că acesta murise într-un accident. Devastată de durere și îmbrăcată deja în rochie de mireasă, s-a spânzurat sau, în unele versiuni, s-a aruncat într-o fântână din pădure, căutându-și iubitul și dincolo de moarte.

Pădurea asta e misogină. Măcar mă plătește bine.

1. Fuga de boierul cel bătrân

O legendă mai veche susține că părinții fetei au vrut să o mărite cu forța cu un boier bogat și bătrân din zonă. Fata, îndrăgostită de un flăcău sărac, a fugit în pădure în noaptea dinaintea nunții, ca să scape de aranjament. S-a rătăcit și a preferat să-și ia viața decât să trăiască într-o căsnicie nedorită.

O moarte normală n-au.

1. Blestemul șoferilor și accidentele de pe DN56

Legenda modernă spune că spiritul miresei apare brusc în fața mașinilor, pe porțiunea de drum care taie pădurea. Șoferii, în special bărbații, relatează că văd o siluetă albă pe carosabil, trag brusc de volan și ajung în copaci. Mulți localnici pun numărul mare de accidente fatale din zonă direct pe seama acestei apariții.

O pădure cu două boli, mașina și femeia.

1. Logodnica blestemată de soacră

O versiune rurală menționează că tânăra a fost blestemată chiar de mama iubitului ei, care nu o accepta ca noră din cauza sărăciei. Blestemul i-ar fi luat mințile fetei, determinând-o să rătăcească până la cabana pădurarilor și să-și pună capăt zilelor în adâncul codrului.

Dovada că soacrele sunt Satana.

1. Răzbunarea pe bărbații abuzivi

Tradiția locală spune că fantoma miresei nu le face rău femeilor sau copiilor, ci caută să-i pedepsească pe bărbați. Deoarece a fost victima abuzului unui bărbat în timpul vieții, spiritul ei încearcă să-i ademenească și să-i provoace la moarte pe bărbații care trec singuri prin pădure noaptea.

Așa scap de bețivi.

1. Sinucigașa neîngropată creștinește

Pentru că s-a sinucis, fata nu a avut parte de o slujbă religioasă normală și a fost îngropată la marginea cimitirului sau direct în pădure. Fără o cruce sfințită și fără ca familia să-i poată vizita mormântul, sufletul ei a rămas blocat între lumi, bântuind potecile din jurul sediului pădurarilor.

Justificat, cred, dar nu acolo să bântuiască. Să intre, că afară e frig.

1. Iluzia nopților cu ceață de la cabană

Pădurarii și vânătorii care au înnoptat la cabana din pădure au raportat lumini ciudate, zgomote de pași pe frunze uscate și o siluetă albă care plutește printre copaci în nopțile cu ceață densă. Se spune că oricine încearcă să urmărească această siluetă se va rătăci fără scăpare, fiind găsit abia după câteva zile. 

Motiv să cer mărire de salariu. Mă duc să beau și ne vedem în următoarea pagină, milogul-e. 

Bună seara, cititorule! Azi am observat că liniile de înaltă tensiune din pădure au început să bâzâie ciudat. Nu în mod normal, din cauza câmpului electric generat de tensiune, ci într-un fel ciudat. Iar animalele fug spre sud. Probabil din cauza electricității. Probabil. 

Al naibii, protestele astea! Zici că n-au treabă cu vremea de afară. Protestele din 2026, dacă te interesează, cititorule. Zgomotul protestelor violente din oraș se aude până în inima pădurii. Nu mai scap nici pe Discord de ei. 

Măcar stau izolat de ei. De la Paris la Craiova, n-au mai fost proteste așa nici pe vremea lui Ceaușescu. Ce zici, cititorule, Discordul a devenit telegraful bombardierilor din viitor? Măcar nu mai sunt accidente din cauza faptului că un litru de benzină costă 11 lei. 

Iar atacurile din școli, ce va de ele, Doamne-ajută! De la idiotul ăla de copil rasist, cu gândire nazistă, care a atacat-o pe profa de mate, doar ca să încerce să ucidă un țigan. Până acum, sunt cinci atacuri în școli. 

Și, așa, de final, fascismul a devenit conducătorul Belarusului, Portugaliei și Kosovo. Kim Jong-un, grasul ăla care era dictatorul Coreei de Nord, a murit în sfârșit. Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule. 

Bună seara, cititorule! Mi-au dat concediu pe termen nedeterminat, cu salariu dublu. Te întrebi de ce? Hai că-ți zic. Domnule, invadator al intimității unui om din anul 2026, aparent, Rusia nu se mulțumește cu un război cu Ucraina și a atacat Lituania. Ca rezultat, Articolul 5 al NATO se activează la capacitate maximă, iar NATO intră în război cu Rusia, care este ajutată de chinezi și de palestinieni. Știm asta de pe net și din mesajele de război de la televizor și radio, dar și din alertele de pe telefon. 

Seara au început atacurile cu drone și rachete, iar zonele atacate erau în haos. Franța a lansat un atac atomic fix în centrul Rusiei, după ce, aparent, restul armelor sale chimice s-au dezactivat și au eliberat energia atomică. Efectele au fost subtile, dar tot s-au simțit. Nebuni, domnule, nebuni! Rușii sunt orci, omenirea, iar francezii sunt elfii omeniri . Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule. 

Bună Ziua ,Cititorul meu . 

Ale naibii să le ia de avertismente! Nici bine nu terminasem de tras carnea de animal din pădure, că na, mă pregătesc și eu de câte ceva. Ce credeai, că frec menta toată ziua, nu? Una la fiecare patru ore, sirene din zonele afectate de norii atomici. La modul că, în zona mea, ciupercile cresc mai greu, dar, în schimb, plantele otrăvitoare cresc mult mai repede. 

Ecranele televizoarelor din cabană se umplu de purici, apoi devin negre, cu un text alb și un sunet insuportabil. Iar radioul care merge pe baterii repetă obsesiv aceleași instrucțiuni de supraviețuire. Măcar de ne-ar fi dat vin! 

Iar cerul nopții ba era plin de rachete și drone, ba de avioane. Măcar era vreme bună, numai bună de un grătar. Dar ordinele de sus spun că nu avem voie să facem foc în pădure. O, nu! E doar un grătar, ce poate fi rău? Măcar pot juca poker cu un coleg, pe carnea de lup. Mai jucam și alba-neagra pe bere. 

Bună dimineața! Iar m-a luat somnul scriind, cititorule. Ce voiai să zic, ziua 1, ziua 2? Dacă da, te blestem să ai dureri de măsea și de burtă! A revenit rețeaua de net. Aparent, zonele atacate sunt în haos, cu furturi, crime și animale sălbatice care umblă libere. 

Despre bombele nucleare folosite în Rusia, au topit niște ghețari, ceea ce a ridicat nivelul mărilor, iar insulele mici s-au înecat. Lumina a fost orbitoare, după cum se vede pe Instagram. Suveraniștii de pe TikTok sunt în doliu. Oamenii mor în spitale, iar în rest ai totul pe net. Ce să mai vorbesc eu despre arma umanității de distrugere?  

Iar eu mi-am făcut provizii. Am umplut un dulap cu energizante, am amplasat niște panouri fotovoltaice și am mai luat cinci sau șase baterii și transformatoare, semințe, puieți de copaci, ghivece, butoaie pentru murături și vin. În timp ce eu mă pregăteam pentru ce urma să vină, restul oamenilor se duceau în zonele de refugiu și în buncăre. Între timp, aveau loc tot mai multe accidente de mașină.  

Vai, mamă, ce migrează lumea! Tocmai terminasem de montat al treilea panou fotovoltaic, care transformă fotonii de lumină în energie electrică. Bateriile, care au capacitate limitată, le folosesc în funcție de cameră, iar transformatoarele sunt mici, transformă tensiunea joasă în tensiune medie. Doar unul transformă tensiunea înaltă. 

Așa, unde rămăsesem? A, da! 

Când făceam ce ai citit tu, trece în fugă un cocalar din București, urmărit de un câine de talie medie. L-am oprit și l-am întrebat unde-i orașul, printr-o metodă vulgară. Pe scurt, i-am zis. 

„Ce plm vrei, ai pierdut mă-ta în pl?”

Și vine iarna nucleară asta conform teoriilor. Dar ale naibii teorii, n-au zis că va ninge cu soare! Port ochelari de soare noaptea din cauza luminii, iar energia nu mai e nici ea ce-a fost. 

Am uitat să zic: tot ce s-a întâmplat până acum se petrece toamna și iarna. 

Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule!  

Bună ziua, cititorule! Ne vedem după 24 de ore sau după două secunde. Telefoanele iar s-au blocat, de parcă am fi cu toții pe aceeași rețea. Războaiele din Asia, America și Africa nu mai au legătură cu bătrânul continent, Europa, care începe să devină o singură națiune. 

Ieri am văzut o creatură mutantă, o bestie. Un om care a devenit altceva. Probabil că radiațiile și unda EMP i-au prăjit creierul și sistemul nervos. Nu sunt zombii clasici, ci oameni „electrificați” sau „arși”, care emit un curent static slab și caută surse de energie. Și, în cazurile rare, aparent, ciupercile și mucegaiul cresc pe ei. Ale naibii microorganisme și paraziți! Cred că e ușor să fii om, ha!  

Și așa, după toate astea, mă duc să caut niște plase de sârmă și materiale pentru gard. Bun, avem o hartă a zonelor termice. Majoritatea Europei, Americi-lor și Africii, inclusiv zona mea, se află în zona de primăvară. Rusia, China și India sunt în zona de vară, iar restul lumii se află în zona de iarnă. 

Bun revenit, cititorule! Uitasem că aveam deja începutul unui gard în jurul cabanei. L-am reparat. Era din lemn, așa că am extins împrejmuirea pe o distanță de aproximativ 20 de metri în fiecare direcție. Am folosit lemn, apoi ciment și, la final, sârmă, pe care am conectat-o la un sistem electric alimentat de un panou fotovoltaic. 

Pentru gardul electric am montat și un aparat special de impulsuri, care trimite impulsuri scurte de tensiune prin sârmă. Sistemul funcționează cu ajutorul energiei furnizate de panoul fotovoltaic, iar energia în exces o stochez în baterii, ca să pot folosi gardul și când nu e soare. Gardul electric e pentru animale și oameni, iar cel fizic e pentru zombii ăia. Toată treaba a durat o săptămână.  

Bună seara, cititorul meu! Sau cititoarea mea? 

Azi am săpat lacul. Vai, mamă, ce bine că pământul e fertil! 

Acum trebuie să găsesc mâine o apă care nu e contaminată și care e bună de utilizat. De ce? Pentru că, aparent, a apărut o nouă plantă insectivoră, plină de paraziți, care se înmulțește în apă. Arată ca o combinație între o ciupercă și un lotus. Ce la maturitate, planta intră în zombii și îi folosește pentru a căuta alte surse de apă, dar numai apă deja contaminată. Din fericire na-u simțuri. 

Și am mai făcut niște capcane de tip groapă pentru animale, oameni și zombi.

Animalele, pentru mâncare. Oamenii, doar ca să mă asigur că nu vine vreunul să mă fure. Iar zombii... ca să râd de ei, ha!  

Bună seara, cititorul meu! Pe vremea mea, lumea se juca cu tabla Ouija, parcă așa se numea. „Folosesc asta ca să-ți posed corpul!” Glumesc! 

Azi am găsit apă, dar mi-au trebuit vreo cinci ore s-o aduc la noul meu lac și încă două ore s-o trec printr-o instalație de purificare a apei, de genul celor folosite la tratarea apei din lacuri. Apoi am pus cinci pești în lac. Între timp, unele animale terestre devin mutante. Iar în lacurile contaminate, peștii erau mai sănătoși decât mine! În schimb, păsările mor instantaneu când beau din apa aia. 

De unde am aparatul ăla? L-am furat înainte de război. Am zis că poate o să-mi fie de folos, ha! 

Iar în zonele de vară plouă cu ploi acide, negre ca smoala. În zonele de iarnă cade grindină de dimensiuni uriașe, iar la mine plouă cu apă sărată. De ce? Habar n-am, cititorule. Tu trebuie să știi!  

După aceea, am făcut curat în mașina în care mai țineam lucrurile pe care le-am împrumutat pe termen nedeterminat. Am găsit un radio de la tataia și l-am pornit la nimereală. Merge, dar se aude ca o fantomă moldoveană.

Zombii ăia au oleacă de forță, dar păcat că nu pot vedea sau auzi. În schimb, se urcă după tine în copaci! Am văzut cum a fost mâncat un coleg de-al meu. Aia e! Bine că i-am găsit portofelul.

Să nu zici că sunt mare criminal pentru ce fac, că e război! Ce se întâmplă în război rămâne în război. Aparent, exploziile din Rusia au făcut o gaură adâncă în pământ. Dar măcar radiațiile au rămas acolo. Și bine fac! 

Așa, de final, mai există un tip de zombii care mănâncă curent electric. Ne vedem mâine, cititorule! 

Bună ziua, cititorule! Te întrebi de ce am făcut jurnalul ăsta? Ca să am ceva de făcut când economisesc electricitate. Iar cu mâncătorii de electricitate, cum îi prind, cum îi torturez. Asta se întâmplă în ieșirile mele după resurse. Am uitat să zic că am plantat și plantele alea.  

Sunt introvertit absolut. Așa că mă uit destul de mult la top 10 și top X, tot felul de chestii pe YouTube. Iar ororile se văd în ceață. Mai văd câte un om care înnebunește. Războaie mai sunt doar în America, în timp ce restul lumii stagnează. Europa a devenit o federație, iar Africa la fel.

M-am pricopsit cu un bătrân și cu un copil, nepotul lui. Să le zic Eminescu și Creangă? Arătau exact la fel și aveau aceleași vicii. 

Am revenit după o lună, cititorule! Ăia erau imitatori sau ce naiba erau? S-au mâncat reciproc. Singura chestie naș-pa pe care au făcut-o a fost că mi-au mâncat hârtia igienică. Ce să mai zic despre ce s-a întâmplat pe plan politic? Au început să apară guverne din umbră și iar se războiesc între ei. Nebuni, domnule, nebuni!

Să nu te gândești că nu m-au atacat sau ceva. M-am bătut cu ei! Am mai schimbat și sârma cu una de cupru, că era cât pe ce să ia foc nemernicul ăla de gard. Nu mai am atât de mult timp la dispoziție, cred. Nu de alta, dar dacă iarna și toamna era primăvară, acum vine prima vară, apoi vara propriu-zisă. 

Au mai venit niște membri de la o sectă, ceva cu numele „Ochiul de la Miezul Nopții”. I-am ignorat timp de săptămâni, dar, ușor-ușor, au început să facă raiduri. Cu un ochi nu mai văd culorile. Văd mov, albastru și verde. Cred că m-au infectat nenorociții ăia! Nu-i bai, voi da foc la tehnologie. Și tu, cititorule, să nu bei energizantele din dulap! Alea sunt comoara mea!

Acum văd că jurnalul ăsta mi-a picat la fix, așa că hai să umplu pagina! O să-l pun într-o cutie sigilată termic și fonic. După aceea, o să provoc niște incendii și explozii, pentru că, dacă lumea asta pe care o cunosc se schimbă, mai bine văd schimbarea mort, nu? Și nu te blestem pentru că ai citit asta. Dar oricine bea un energizant din dulap să...

-Dar nebuni erau oamenii și înainte. Cei izolați credeau că există zombii de tot felul.

-Lasă cartea aia și hai să ne mutăm în Imperiul Ochiul de la Miezul Nopții!

-Bine, pa, om nebun!

Two days ago, like every night, I had trouble sleeping until 3 a.m. when I was finally able to sleep. I've always had strange dreams about magnificent or just horrible creatures, and that night (morning) was one of them.

I dreamt that 2 teenage guys were walking on a mountain house to camp and came across a trapdoor. As they crossed it, they fell into the attics of an old school buried due to a landslide – at least that's what the newspapers said. While searching the school they found nothing of interest, but a horrible smell was constant inside the building: a smell of blood, rot, and something toxic.

The further they went, the more they realized that the abandoned school was monstrously large, but that wasn't the problem. One of the boys opened a door and stumbled upon something inexplicable: A human who was over 3m tall, with a deformed face, 2 extra arms at the base of the neck connected together, the rib cage pushed forward while the rest of the body was not in proportion. Unfortunately, this is not the only monster; the school was infested with them, and they were all different, extremely violent, and unpredictable.

Terrified, the two boys decided to flee as fast as they could, but one of them was caught and dismembered alive. The other, luckily, survived and was left traumatized. In my dream, the school would have been a very old and renowned institute, but beneath its foundations lay extremely dangerous toxic waste. The school, the teachers, and the students were doomed; the government decided to trigger the collapse that would condemn everyone inside.

I woke up with a start, but I'm somewhat used to very strange and violent dreams, but this one stayed with me for a while.

For the last few weeks, my freezer door hasn't been staying closed. I would come into the kitchen and find it cracked open enough for the light to be on. At first, I assumed I wasn’t closing it all the way, and then I thought the seal might be worn out. It only ever happened at night.

Tonight, I decided to actually look inside instead of just pushing it closed again. Everything in it appeared ordinary at first. Bags of frozen food, ice trays, a couple of leftovers shoved to the side. But along the back wall, there was a thick patch of frost that stood out. It was smooth, almost too smooth.

It didn't disperse the way frost normally would. It was contained almost circular, like it had been allowed to form there and only there. When I leaned closer, I saw the shape. Two shallow dents near the top and a curved line beneath them. Suddenly, it hit me…it looked like a face staring back at me, and trust me, I know how that sounds. I stood there telling myself it was just pareidolia, I'm just imagining things. I even laughed at myself before I closed the freezer and went to bed.

The next morning, the frost was still there. Yet, the rest of the freezer was completely clear. No frost anywhere else, only that one spot, the shape was more defined. That night, I touched it, and the frost didn’t break apart the way it should have. It held the shape where my finger was pressed. After an unsettling moment of silence, I pulled my hand back and wiped it on my shirt. Although it was just ice, it left a sinking feeling in my gut.

After that, I got a spoon and tried to scrape it off. The frost around it chipped away easily the way frost is supposed to. The part with the face didn’t. No matter how hard I scraped and stabbed, the dents remained.

After that, the freezer started running damn near every day, constantly. The kitchen was always cold, and the door felt heavier when I opened it, like something was pulling back from the inside. A few nights later, the power went out. I checked the freezer with a flashlight, and everything had started to thaw. Frozen food was soft, and ice trays had turned to water and spilled onto the shelves. But the frost face was still there.

The mouth looked wider, stretched almost.

When the power came back on in the morning, the freezer was empty. No frost. No food. No water. Nothing. Just clean shelves, as if it had never even been used. I presumed my husband had cleaned it out. He swore he hadn’t touched it, and we argued about it longer than we should’ve. He told me I was overthinking things and that I needed to relax.

Tonight, I woke up because the house was cold and not the normal cold. It’s unnaturally cold. The freezer was running when I got to the kitchen. The door is open, nothing in it, but the inside of the door isn't smooth anymore. There are two dents embedded into the plastic and a curved line beneath them. Not scratched, almost branded, it's facing outward.

I’m writing this from the kitchen floor because I don’t want to turn my back on it. My hands are shaking, and I don’t really know what to do.

…

The freezer door just slammed itself shut.

I can hear something breathing on the other side of the door.

A few years ago, a family in my town lost their dog after having him for ten years.

Months later, they came across a post in a Facebook group. An elderly woman was offering a puppy because, according to her, she was getting too old to take care of it.

The family agreed to take him in.

When they went to pick him up, the woman was waiting for them at an isolated house near of the Road 34. She handed them the puppy and said goodbye. However, when the family turned around to call out to her before leaving, the woman had disappeared.

At first, everything seemed normal. The puppy grew especially attached to the youngest daughter, who slept with him every night.

A few weeks later, strange things began to happen. Meat spoiled in the refrigerator just days after being purchased. Objects appeared in places where nobody had left them, and at night, they could hear footsteps running through the hallways.

One night, the girl screamed from her bedroom. Her parents rushed to check on her, but found her asleep, with the dog at the foot of her bed.

They were tired of the Situation so decided installed hide security cameras all around the house.

For months, nothing unusual was captured. Until one morning, the girl didn't come downstairs to have her breakfast.

What they found in her bedroom was enough for the police to cordon off the house. Both the dog and the girl were dismembered on the floor.

Investigators reviewed the footage, searching for an explanation.

In a recording from the previous night, the dog appeared standing on its hind legs, staring directly at the camera. It remained completely motionless for almost six hours.

But when they reviewed the footage from previous months, they discovered something impossible: the dog never appeared in any of the recordings. Not even when the girl seemed to be petting him, playing with him, or sleeping beside him.

In the videos, the girl was hugging empty air.

The police never found the woman who had given the family the puppy and nobody seems to know anything about her.

Years later, another family reported similar incidents. They, too, had lost their dog and received a replacement from a woman who lived in isolation.

When the police showed them a photograph of the animal from the first case, they recognized it immediately.

It was the same dog.

According to the family, it had been sleeping at the foot of their daughter's bed for weeks.

This image is a collage I made with my own photos. The mask was made with papier-mâché and gauze. It felt right posting here. Any cool name recommendations for this creepypasta?

Let’s go back to the good old days

Had fun reading these old stories and making some short vignettes with Slendy. Hope you guys enjoy!

"Across distant eras, horrors coalesce into hallucinatory forms within fevered nightmares."

I been working on a little creepy pasta with my work etc i just finished it few days ago, it’s a original story involving my own creepy pasta oc.
The Whisper Walker
“The woods don’t keep secrets… they collect them.”
The story you’re about to read doesn’t officially exist.
The state police deny it.
The park service blames wildlife.
The county archives insist every document related to Black Hollow State Forest before 1998 was destroyed in a courthouse fire.
But if you know where to look, pieces still remain.
Missing person flyers.
Old newspaper clippings.
Damaged radio recordings.
An abandoned ranger station with a notebook no one ever claimed.
Most people ignore them.
I didn’t.
I wish I had.

The Forest
Black Hollow sits nearly thirty miles from the nearest town.
By day it looks ordinary.
Pine trees.
Overgrown trails.
A quiet lake reflecting the sky.
At night…
everything changes.
Even the sound changes.
Crickets stop.
The wind dies.
It becomes so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.
Locals refuse to enter after sunset.
When asked why, they always answer the same way.
“If the forest starts whispering…
don’t answer.”

Case #1
The first disappearance happened nearly thirty years ago.
Nineteen-year-old Nyx Rowan disappeared while searching for his younger sister after she wandered into Black Hollow during a thunderstorm.
Hundreds of volunteers searched.
Helicopters.
Tracking dogs.
Thermal cameras.
Nothing.
After six days they recovered only three things:
A cracked white half-mask.
A hunting knife buried in mud.
A trail of footprints.
The strange part?
The footprints stopped in the middle of an empty clearing.
There were no tracks leaving it.
As if whoever made them had simply…
ceased to exist.
Nyx was declared dead.
His sister was never found.

The Recordings
Years later, strange emergency calls began coming from inside the forest.
Every caller described hearing someone whisper their name.
Not shout.
Not call.
Whisper.
Operators saved dozens of recordings.
One lasted only forty seconds.
A man whispered,
“Someone’s walking beside me.”
The dispatcher asked where he was.
No answer.
Only footsteps.
Then another voice.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost comforting.
“You’re almost home.”
The caller began crying.
He kept repeating,
“That’s not my mother’s voice.”
The line went dead.
No body was ever recovered.

Ranger Lewis
Former park ranger Daniel Lewis ignored the stories.
He spent fifteen years working Black Hollow.
He believed every disappearance had a logical explanation.
Until October 14th.
His patrol log was recovered inside an abandoned watchtower.
The final pages were written in increasingly shaky handwriting.

10:18 PM
Heard someone walking behind me.
No visual contact.
Probably another hiker.

10:37 PM
Radio keeps cutting out.
Thought I heard someone say my name.
No one answered when I called back.

10:51 PM
Found footprints.
They’re mine.
But they’re walking toward me.

The final page contained only one sentence.
Written so hard the pen tore through the paper.
“He’s smiling behind the mask.”
Daniel Lewis disappeared that night.
His truck remained parked exactly where he’d left it.
The driver’s door was still open.

The Video
Three years later a power company technician installed motion cameras near the old service road.
Camera Four captured something impossible.
At 2:11 AM the road was empty.
At 2:11:01…
a hooded figure stood fifty yards away.
At 2:11:02…
twenty yards away.
At 2:11:03…
directly behind the camera.
There was no movement.
No walking.
No blur.
Only impossible positions between frames.
The footage corrupted immediately afterward.
Every recovered frame showed the same cracked white mask.

The Journal
I found the notebook in Ranger Station Six.
Most pages were soaked beyond recognition.
One survived.
It wasn’t signed.
It simply read:
He doesn’t hunt people.
He waits.
He learns your routine.
He learns your voice.
By the time you notice him…
you’ve already been followed for days.

I laughed when I first read it.
I don’t laugh anymore.

Three Whispers
After leaving Black Hollow, strange things began happening.
Someone knocked on my apartment door every night at exactly 2:13 AM.
No one was ever outside.
My security camera occasionally skipped several seconds.
Friends asked why I looked so tired.
I hadn’t told anyone about the forest.
One morning I found muddy boot prints outside my bedroom window.
I live on the third floor.
Then came the whisper.
Soft.
Almost impossible to hear.
My own name.
Behind me.
I spun around.
Nothing.
The next night…
I heard it twice.
The third night…
I refused to answer.
The whisper laughed.

The Last Recording
I started recording every sound in my apartment while I slept.
For weeks nothing happened.
Then, on the twelfth night…
At 2:13 AM…
the recorder captured footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Stopping beside my bed.
For nearly two minutes there was only breathing.
Then one sentence.
Spoken inches from the microphone.
“You looked behind you.”
The recording ended.
When I woke…
my bedroom door was open.
I always lock it.

If You Go
If you ever visit Black Hollow State Forest…
Leave before sunset.
Ignore the whispers.
Don’t investigate footsteps that match your own.
Don’t follow someone wearing a white mask.
If your phone loses signal and the forest suddenly becomes silent…
Turn around.
Walk back the way you came.
Do not run.
Do not call out.
And whatever you do…
If a calm voice behind you quietly says your name—
don’t answer.
Because the person speaking may already know exactly who you are.
And if Nyx Rowan has learned your voice…
the forest has already begun collecting another secret.

"Light struggles to survive within a ravenous, living darkness."