Persausion

It’s been 2 weeks since this whole thing started.

It all started with a tanker accident. It was all over the news. Everyone thought it was just another oil spill. There were plenty of volunteers. Plenty of people wanting to help the poor defenseless animals. Plenty of victims. Within hours of the tanker accident, it started happening. The animals had gone crazy, they were scratching and biting the clean up volunteers. They said that it was an adverse effect to whatever was in that tanker.

Rescue workers were still trying to get the crew out of the ship. They could hear screaming inside. Screams to open the doors. But that’s when it all went to hell. As soon as they cut the door out.

There was 6 minutes of broadcast before it went silent. 6 minutes of screaming and agony. The ship crew attacked the rescue workers like rabid baboons. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. The people on the shore weren’t fairing any better. Those that had been attacked by animals were attacking everyone else. It was worse than any war zone report, it was sheer brutality, and yet the broadcast still went on for 6 minutes. 6 minutes and then blank faces. Nobody could explain what was happening. They tried to continue with regular news, the economy, the weather, a cute human interest story, but they couldn’t make us unsee what we saw.

I tried to continue with my regular existence but every time I switched on the news or walked by a news stand it was there. This big mystery. They had some explanations, some kind of infection, brain parasites, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an infection we were afraid of, it was them.

4 days after the initial report, a state of emergency was raised. And yet we’d all seen this before. Every zombie movie ever. People didn’t know who to trust. People were stockpiling food and weapons. Some tried to flee but it seems every zombie movie was right. They didn’t make it. 3 days later they arrived in my town.

I expected moans, shuffling corpses, dismemberment, but that’s where the movies lied. They ran through the streets, screaming. I remember running to my front door as fast as I could, locking, barricading, doing anything to make sure it would stay shut, and then I headed for the window. I was on the second story and I could see the carnage. They were unstoppable. They were aware.

A group of them made there way through a building across the street. They jumped straight through plate glass windows. Even the shards slicing through them made no difference, they just kept coming. My barricade wasn’t going to hold. I rushed around my flat, grabbing supplies and jamming them into the most secure room of the flat. I went back for one last look across the street, and I wish I hadn’t. In a second story window, my face met one of theirs. They knew where I was. I quickly dashed into the room and locked the door.

I don’t have any kind of panic room, or a secure basement, so the safest place I could think of was my bathroom. No windows, one door with a lock. I had filled my sink and bathtub full of water, So I could stay for a while. So I sat there in the dark room, with the distant screams in my ears.

I began to feel like I may have over-reacted, it had been 2 hours and no sign of them. It actually got quieter and I thought they had moved on. Maybe I could leave the room, get to the kitchen. Grab more food to wait it out. A crash came from the front door. The sound of someone running full force into the door and knocking down the barrier behind it. There was a couple more crashes before I knew they were inside. Rapid footsteps moving around the flat, a couple screams and then a bang on the wall beside me. My eyes were open to their widest, even in the pitch black darkness of the room. Another bang, and another. They knew I was there and they knew I was scared.

This was the zombie nightmare I had been expecting from the start. I had nowhere to run. There was only so much time before they would break in. I sat with my back to the door, hoping my extra weight would make it harder for them to get in. And then it got worse.
“why don’t you open the door?”

A voice on the opposite side of the door. No screams or moans, just a quiet, whispery voice. And then more of them.

“we’ve come for you.”
“you’ll be happier if you open the door”
“it’s not so bad…”

The whispery voices, became a cacophony of noise trying to persuade me, to break me, to fool me. I had heard that the moaning of zombies would drive people insane but this was worse, a siren call. I sat in the darkness and hoped and prayed that they’d get bored. But they don’t get bored and they don’t leave. I managed to use the mirror to peak under the door, only to be greeted by horrible unblinking eyes, blood smeared faces, screams and more horrible whispers. That was two days ago…

I don’t know what to do anymore… maybe it won’t be so bad…

Credit to Chris Stewart

SCP-173: The Statue

Item #: SCP-173

Object class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.

Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.

Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.

The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.

Imagination

There it goes again. Something definitely moved this time. It was very brief, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw something. But wait. All the doors are locked, no pets, and your parents won’t get home until 10. So there’s no way something moved. It’s just your imagination getting the best of you. Sitting alone in your room, the only light emitting from the monitor of your computer, you stare into the darkness for several minutes. Just to be sure. Now you feel silly. What were you thinking? Of course there’s nothing there. What, are you 6? Go back to what you were doing.
15 minutes later, as you prepare to go to bed, you’re in the bathroom. The shower curtains shift. Wait… no. Stop spooking yourself. It’s just an overactive imagination, filling your head with what isn’t really there. You gaze into the mirror at yourself. You say it to yourself, slowly and clearly, “Imagination.” With a sigh, you turn the lights off and head towards your room.
Laying in bed, you stare at your ceiling, dark and foreboding, only the motion of a small fan disturbing the calmness of the night. A shadow from the light in the hall shifts. No. No, no, no. Stop it. It’s your imagination. Just that. Go to sleep, you fool.
But then, just when you’re about to drift off to sleep, at the phase no one remembers when they wake, you sense something in the darkness. It’s your imagination, leering down at you. With a jagged, macabre smile.

Dreams

A recent study by the National Psychiatric Institute in Boston, MA, concluded that no activity can account for the phenomenon known as nightmares. Whereas many dreams come from unconscious desires, most nightmares seem to come from an outside source independent of the individual. In fact, when subjects are asked to recall nightmares they are almost always found in the same memory section as actual physical memories, not the section where normal dreams are replayed. In other words, those aliens and creatures you see at night in your “dreams?” They’re real.

Call

If you call yourself on your own cellular phone, sometimes you will get an answer. You won’t hear anything other than heavy breathing, so don’t bother waiting for them to speak. If you then say the name of a person you know and a reason that they should die (reasons like “I just want them dead” do work), then they will die a gruesome death within the next 24 hours. Their horribly mangled corpse will be completely unrecognizable, and there is never any evidence pointing to a specific perpetrator so the person(s) that performs this service has never been caught. This was how the infamous Black Dahlia murder was perpetrated.

A Phone Call

You’re slowly stirred awake by the distant ringing as the phone beside your bed pulls you out of your dreams. Your thoughts gather themselves and you groan, reaching over to answer.
As soon as you place the phone to your ear, you’re greeted by the background noise consisting of twisted screams. People in agonizing pain begging for help or death, not that the interference allows you to hear any individual voice clearly enough.
“Get out of the house now!”
The call ends abruptly after what you could have sworn was a voice from closer to you than on the other end. You shift yourself to the side of the bed, sighing while rubbing your eyes. A call this startling and this early in the morning would keep you awake.
Your wife shuffles to the side, apparently also woken by the call. She wraps her arms around you and gives a light kiss on the neck.
“Don’t worry about it,” Her half asleep mumble calms you down somewhat.
Just as you’re about to place the phone down, it rings again. You fumble slightly and drop it. Instead, you feel your wife’s arms tighten around you, preventing you from leaning forward.
It’s then you notice a subtle difference between the arms around you and the familiarity of your wife’s.
“He’s too late to save you anyway.”

Kuchisake-Onna

Kuchisake-Onna is the legend of a Japanese woman, mutilated by her jealous samurai husband who murdered her for infidelity scarring her horribly and leaving her repulsive.
Her jealous Ghost still haunts places in Japan, usually on foggy nights, wearing a surgical mask when she will approach people and ask shyly: “Watashi kirei?” (Am i beautiful?) The person usually responds, yes.
She then pulls down her mask to reveal an ear to ear grin, cut by her jealous husband to mar her for her life. “Even like this?” she will persist. If you answer no. She will take a pair of scissors, and cut the same gruesome smile into your own face. If you answer yes, she will disappear, and the second you go home will reappear at your door and finish the job.
The only way of confusing Kuchisake-Onna is to say: You are average, which will confuse this mysterious Onryo. Or to present her with hard amber candy, or say ‘Pomade’ six times will shall make her flee.
She has been seen from the 1970’s til the early 2000’s, often seen lurking near children whose innocent answer of yes when asked if she is ugly, will lead to their deaths.

Gjoberdik

In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman's village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January the first everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight's celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.

One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.

Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.

The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.

Bad Dream

“Daddy, I had a bad dream.” You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness—it’s 3:23.
“Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?”
“No, Daddy.”
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter’s pale form in the darkness of your room.
“Why not sweetie?”
“Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy’s skin sat up.” For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can’t take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.

Jkqxxllyuo

There is a demon of great evil, that will be able to walk upon the Earth if someone is told of its existence and does not repeat the name to another. To the best of my ability, his name roughly approximates “Jkqxxllyuo”.
This was told to me by a rather unkempt man on the street; if you have not noticed it already, I just told it to you.

Envelope

In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.
She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She went to the police, who raided the address on the envelope, where they found heaps of human flesh for sale.
And what was in the envelope? “This is the last one I am sending you today.”

Observe And Absolve

There is an abandoned mental hospital at the top of a hill in Worcester, Massachusetts. Once every 5 years an old rusty box spring appears within the courtyard of the hospital. If you can sneak inside and sleep through the night on the bed, in the morning a man with a shirt that reads “Observe and absolve” will take out his wallet and give you a picture. This picture will show you how you will die. If the picture is of the man standing before you, running won’t help.

Turn Off The Light

In Finland there is an old but still inhabited yellow apartment, situated in a small city near an important railroad. Almost all of the people living there are over 70 years old and in fact it seems that younger people simply won't stay there for longer than a year.

If you live there you will soon notice several unusual things. In the basement the text "TURN ON THE LIGHT. TURN OFF THE LIGHT WHEN YOU LEAVE" is written next to every light switch. It's unusual to remind somebody of something so obvious, but here it is of critical importance.

People who forget something in the basement never return to pick it up. If you offer to go and retrieve it for them they will stop you from doing so.

There is one door there, between some storage doors that has no numbers on it. Instead the door has a worn-out nameplate on it. The people in the flat will tell you to leave that door alone. It is said that people who have peeked in the keyhole have seen very unsettling things.

The wires and pipes in the basement look amazingly old, yet still the house has perfectly functioning water, electricity and phone lines.

The laundry room, which is in the basement, must be reserved if you want to use it. If you go there without reserving a time first you will at first get weird looks and some scolding. Then people will more ominously and angrily warn you.

These things may seem minor but those, usually the young ones, who have got too curious or failed to follow the rules have ended up either dead, crippled or insane. Usually people say that these incidents were the result of drug use or alcoholism, but some of the freak accidents cannot be explained by anything.

How do I know this? I used to go and help my grandmother who lived in that apartment and I have seen several times how ambulance has dragged away young people who have missed an arm, sometimes some other parts also. The worst case was when I found a corpse that looked like an explosion victim in the laundry room. His guts were spattered all around the room and his left arm was sitting on top of the washing machine.

Before her death my grandmother told that she knows what's behind these incidents. After the 2nd world war there was a shortage of apartments and one war veteran who had lost his left arm was given a rudimentary room in the basement for no cost if he would help people to do laundry and help the janitor. He did, but eventually someone insulted him way or another. The veteran killed that youngster and himself. Ever since his spirit has been there, harshly punishing those who fail to follow the rules of his home. After telling this she told me that I should never ever return to the apartment as I knew too much.

As I left the apartment for the last time I could see the figure of an old, old man missing his left arm staring at me, reflected on the large glass panel on the door to the stairway…

He's Not Here

You stumble into the kitchen, covered in sweat. Mind racing. Heart thumping. Christ, could he have followed me here? You think. How did he even find me?

A moment passes. One thing is certain.

He’s not here now.

Your stomach rumbles. Even someone in your position has to eat. Your refrigerator door cries as you tug it open. You peer through the shelves. A jug of tea catches your eye. You take a swig, right out of the container. Your mother won’t know.

The tea tastes sharper than usual. You examine the label. Black tea. She bought the wrong kind. You shrug, reach for some leftovers. Flip the TV on in the other room as you slide them into the microwave. The five o’ clock news plays in the background. It might say something about him.

The usual teary story about the war. Some presidential candidate is coming to your town. You count down the numbers on the microwave. 5, 4…

“And, finally, tonight a food contamination alert for all residents in this county.”

…3, 2…

“A shipment of Lipton’s Black Tea delivered to local stores has tested positive for traces of the ebola solanum virus. This super-strain of the disease causes painful sores on the underarms, neck and groin followed by profuse bleeding from all orifices. The survival rate once infected is less than 10%. I repeat, Lipton’s Black Tea has been pulled from the shelves but any resident who purchased the tea is advised to call the Center for Health Control to dispose of it immediately.”

1.

You tug open the fridge once more and look at the tea you just drank.

Lipton’s. That’s not the kind your mother usually buys.

“Authorities report the shipment was tainted by an unidentified biological expert who remains at large.”

He’s not here now. You think. The jug of tea falls to the floor.

But he was.

Thump

A teenage baby-sitter put the kids she was watching to sleep in their beds and went back downstairs. The late night news was on the TV — the reporter said a psychopath from a local mental institution was on the loose and that police thought he might be in the area. He cautioned residents to lock their doors and windows because this guy was very, very dangerous.

Well, the teenager checked the locks on the windows and the doors, but she forgot the door on the cellar bulkhead. Needless to say, the psychopath broke in about an hour later, coming up from the cellar, armed with an ax. The children heard some noises downstairs, but thought it was the baby-sitter moving some furniture around. Then it got real quiet.

All they heard for the remainder of the night was this noise: "Thump! Thump! Dra-aag… Thump! Thump! Dra-aag…" Evidently, they were too afraid to get up to see what it was. In the morning, their parents came home and were horrified to find the babysitter at the top of the stairs, dead with both arms hacked off at the elbows. She'd been climbing the stairs on the bloody stumps of her arms, pulling her badly injured body along. Was she trying to check on the children? Was she trying to get help? Or in the madness of her tortured soul, was she planning to kill the children herself?

SCP 682: The Hard To Destroy Reptile

Item #: SCP-682

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures:

SCP-682 must be destroyed as soon as possible. At this time, no means available to SCP teams are capable of destroying SCP-682, only able to cause massive physical damage. Containment of SCP-682 is to be made on-site whenever contact is made. Containment will consist of ten inch reinforced acid-resistant steel plate forming the walls, ceiling and floor of SCP-682's containment chamber. Containment chamber will then be filled with hydrochloric acid until SCP-682 becomes incapacitated. SCP crew will attempt to transport SCP-682 to central facility as soon as physically possible.

Any personnel attempting to speak to SCP-682 will be restrained and removed by force. Any movement or attempt to escape, move, or speak by SCP-682 will be addressed by full use of force by SCP team, by whatever means available and necessary.

Description:

SCP-682 is a large, vaguely reptile-like creature of unknown origin. It appears to be extremely intelligent, and was observed to engage in complex communication with SCP-079 during its limited time of capture. Its physical body grows and changes very quickly, observed to be able to increase by one square foot of mass after consuming enough material. Digestion seems to be aided by a set of filtering gills inside of SCP-682's nostrils, which are able to remove organic and digestible matter from a liquid solution, thus it is able to constantly regenerate itself from the acid it is contained in.

SCP-682 has been observed to have extremely high strength, speed, and agility when compared to a standard SCP agent. In case of containment breach, SCP-682 is to be tracked and re-captured by an authorized SCP team consisting of no less than seven members. While SCP-682 is a deadly creature when loose, the main threat comes from public knowledge of SCP through SCP-682. To date (██-██-████), attempted breaches have numbered at seventeen (17), while successful breaches have numbered at six (6). (See Addendum 682-D).

SCP-682 appears to have a hatred of all life, which has been expressed in several interviews during containment. (See Addendum 682-B). SCP-682 gains energy from anything it ingests, organic or inorganic. SCP-682's regenerative capabilities are staggering, and SCP-682 has been seen moving and speaking with it's body 87% destroyed or rotted.

Addendum 682-B: Portion of recorded transcript of ██████.



Dr. ██████: Now, why did you kill those farmers?

SCP-682: (No verbal communication)

Dr. ██████: If you don't talk now, we will remove you from this attempt and place you back into-

SCP-682: (Incomprehensible)

Dr. ██████: Pardon? (Motions to move microphone closer)

SCP-682: (Incomprehensible)

Dr. ██████: Speak up. (To Personnel D-085) Move the mike up closer.

SCP-682: …they were (Incomprehensible)…

Dr. ██████: (To Personnel D-085) That microphone has only so much gain, move it closer to it!

Personnel D-085: His throats messed up man, look at it! He ain't talking- (Gasps and screams)

SCP-682: (Appearing to assault D-085's body) …they were… disgusting…

Dr. ██████: (Retreats from the room)



Addendum 682-D: Breaches with SCP-682:

1: First Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Agent ███████, Agent ███, Agent ████████ (KIA), Personnel D-129 (KIA), Personnel D-027 (KIA), Personnel D-173 (KIA), Personnel D-200 (KIA), Personnel D-193 (KIA)

2: Second Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Agent ███, Agent ████████████, Dr. ███████, Personnel D-124, Personnel D-137 (KIA), Personnel D-201 (KIA), Personnel D-202 (KIA), Personnel D-203 (KIA)

3: Third Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Agent ███████, MSgt █████████, Agent ████████, Agent ██████ (KIA), Personnel D-018 (KIA), Personnel D-211 (KIA), Personnel D-216

4: Fourth Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Agent ████████, SSgt ██████, TSgt █████, Pvt ████████, Pvt █████, Lt. ████████████, SSgt ████████ (KIA), Col ████████ (KIA), Pvt ███████ (KIA), Pvt ██████ (KIA), Agent ███ (KIA)

5: Fifth Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Personnel D-221, Agent ██████████ (KIA), Agent ████████ (KIA), Agent ██████ (KIA), Personnel D-028 (KIA), Personnel D-111 (KIA), Personnel D-281 (KIA), Personnel D-209 (KIA)

6: Sixth Occurrence, ██-██-████: Handled by Agent ██████████, Agent ██████, Personnel D-291 (MIA), Agent ████████ (KIA), Agent █████████████ (KIA), Personnel D-299 (KIA), Personnel D-277 (KIA), Personnel D-278 (KIA), Personnel D-279 (KIA)

Addendum 682-E: Termination Options:

Log of event 682-E18: Dr. █████ attempts to use SCP-409 on SCP-682. General ███, General ██████, and Dr. ██████████ observing.

0400: Exposure. SCP-682 began to tear at the point of contact, causing massive trauma to the area. SCP-682 requests several times to know what it has been exposed to.

0800: Crystallization begins, spreading much slower than normal.

1200: SCP-682 shows signs of extreme pain, and begins having seizures

1300: Crystallization stops at 62% conversion. Crystallized area explodes, causing massive physical trauma to SCP-682

1400: SCP-682 recovers from exposure, despite the loss of limbs and organs. SCP-682 begins regeneration, stating that it will attempt to terminate and consume all staff involved in Event 682-E18.

SCP-682 appears to now be immune to SCP-409. Use of other SCP items to terminate SCP-682 must now first be tested on samples of SCP-682 before full-scale testing.

In accordance the Dr. ████████'s recommendations (see Document 27b-6), doctors ████████ and █████ have requested permission to attempt the termination of SCP-682 using SCP-689. The request is currently pending approval from the ████████.

It has also been suggested by Dr. Gears to use SCP-182 in an attempt to communicate with SCP-682. SCP-182 has expressed reluctancy, and refuses to enter the containment center of SCP-682, if at all possible.

Perception

If you’re lucky, you’ll never know about it. Your life will be spent in the bliss that can only come from the ignorance of the dark horrors that scratch and gnaw at the edges of reality. You’ll never hear the dark whispers coming from the closet; never feel the cold chill creeping along your spine. You’ll never pause at a turn in the hallway because you know that if you look down it, you’ll see something that shouldn’t be there. Something that creeps, stalks, and skulks in the shadows. Something that, once it sees you, will never stop coming for you. It won’t come for you when you are sleeping. It wants you to know it’s there. It wants you to hear the relentless sound of its footsteps, the panting of its breath. It wants to smell your fear, to hear your whimper, and to see the horror on your face as it approaches.

If you’ve any sense at all, you won’t try to find it. You’ll never pay attention to the sounds. You won’t try to catch sight of those things that flit by the corner of your eye. Your ignorance will be your shield and your protection. Do not be overly curious; discount the sounds as the quirks of an old house, or the heating system, or any other excuse you can think of. Whatever you do, don’t believe. Because once you believe, they’ll become real. Once you inquire into their existence, they will solidify. And once you finally uncover them for what they are…

They’ll come for you.

Help Us

I don’t have much time left. I’m hoping the blood will drain out of my wrists before they can get to me again, but I can’t be certain. Oh god, it’s so cold. I’m losing a lot of blood. But I have to finish. You have to read this. Maybe you can stop them.

It all started about a month ago. I was frantically trying to finish a writing assignment for Social Studies that was due next period, writing so fast I thought I’d snap my pen in two. I think the paper was on World War II. Amazing that I can remember things like that, through all of this, isn’t it? Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. As I wrote this paper, I began to notice something odd. I was making a lot of mistakes. You’ll have to excuse my digression for a moment, but I need to explain something: I never make mistakes when I write. Teachers use words like “impeccable” and “exceptional” to describe my conventions. That’s why I was finding this odd. And what’s more, they were all errors in capitalization, which served only to confuse me more. I hadn’t capitalized the beginnings of sentences, proper nouns anything. But, capitals were cropping up sporadically throughout my writing. I had words like “gErmans” or “alliaNce”, without the faintest clue why. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I quickly corrected my mistakes and finished the paper.

In fact, I didn’t even think of the incident when it happened again. I was commenting my friend’s new MySpace picture. In the middle of typing up some inside joke, I noticed that my capitalization was once again awry. Scanning through it, I noticed something else odd: The word “hello” had been capitalized entirely. Figuring I’d just go back and finish it when I was done typing, I started again. And again, my finger would hit the “shift” key unbidden. When I checked my typing again, I looked closer. My mind began to subconsciously piece together the capital letters. Imagine my surprise when I realized that it formed a message. It read, “GLAD WE HAVE YOUR ATTENTION”. What I did then could only be described as a double-take whilst being completely still. Not knowing what had begun then, I signed off and promptly went to sleep, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.

The third time was during Language Arts. I was writing an analysis of “The Iliad”, when it happened. A message spelled itself out once again: “YOU WILL HELP US”. Now I was nervous. My hand shook slightly as I tried to erase the mistakes. As soon as my eraser touched the page, indescribable pain lanced through my hand. It was as if someone was excising all the nerves in my fingers, and impaling my hand on a railroad spike. It was over before I had time to scream. My hand shaking even more, I continued writing. “DO NOT DISOBEY”, my mistakes spelled out. I think that’s when I sealed my fate. I wrote faster. Whatever happened, no matter what I had to do, I never wanted to feel that pain again. It must sound cowardly to you, but I assure you that you would have done the same in my place. That’s why you have to stop them.

At home, I continued the paper. They spoke to me again. “GET A CERAMIC BOWL”. Confused, I hastily got up and retrieved one. I continued writing. They continued their instructions. “PLACE A BOOK IN THE BOWL”. Trying to move quickly in order to avoid the pain, I tossed The Iliad in. “BURN IT”. I looked around my house quickly. Hurriedly, I grabbed a match, and lit the book aflame. The next directive was more ambiguous. “FEED IT”. I didn’t know what they meant. In the middle of my paper, I wrote “With what?” and continued writing. The answer unnerved me. “BLOOD”. I stared at the paper for a second. Then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d scored a long cut over the tip of my finger with my pen. I held it over the burning book, and a sick-looking mixture of ink and blood dripped slowly down. After about 5 minutes, a hum began to emanate from the book’s bloody funeral pyre. It started softly, and increased in volume until my whole body vibrated. I felt as if my entrails were turning to liquid, and I shut my eyes and covered my ears. I lost track of time then, but after what seemed like an eternity it ended. I opened my eyes to be greeted with a disturbing sight. The book had stopped burning, but it was no longer a book. The pages had formed into a blackened, papery tendril that had embedded itself into the floor. That wasn’t all that had changed, though. The tree outside the window of my bedroom had lost its leaves. The wood floor around the bowl was rotten. And finally, I realized to my horror that I my skin had wrinkles.

The next month continued in their demands. Every week, they instructed me to burn a book in the bowl, and add an offering. Once it was a fingernail. Then a tooth. They wanted a piece of steel. And every time I completed an iteration of the ritual, another tendril was growing from the bowl and into the ground. The tree by my house died. My floor grew soggy and completely rotten. And I- I’m covered in liver spots, and my hair has turned gray. I’ve grown old. I sit in my room all day, writing randomly, no longer forming words, just following their demands. But even through my servitude, some part of me rebelled. Whatever I’m creating in that bowl, whatever they’re forcing me to engender, it’s going to unmake reality. Its very presence is killing me. kIlling everyThing living around it. i have to Stop it. it might already be ToO late. i’m lOsing a lot of bLood, and i’m getting dizzy. hopefully i’ll be deAd before They gEt to me again. oh god, they’re in mY writing again. oh my gOd, it’s cold. i can feel my life Unraveling-consider this a wARning. my dEath will Only slow them down. they want to Undo cReation. don’t ever read their meSsages. if you do, theN you’ll be fOrced to finish what i started. and no matter What, there is no escape.

Be Careful

Many classic horror icons, such as Geger's Xenomorphs, Silent Hill's Pyramid Head, and other disturbing creatures, share common characteristics. Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like. These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.

Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree home, thunder could be the approaching gallops of a stampede, predators could hide in darkness, and heights could make poor footing lethal.

The question you have to ask yourself is this:

What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could effect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?

… Just be careful out there.

Thank You

It’s 3AM and you’ve been up all night on a horror binge. You’ve watched your favorite horrors movies, read your favorite scary stories, and even attempted the old “Bloody Mary” trick in your mirror. You stretch and yawn, deciding now is about the time to hit the hay, so you move into your bedroom and lay down to sleep.

After awhile, however, you realize that you can’t get the images of some of the fictional creatures you saw on your TV out of your head. “Meh… I’m going to hate myself for this tomorrow,” You say aloud as you flick on your bedroom lamp, knowing that having a nightlight used to help get rid of your nightmares as a little kid. Within minutes you’re close to sleep, snuggled up comfortably under the blankets with your eyes closed and more pleasant thoughts on your mind.

…That is, until you detect something moving in front of the light, casting a shadow over you. You blink, beginning to turn towards the lamp before a rotting hand grabs hold of your shoulder. “Thanks for turning on the light; I wouldn’t have been able to find you in that darkness.”