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I lye against my bed listening to my parents argue as they always do. I sigh trying to fake a smile when my dad walks up into my room and says “Sky were leaving now” . I look up at him curiousally “why” I ask almost afraid “WERE LEAVING NOW” he yelled ” no” I said I jumped out the window the clouds covering the moon only shining a bit of it on me. I look the window to see moms coursp I gasp and run it starts to rain. I can hear father calling in the distance. I was then alone for a few months feeding on bread I had stolen from the baker. I see my dad in the car he marched out and grabs my arm and try’s to drag me back to the car. I scream and water shoots out from my body drowning my father. He lies there dead and wet. I soon smile and say “that’s what you get for playing with the devils rain”.

Asker Anonymous Asks:
I love you and I love your blog... I'm just gonna leave this here. :3 <3
creepy--pasta creepy--pasta Said:

♡♥♥♡♥♡♥♡

There was a married woman who loved her husband and they both had a baby together. After the baby boy’s birth, the wife’s husband was thrilled with finally becoming a father and was completely in love with his son. He would constantly talk about him to his workers, showing pictures of him saying, “Isn’t he the cutest thing ever?” and when he went home, he would ask, “Where’s the baby? I want to carry him.”


And the wife? She was okay, but something was a little off about her. She was depressed; she preferred to stay indoors instead of even going outside, she was tired all the time and the most prominent thing, she had this look of guilt whenever she looked at her baby. Then again, ‘It’s normal,’ everyone would say, ‘it’s only the baby blues.’


Just the baby blues…


One day, the wife’s friend came over and the wife refused to carry her son, actually preferring (in her head) for her friend to have the babe instead.


"But why don’t you want to carry him?" her friends would ask, "I mean, he’s so cute, I just want to eat this little boy!”


Cute, cute, cute is the only thing that everyone says about this thing,’ she thought. Then she suddenly snap.


I NEVER WANT TO CARRY IT, HOW HARD IS IT FOR YOU TO F***I** UNDERSTAND THAT?!


The friend was taken aback.


"B-but, he’s your so-"


NO NO NO NO NO!!!


And she would have a bit of a crying fit while she ran to her room. The baby would cry, Of course, the friend could keep the kid at this point, that would be like kidnapping, so she left the babe in his crib. After that, things were the usual. The husband would come back from, only asking for the baby instead of worrying for the mom, and if he noticed something, he would shrug it off. ‘Baby blues' he would think.


It went on like that for over a month.


And it only got worse in the next month.


The wife was too tired to do anything such as chores, especially with baby-care. Actually, she didn’t want to bond with the baby. Just looking at it gave her stomach knots. Holding it was worse. Her heart would speed up and she wanted to drop it so it can hopefully land on its head and die, but there would be people around her and she knew that they all would be talking. She didn’t want to feed it and preferred it to starve to death instead, but its cries were unbearable and she needed it to shut up. Her husband didn’t notice anything. The only thing he saw was his beautiful, sweet wife smiling and holding the baby in her arms and went on being stupidly in love with that thing and seeing that was worse than having to look at it. Why would her husband be more in love with this thing instead of her?


At night, she couldn’t sleep. The images of that hideous parasite that came out of her vagaina ran though her head. It’s nothing but an annoying mess that cries and gets sick


KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT!!!' would say the voices. The wife wanted- needed- to do that. She needed that thing to be erased, to be gone for good.


The next day, the wife was cooking up something good that had some fresh meat in it. Her husband came back to home from work around the same time he usually would.


"Where’s my son?" asked the husband.


"What son?"


"Our baby?"


"What baby?"


The husband was taken aback

"The one we had together," he pulled off a chuckle, "Don’t tell me you forgot."


"Silly man, that’s only lunch. Now go eat."

Description: This is a story of deformity, hate, and vengeance of one most feared and hated for being diffirent.

Chapter 1: Prologue.

Edward Turner was born an albino. Albinos are people born lacking pigmentation thus their hair and skin are naturally white and their irises are dark pink. Albinos are also photophobic due to the lack of protection that pigments give in their body and eyes. The only thing the doctors couldn’t explain was that he had abnormally long fingers with claws, his sharp and metal hard teeth, and a wide mouth. In his childhood he is always set apart from the other children. Other children would either be afraid of him because of his physical appearance or make fun of him by calling him names like monster, freak, white ghost, vampire, but most likely they would call him albino Ed. But he never fought. He never really cared what they do or think of him. But the pain he experienced was engraved to his soul.

As he grew older to his teenage years Edward was still being treated badly by others. Edwards’s mother died of cancer and his father was the only one left to defend him from other normal human beings. But because of his father’s work he couldn’t take notice on what’s happening to Ed. He would be pushed, punched, kicked, hated, accused, and feared by all of the students in his school. But just as before in his childhood he never fought back as his mother said before she died: never hate those who are afraid of you, if you do then you’ll become the monster they think you are. He would only walk away as if nothing happened. One fateful day a bully pushed Edward (the reason is unimportant) to the one thing he and other albinos are afraid of: sunlight. And while he was being exposed to sunlight he was also being beaten. No one helped him. They just stood there and watched him being tortured. This was too much for Ed and for once in his life he retaliated. With unknown strength he pushed the bully back and bit him in the chest with his sharp, hard teeth. His teeth sank deep into the bully’s chest. He could not let go, he only let go when another teenager pushed him off. He growled at the teenager so that he’ll keep distance. And at that moment he looked around him and saw everyone looked at him with fear in their eyes, he looked at himself and saw the blood dripping out of his mouth, and he looked at the bully barely, but still alive. Ashamed of what he had done he ran as fast as he could, straight to the woods, never to be seen again.

During his solitude, filled with guilt and sorrow all he could remember was the incident that had happened and the blood he spilled. He wiped the blood of his mouth, he saw the blood on his arm, and at that moment he remembered the person who hurt him on the ground begging pathetically for his life.    He felt like he really was a monster. Because of this incident, the look on everyone’s face, and the pain he felt, he was driven into insanity. He had forgotten about his life, his childhood, his father, his mother and what she said to him all he could remember was the name people would call him: Albino Ed. He convinced himself that he loved to watch people being scared; he convinced himself that he loved to make people suffer; he was convinced that he was a monster. At midnight, Ed returned to his town, he sneaked into a some guy’s garage, and stole eight pairs of gasoline tanks which he carried eight at a time with his long and strong fingers, partially covered every house in town with gasoline, connected each house with the trail of the gasoline, lit a match, set one house on fire, and watched a house burn one by one. The people in the houses couldn’t notice the fire for they are too fast asleep, and at the time they wake up, it would be too late for them to escape their fiery death, they would either die because of the smoke or the fire will consume them until they are nothing but unrecognizable ashes in the ground. Ed watched the “spectacle” of fire and the smell of burning flesh. And he loved every minute of it. At that point, Ed truly became what the people who are currently burning had thought he was. He became a monster. And so the legend of Albino Ed is born.

chapter 2:plot

My name is Andrew Sherman, me and my friends Tony and Roy have this hobby of researching old abandoned places then going there to investigate them in hopes of finding something worthwhile. We’ve been to many places in the past few years including abandoned amusement parks, mansions, and even hospitals. Our story begins with us searching for a new location, a town in somewhere in Ohio. Not much is known about its history, no files, no historical events, not even a name, except that the whole town was literally burned to the ground by a mysterious entity with long fingers and white hair and skin. We thought “whatever” and went there anyway.

 It was 8:25 pm, the sky was clear, and the moon was shining bright. As we walk deeper into the town I heard a rustling in the bushes, I thought of it as just a rabbit or something and went on. We walked around for a while and all we saw were metal barrels, dolls, plastic wrappers, and rusted gardening tools. We then saw a house that seemed to look like it was the only one that never burned down. The door was opened and out of curiosity we went inside. The inside of the house was like one of those post-apocalyptic movies: random stuff on the ground, lots of dust, and a few photos of what this town used to be, there used to be gardeners, children playing, green grass, trees, and flowers. Then it all burned away. I wondered what really did happen to the town, who destroyed it, and why? I kept wondering that thought then suddenly I heard a cricking sound, it sounded like it was up stairs. We looked at each other for a while then thought of checking it out. We sneaked up stairs then saw a room with a half-opened door. I couldn’t help the feeling that we shouldn’t be in there. But of course, because of our stupidity we looked inside anyway. We walked towards the door, opened it and looked inside. What we saw was truly terrifying. Under the light of the moon we saw a guy, with long fingers, and white skin and hair, he was wearing a dark grey hoody with smudges of red dry blood, and blue jeans; he was chewing on something. He noticed us and looked back; there we realized that the “something” that he was chewing on wasn’t a something but someone. It was a woman, her hair was black, she wore a black dress and shoes as if she was a prostitute walking at night in search of a new “client”, a part of her face was hanging, her eyes were lifeless and going in different directions, and her throat was open, as if a piece of the flesh of her neck was bitten off, and her blood was squirting everywhere. I felt like vomiting but I couldn’t. The guy made a loud high pitched scream. We got frightened and ran; we got out of the house, into the car, and out of the town. We drove of as fast as we could, away from the town, away from that “thing”.

We’ve finally reached my house. As my friends sat at the couch, trying to process what we have seen. I was calling the police but no signal. I joined my friends in the couch to think, was that the guy who burned the whole town? Was he the mysterious entity? Suddenly we heard the doorbell ring. It was 11:30pm. Who would be here that late? At the door I saw a box. I brought it in then put it on the table to see what’s inside. After what we saw we were all too scared to look what is inside. Finally Roy opened it and what we saw would haunt our minds for as long as we lived. In the box was the half eaten head of the woman, her face was even more distorted, the air was covered with the smell of her rotting flesh. Roy (the one who opened the box) started vomiting all over the floor. The scene and the smell were so disturbing that I didn’t notice it at first but inside the woman’s mouth was a piece of crumpled paper. I carefully took the paper out of her mouth and looked what was written.

The words were written in dried blood. It wasn’t so clear but I managed to read it. The note said:

If you don’t want

Your family, your friends,

And yourself

To end like this whore and many others before her,

Then stay silent.

I’m always watching, always listening.

Albino Ed

To be continued……..

Note: This pasta consist of two chapters (its a trilogy). The third chapter will be submited later.

Description: This is a story of deformity, hate, and vengeance of one most feared and hated for being diffirent.

Chapter 1: Prologue.

Edward Turner was born an albino. Albinos are people born lacking pigmentation thus their hair and skin are naturally white and their irises are dark pink. Albinos are also photophobic due to the lack of protection that pigments give in their body and eyes. The only thing the doctors couldn’t explain was that he had abnormally long fingers with claws, his sharp and metal hard teeth, and a wide mouth. In his childhood he is always set apart from the other children. Other children would either be afraid of him because of his physical appearance or make fun of him by calling him names like monster, freak, white ghost, vampire, but most likely they would call him albino Ed. But he never fought. He never really cared what they do or think of him. But the pain he experienced was engraved to his soul.

As he grew older to his teenage years Edward was still being treated badly by others. Edwards’s mother died of cancer and his father was the only one left to defend him from other normal human beings. But because of his father’s work he couldn’t take notice on what’s happening to Ed. He would be pushed, punched, kicked, hated, accused, and feared by all of the students in his school. But just as before in his childhood he never fought back as his mother said before she died: never hate those who are afraid of you, if you do then you’ll become the monster they think you are. He would only walk away as if nothing happened. One fateful day a bully pushed Edward (the reason is unimportant) to the one thing he and other albinos are afraid of: sunlight. And while he was being exposed to sunlight he was also being beaten. No one helped him. They just stood there and watched him being tortured. This was too much for Ed and for once in his life he retaliated. With unknown strength he pushed the bully back and bit him in the chest with his sharp, hard teeth. His teeth sank deep into the bully’s chest. He could not let go, he only let go when another teenager pushed him off. He growled at the teenager so that he’ll keep distance. And at that moment he looked around him and saw everyone looked at him with fear in their eyes, he looked at himself and saw the blood dripping out of his mouth, and he looked at the bully barely, but still alive. Ashamed of what he had done he ran as fast as he could, straight to the woods, never to be seen again.

During his solitude, filled with guilt and sorrow all he could remember was the incident that had happened and the blood he spilled. He wiped the blood of his mouth, he saw the blood on his arm, and at that moment he remembered the person who hurt him on the ground begging pathetically for his life.    He felt like he really was a monster. Because of this incident, the look on everyone’s face, and the pain he felt, he was driven into insanity. He had forgotten about his life, his childhood, his father, his mother and what she said to him all he could remember was the name people would call him: Albino Ed. He convinced himself that he loved to watch people being scared; he convinced himself that he loved to make people suffer; he was convinced that he was a monster. At midnight, Ed returned to his town, he sneaked into a some guy’s garage, and stole eight pairs of gasoline tanks which he carried eight at a time with his long and strong fingers, partially covered every house in town with gasoline, connected each house with the trail of the gasoline, lit a match, set one house on fire, and watched a house burn one by one. The people in the houses couldn’t notice the fire for they are too fast asleep, and at the time they wake up, it would be too late for them to escape their fiery death, they would either die because of the smoke or the fire will consume them until they are nothing but unrecognizable ashes in the ground. Ed watched the “spectacle” of fire and the smell of burning flesh. And he loved every minute of it. At that point, Ed truly became what the people who are currently burning had thought he was. He became a monster. And so the legend of Albino Ed is born.

chapter 2: Plot

My name is Andrew Sherman, me and my friends Tony and Roy have this hobby of researching old abandoned places then going there to investigate them in hopes of finding something worthwhile. We’ve been to many places in the past few years including abandoned amusement parks, mansions, and even hospitals. Our story begins with us searching for a new location, a town in somewhere in Ohio. Not much is known about its history, no files, no historical events, not even a name, except that the whole town was literally burned to the ground by a mysterious entity with long fingers and white hair and skin. We thought “whatever” and went there anyway.

 It was 8:25 pm, the sky was clear, and the moon was shining bright. As we walk deeper into the town I heard a rustling in the bushes, I thought of it as just a rabbit or something and went on. We walked around for a while and all we saw were metal barrels, dolls, plastic wrappers, and rusted gardening tools. We then saw a house that seemed to look like it was the only one that never burned down. The door was opened and out of curiosity we went inside. The inside of the house was like one of those post-apocalyptic movies: random stuff on the ground, lots of dust, and a few photos of what this town used to be, there used to be gardeners, children playing, green grass, trees, and flowers. Then it all burned away. I wondered what really did happen to the town, who destroyed it, and why? I kept wondering that thought then suddenly I heard a cricking sound, it sounded like it was up stairs. We looked at each other for a while then thought of checking it out. We sneaked up stairs then saw a room with a half-opened door. I couldn’t help the feeling that we shouldn’t be in there. But of course, because of our stupidity we looked inside anyway. We walked towards the door, opened it and looked inside. What we saw was truly terrifying. Under the light of the moon we saw a guy, with long fingers, and white skin and hair, he was wearing a dark grey hoody with smudges of red dry blood, and blue jeans; he was chewing on something. He noticed us and looked back; there we realized that the “something” that he was chewing on wasn’t a something but someone. It was a woman, her hair was black, she wore a black dress and shoes as if she was a prostitute walking at night in search of a new “client”, a part of her face was hanging, her eyes were lifeless and going in different directions, and her throat was open, as if a piece of the flesh of her neck was bitten off, and her blood was squirting everywhere. I felt like vomiting but I couldn’t. The guy made a loud high pitched scream. We got frightened and ran; we got out of the house, into the car, and out of the town. We drove of as fast as we could, away from the town, away from that “thing”.

We’ve finally reached my house. As my friends sat at the couch, trying to process what we have seen. I was calling the police but no signal. I joined my friends in the couch to think, was that the guy who burned the whole town? Was he the mysterious entity? Suddenly we heard the doorbell ring. It was 11:30pm. Who would be here that late? At the door I saw a box. I brought it in then put it on the table to see what’s inside. After what we saw we were all too scared to look what is inside. Finally Roy opened it and what we saw would haunt our minds for as long as we lived. In the box was the half eaten head of the woman, her face was even more distorted, the air was covered with the smell of her rotting flesh. Roy (the one who opened the box) started vomiting all over the floor. The scene and the smell were so disturbing that I didn’t notice it at first but inside the woman’s mouth was a piece of crumpled paper. I carefully took the paper out of her mouth and looked what was written.

The words were written in dried blood. It wasn’t so clear but I managed to read it. The note said:

If you don’t want

Your family, your friends,

And yourself

To end like this whore and many others before her,

Then stay silent.

I’m always watching, always listening.

Albino Ed

To be continued……..

The end of the hall finally arrives, and on Todd’s left a door marked 129. The keys jangle as he spins them idly on his finger like a gunslinger just after the kill; then he notices the grimy film coating his fingers from touching the key ring. One more thing nobody bothers cleaning.

Todd slides the key into the door handle. The lock snaps back like cracking vertebrae, and behind it is a sound like a gasp or sob inside the room.

Todd hesitates, listening. The entire building is silent as if it were abandoned. He pushes the door open and flicks on the light, maybe a little hastier than he’d admit.

Standard room. Small table by the window. Wooden vanity with a cracked mirror. Small entertainment center with television set and videogame console. Queen size bed with green comforter (read as, mite nest), which Todd promptly tears off the mattress and tosses in the corner. Bathroom so claustrophobic the door almost touches the toilet bowl when it opens. The one thing giving it personality is the presence of the missing author’s things — mostly textbooks and notebooks — which haven’t been moved or claimed yet. The bedside clock reads 9:31 P.M.

The room is quiet.

Todd closes the door with his foot, tosses the key on the vanity. He pulls a packet of bleach wipes from his back pocket and begins wiping down the doorknobs, the TV remote, and the faucet handles. He takes twenty minutes to wipe down the toilet’s seat and lever.

*

Todd Kline maintains the most abysmal rooms at the Nimbus Hotel. He used to clean the cadaver room at the university, so the eerie and the disgusting have little effect on him.

He’s lost track of how many years he’s been a room attendant there, but it’s been long enough to know the hotel should be shut down and the building condemned. The shit he’s seen would turn tourists off of hotels forever. The beds are a vast culture of germs and dust mites: attendants don’t wash the comforters between tenants unless they’re visibly stained on both sides. The bathrooms have such thick layers of fecal particles that tenants ought to be showering with their shoes on. And God knows what’s crawling around in those “clean” drinking glasses.

That’s all standard fare for a veteran hotel worker, though. It’s the special, gruesome little touches that make Nimbus stand out from the other germ bordellos.

Last year he cleaned a handsome spread of gooey feces out of the bathtub in 222. Gladys, Dave, and Bernie all refused to touch that one. They wouldn’t touch the crusty clumps of God-oh-God-please-don’t-be-semen in 114’s comforter, either — stone solid like petrified gum. It was a miracle Todd managed to scrub it all out.

The same year as the tub-shitter and the bed-gum, a lady got scabies from sleeping in room 313. Gladys checked the bedspread and found it swollen full of mites, fleas, and ticks. Todd had to ball it up, stuff it in a garbage bag, take it to a stretch of desert highway and burn it. The lady got reimbursed for her stay. Todd got seven or eight fleas.

All of that still doesn’t top the crown jewel from two years ago, when they got a complaint about a sweet and sour stink in Room 106, and found the source — stuffed between the mattress and the bed frame — was a dead hooker. Todd was the only one who didn’t puke when the body was found, so Todd got to sanitize the room after the police hauled it off.

Somehow the Nimbus Hotel is still in business, boasting that “A stay in a Nimbus Hotel is like sleeping on a cloud!”

A cloud of shit-caked fleas that feed on dead hookers.

All Todd’s jobs at the Nimbus Hotel are dirty jobs. When the other attendants refuse to clean the filthiest of filth from the bedsheets, bathtubs, or TV remotes, Todd has to drop whatever he’s doing and go take care of it. He’s the only one who’s ever had the guts or the know-how (and you can bet he won’t let anyone forget it). Nothing scares or even discourages him, however weird or gross.

That’s probably why Manager Ed asked him to spend the night in the Crying Room.

*

Its proper name is Room 129. It’s had eleven tenants in the last two months and not one of them stayed the entire night. Some stayed for less than an hour. They usually packed their bags and fled without giving an explanation or asking for their money back (a few had even abandoned their luggage). Four of the eleven just vanished. Todd and the others presumed those tenants had left in the night.

Only one asked for a refund: Jervis Liddel, a pasty, balding lawyer with a bulbous nose and huge grandma glasses who had haughtily announced he was staying for a week. He’d barely been settled in for an hour when he came back to the lobby whiter than ever, his hands trembling and his teeth chattering as if he were standing in a snowy wood without a jacket. He took his money and launched through the doors like a missile.

Todd was chatting with the pretty new clerk, Melissa, when the Crying Room’s next tenant checked in: a middle-aged schoolteacher lady named Fran Carlyle. She came into the lobby at ten to five, made pleasant conversation with them about the book fair up the street that she’d come to help with, asked if there were any good restaurants about, then took her key and went to her room.

Melissa got the call on the lobby phone around nine. The voice on the other end was hoarse and just barely above a whisper.

“Can you come down to Room 129 please?” it said.

“Uh, is this Miss Carlyle?” Melissa said.

The voice seemed unsure. “Yes.”

“Miss Carlyle, is everything okay?”

She was quiet for a while, then said, “I…I think someone is in my room.”

Melissa didn’t waste any time calling the police. But they didn’t find anyone in there except the teacher, and she seemed a mix of frustrated, embarrassed, and terrified. She explained that she’d been reading in bed and heard a voice — a young boy or a woman, she wasn’t sure — crying and sobbing silently somewhere in the room. The police were pretty irritated when they left and the teacher seemed desperate for someone to believe her. She’d frightened Todd pretty good trying to make him stay with her.

She was gone the next morning. Her car was still in the lot. Everyone assumed she must’ve run screaming into the night like in a cheesy campfire story.

Sometimes a tenant in room 127, 128, or 130 reported hearing someone sobbing next door, usually late in the evenings. One guy had actually knocked on the door to the Crying Room and asked if everyone was okay in there. The sobbing stopped, and the room was quiet for two days.

The last guy to stay in 129 was a mediocre writer of children’s lit, Benjamin Hammond. He’d heard about the Crying Room and wanted to stay in it for a night or two. He was working on a book about childhood night terrors — closet monsters, bogeymen and the like — and thought studying Room 129 would help his research. Like the other three vanishing acts he was gone the next morning; but later that same day the college girl staying in Room 127 filed a complaint with Ed, saying the rowdy lovers in 129 had woke her up late at night.

“I had an important interview today and only got about five hours of sleep for it,” she said. “I wake up to those two wrestling next door like they’re the only ones in the building, one of ‘em going on with this pathetic whimpering and another giggling like a child. I pounded on the wall and told ‘em to keep it down, and the racket stopped, but they’d woke me up at midnight all the same. I mean, guys and gals gotta have fun now and then, but goddamn…”

Ed shared this little anecdote with Todd and the others. They all knew the author had checked in alone.

*

Ed sat everyone down in his office earlier today and said he wanted something done about Room 129. The other attendants were so scared they wouldn’t be caught dead in there. So it was up to Todd to save the day — “like always,” he’d reminded his coworkers as he patted each of their scowling heads — and that’s why he was walking down a green carpeted hall stinking of fresh paint with a hotel key in his hand instead of driving home to the comfort of his apartment.

“Stay the night in 129,” Ed said. “Figure out what’s going on in there. Maybe it’s a prank. Maybe it’s a ghost! Who knows? Figure it out and there’s a raise in it for you. I can’t afford to keep losing tenants. Bad publicity.”

“It’s a prank all right,” Todd thinks, reflecting on the meeting, “to see if they can break me. What a waste of time and effort that could be spent actually cleaning this dump.”

Bad publicity. Todd thinks of scabies and dead hookers and wrinkles his nose.

*

Todd wakes suddenly in the night and finds himself sitting upright, staring into darkness. The unfamiliar bed startles him at first, but with a groan he quickly remembers where he is.

His heart kicks the inside of his throat like he’s been jogging for the last hour. He has trouble breathing as if the air is made of lead. Neither of his arms will reach over to turn on the bedside lamp. They’re frozen stiff. He can’t remember what nightmare could have pulled him so abruptly out of a sound sleep or put him in such a frightened state.

Was it a nightmare that woke him? Or was it that icepick jab in the pit of his stomach — jabbing him still — trying to tell him that someone came into the room while he was asleep? Ten minutes pass as he allows his eyes to adjust to the dark, but the room is deserted except for the comforter wadded in the corner; quiet except for the sound of his own uneasy breath.

Todd’s muscles soften and he releases a long sigh. Skimming through the author’s notes before bed was a mistake, all right. Late night thoughts of boogeymen and closet monsters and Baba Yaga have made him as paranoid as a five-year-old. He lies down again. Takes in another lungful of stale air.

An hour later Todd wakes up again. Someone is weeping silently nearby.

He bolts upright and scans the room. There’s nobody. The shape in the corner is still a wadded comforter. His head still swimming from waking so suddenly, he loudly mumbles, “Whoozere?”

The room is quiet. It stays quiet for the fifteen minutes Todd sits there, listening, wondering if he had heard anything at all. Angrily he swats the missing author’s notebook off the bedside table and goes back to sleep.

Todd has barely slept a half hour when he’s awoken once again by the voice. It’s unmistakable this time: a delicate, miserable voice trying shamefully not to cry too loudly.

Now Todd’s mind is crisp and clear. “Who’s there?” he whispers.

Like before, the voice holds its breath. After a few minutes it starts crying again.

Todd can’t pinpoint the source of the voice: it seems to come from all around him, from the room itself. He climbs out of bed to get a better bearing. He plants his feet on the carpet and stands up, wobbling slightly.

The weeping suddenly stops.

Something made of old leather paws at Todd’s ankle.

Survival instinct takes over. Todd’s feet leave the floor as he lunges forward like a rabbit escaping a snapping bear trap; he twists in midair, crashes headfirst into the wall and lands on his side. Barbs of pain drip through the joints of his skull and fill his eye sockets. His ears are ringing. He might have cracked one of his ribs. He doesn’t care. The bed has a firm hold of all his brain’s conscious functions.

There’s nothing where his feet had been. But Todd knows there was something a moment ago.

The voice starts crying again.

It can’t be coming from under there. Nothing could live under there for two months.

Todd inches steadily forward — eyes never leaving the spot by the bed where the thing touched him — and turns on the bedside lamp. Somehow it makes the void beyond the bed skirt even more sinister.

Seemingly of its own free will, Todd’s hand reaches for the bottom of the skirt. The crying stops when his fingers brush it.

It’s Ed, Todd thinks, his blood sizzling like cooking oil. Or Gladys. Bitch blubbers like that all the time.

Todd bites his lip and puts his ear to the carpet inches from the bed frame. He pulls the bed skirt upward, a montage of angry curses on the tip of his tongue.

The hand that reaches out to greet him is vaguely human.

The ancient eyes staring at him from the shadows are not.

Suddenly Todd doesn’t care if it’s a prank. He doesn’t care if there’s a raise in it for him. And in the next ten seconds he doesn’t care that he’s running across the hotel parking lot in his boxer shorts.

Credit To – Mike MacDee

The McCarter House in Greenburg, TN is fairly well-known by now, but at the time that my wife and I were looking to buy it, it was only infamous to the locals and we knew nothing about it. It is a pale, white farmhouse on a bald hill just off Baden’s Road in the Walnut Creek area of town. It might still be there, but hopefully it had been torn down by now. If you decide to go there, listen to this story as your word of warning first, and do not go there during a full moon.

The house had been the scene of a horrific battle during the Zombie Apocalypse. Jim McCarter, his family and some of his neighbors had holed up there when the zombies rose up from the Walnut Creek cemetery. The attack was brutal. The McCarter clan were quickly surrounded by the living dead, and somehow the zombies were able to break open a door and get in. No one survived. The story behind this was particularly scandalous as there was a
church nearby where everyone else in the community was able to hide and successfully defend themselves from the zombies. Jim McCarter’s clan was banned from the church due to accusations made by Pastor Tom Olson claiming Jim had impregnated both of his twin daughters. Later, when everyone else was driving stakes through the brains of the dead in every graveyard they could find, Olson famously refused to do so, on the grounds that the
rising dead was part of God’s divine plan. God gave these men and women new life, and taking that away was nothing short of murder. That was the last straw for those who sided with Jim during the feud and they broke away from the church to fight at the McCarter house. They likely regretted that decision.

No one had been in the house since, except for a government cleanup crew that sanitized the property and fixed the broken door that lead to the massacre. It had stagnated in real estate listings until my wife and I decided to buy it. We were dirt poor, as the economy after the Apocalypse was still in the dumps, and the only thing we could afford was to either take this house or keep sneaking into motels at night. The real estate company was so desperate to get rid of it that they waived the down payment and processing fees. We were very thankful, because this house was considerably cheaper than our apartment back in Marron City. My wife was 6 months pregnant with twins, and this meant more money and space to raise our kids.

While the real estate company promised lightning speed processing to get us the deed, we made arrangements to stay with a neighbor, a retiree named Charlie Bunyon, until we got our house. We paid him a little money for room and board, and to borrow his truck and hands to get the furniture everyone was throwing out onto their curbs. He was happy to do it, and happy to see new people in the neighborhood here, but he warned us that the community was
still very superstitious and set in their ways, even after the Apocalypse. Taking that house might create some problems with them.

At the time, I noticed he seemed nervous about something else too, but he never told us what it was, and I paid it no attention.

While I was getting my new job set up at Ogle’s Lumberyard across town, my wife and Charlie went out to collect furniture from the curbs. The economy here was so bad that trash pickup was MONTHLY, but the residents around Walnut Creek were quite friendly to my wife and let her take what she wanted. Once they learned where she was moving into, though, like Charlie
said, their reactions ranged from restraint to religious paranoia. One lady even closed the door on my wife and had to explain herself through the mail slot, saying, “I’m sorry, but I was loyal to Pastor Olson and I still am today. I don’t care if he’s dead, I want nothin’ to do with Jim McCarter.”

Later in the day, the real estate company called her to pick up the deed and keys. By the time I got done from work, I had a new house to come home to and a bunch of crappy furniture all stacked up in my living room. My wife told me about how our neighbors reacted and proselytized, and even though we knew to expect it, I found it weird because my new co-workers did the same thing to me. This house had a wider reputation than we expected. We nearly forgot all about it as we got to work putting furniture in place and cleaning up the couch to sleep in… until we found a note under a couch cushion that Charlie had slipped in there.

It said very plainly, “I didn’t want to say anything while we were driving, but please do not stay in that house. You need to LEAVE before the full moon.” It seemed like he wanted to tell us more but ran out of room. I crumpled the note and tossed it immediately. You have to understand neither my wife or I are religious, particularly after what we suffered during the Zombie Apocalypse, and this old school superstition was more than a little irritating to us. If they want to think we’re blaspheming against some crazy, old preacher and his flock of sheep, then that’s their problem, not ours.

That night, and I thought nothing of it at the time, I woke up at about 3:30 in the morning just briefly because I thought I heard some furniture shuffling around. I figured it was just my wife getting up and navigating the darkness to the bathroom.

Two weeks from that night, we would be fleeing for our lives. In those two weeks, and I’ll condense the details down, we settled into a daily routine of trying to get set up at the house. I went to work all day and my wife would try to get more of what we needed. It was a struggle for her, because I wouldn’t get paid for two weeks and we didn’t want to bother with our ignorant neighbors. At first, she tried getting around on foot, but our twins were too much of a strain for her small body and she often couldn’t get much done most days. In the meantime, I was trying to rack up as many hours as I could at work so I could better afford what we needed.

To say we struggled barely describes how hard it was for us. I wasn’t getting any real sleep on that couch. I kept waking up hearing things, and later seeing things moving in the darkness. My wife did too, and it wrecked havoc on our sanity. We were both losing sight of reality and fighting at any chance we got. We broke our backs in the day, fought each other to tears at night, and slept for only a couple hours until we heard the sounds again. The first few nights it was just footsteps and something brushing against the furniture, then it soon evolved to louder footsteps and the sound of furniture moving.

Then I started to hear moaning, and it froze me from the inside out as I remembered the last time I heard that sound. It sounded just like the moaning I heard for three days being barricaded in a basement during the Zombie Apocalypse. I panicked, thinking a stray survivor zombie had gotten in (which, while rare, was not unheard of in those days), I jumped out of the couch and turned the lights on… only to find nothing but one irate,
pregnant wife who had finally just gotten to sleep.

I should have suspected more at that time, and things would be different today if I did, but I still rationalized it as the strain of our daily lives affecting us at night.

Two nights later, our bickering came to a boil and my wife stormed to the kitchen to leave the house. I grabbed her and tried to slap her, but I hit the bottle of Mr. Clean and spilled the entire contents on the floor instead. We decided to go to sleep right then. Again we heard noises, louder now than ever, saw thicker shadows moving in the darkness, and only got sleep near dawn.

Not long after dawn, my wife shook me awake in a panic and pointed to the Mr. Clean mess on the kitchen floor. There were footprints in it. Neither of us had been in the kitchen once we tried to go to bed. We then saw the furniture in the living room had been moved. Someone really WAS in our house that night.

Our day picked up a bit when Charlie dropped by with a (possibly) new king-sized mattress for us. We talked for a bit and he said he felt bad for the community “spooking” us or imposing any “nonsense” on us. He then left as quick as he could. We never saw him again.

We moved the mattress upstairs, and while it was definitely more comfortable, we still didn’t get any sleep. Every night the sounds and moaning got louder, the shadow outlines got thicker, and every morning the furniture would be moved or turned over. When the lights came on, there was nothing, but then I would feel something was staring at me, leering, like it didn’t know any other way to let me know it didn’t like me.

Then one night, it was too loud to mistake it for something else. Something was in our house. I took my gun with me as I got to the stairs, and the moonlight shining on the bald hill as it got closer to the full phase made it undeniable that someone was in our house… but this time he brought his friends too. I saw maybe a dozen and a half figures downstairs and I was prepared to open fire, but when I turned the light on to better see them, again, there was no one in there and the furniture had been moved even further than before. I thought I was going insane, I KNOW I saw people downstairs, but the light, the one truth left in the world, showed no one there.

I turned the light off again, and they came back like they never left, but this time they were slowly making their way up the stairs to me. In the bright moonlight, I could almost make out body parts and faces, but I chickened out and turned the light back on and kept it on overnight. I was still too stubborn to admit my house was apparently haunted, so I still
simply summed it up that the lack of sleep and our problems was taking its toll on me.

I ended up sleeping until mid-afternoon the next day. I missed nearly a full day of work and while my boss was understanding on the phone, he also laid it out straight for me that he could not afford to pay an employee who didn’t show up. My wife and I talked about going to a doctor, but we both realized there was nothing that could be done until I got my paycheck after work tomorrow. I just needed more sleep, and it wasn’t hard to knock back out later.

That night I dreamt that my wife and I were inside the Walnut Creek church. I was the Pastor there and my wife was giving birth to two girls on the narthex. The birth was a success and I kept wandering around the shrouded, cloudy church with all these random people filling the pews and hallways. When I went back to the narthex, my twins were already school-age. I kept changing my direction and attention to one thing after another, and every time I turned around to see my girls again, they got older and older. I wandered through the hallways again, but this time the parishioners were unhappy because something happened. I go back to the narthex and my girls, barely adult age now, were both pregnant.

Then the congregation started freaking out, but I didn’t know what it was until someone told me it was a zombie attack. We built defenses for the doors, but we couldn’t finish them because my wife appeared out of the misty hallway to tell me our daughters went out onto the fields. They were trying to get to the McCarter House. I went after them and got lost in the grey fog that was overwhelming everything.

The next thing I saw, I was in my bedroom and I was staring at a man sitting on my bed that I had never seen before. I felt like I was angry with him, but that I wasn’t in control either. He was cowering in the corner. I got on my knees to get closer to him, and when my face was close to his, he pulled a gun out of nowhere and shot me in the face. The gun rang out loud and I woke up.

But when I woke up, I could still hear the gun ringing in my ears. A real shot had been fired. Then I heard my wife scream “HONEY! HONEY!” while she was out on the stairs.

I ran to her… and there they were. Dozens of zombies, shuffling in the moonlight, disappearing in the shadows, moving the furniture, and slowly making their way up to us. She fired several more times, but none of them fell or even reacted. Before I knew it, one of them was trying to grab me, and I could feel a small push on my shoulders, but when my wife turned the lights on, they were gone. The room was as empty as it should’ve been and I
let out a mighty roar of frustration and lunacy.

Now we had no choice, we HAD to leave the house, but we still had no options until I got paid today. When morning came, I did my best to focus on just getting through the day so I could get my money and we could leave, but just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I ended up leaving the lumberyard with a pink slip instead of a paycheck. Again, I’ll spare you details, but let’s just say I listened to one too many haunted house jokes and I DEFINITELY deserved to get fired for what I did. In my desperation, I drove throughout the town and started begging door to door for money. It was pathetic, and I came home extremely late, empty handed.

That night was the last night before the full moon and the worst fight I’d ever had with my wife. It was almost midnight before we both calmed down and tried to come up with a plan. We were just going to leave the lights on everywhere, sleep as best we could, and pack the car in the morning.

But then, at the stroke of midnight, all the lights suddenly shut off. If you’re wondering why, its because I planned to pay the electric bill before I got home. We tried to just run for it, but we were already surrounded by zombies on the hill. The moonlight was almost sunlight and not only could I see every part of every corpse coming after us, I could see THROUGH them, and they all had bullet holes in their heads.

My spine turned to ice once it all finally dawned on me… We weren’t haunted with the ghosts of the McCarters, we were haunted with the ghosts of the zombies who died here.

We ran back inside and barricaded the doors behind us, but they just passed right through. In my madness, I tried to shoot them in the head again, but how do you kill something that had already died twice? The moonlight made them strong and we had nowhere to go but the master bedroom. We tried again to barricade the door, but it was no use. Nothing could stop them anymore, and I succumbed to darkness just before they swarmed over me.

Now here’s the part of the story that’s REALLY unbelievable. Obviously, I didn’t die,

instead I woke up the next morning without a scratch on me. I was ready to rejoice until I saw my wife was already up and crying hysterically. Without giving too much detail, she “informed” me that our unborn twins had died during the night… and it wasn’t for a physical or natural reason either.

We didn’t bother packing, we just left right then and there before we got to see what they were like at full strength.

That was three years ago. At this point, after an exhaustive amount of research, I THINK I figured out what happened. During the original zombie attack in Walnut Creek, Pastor Olson’s twins, still in love with Jim, had a dramatic change of heart and broke out of the church to be with him. No one knows whatever happened to them, and to Olson, this was the final straw in his feud with Jim. Olson went out onto the field and waded through the zombie horde to get to the McCarter House. HE was the one who broke the door and let the zombies in, and he became a zombie himself as a result. I also think he was the one leering at me in the darkness all those nights, and I think he was the one who took our daughters from us.

Maybe Olson was right, maybe zombies really were newly evolved creatures that deserved to live and feed as they naturally do just like everyone else. Who would’ve thought “ghost logic” could apply to the living dead?

You can go visit the house if you want, but do not go during the full moon. In fact, don’t go anywhere near a battle site anywhere. If it happened to us, it can happen to you. These zombies don’t eat flesh anymore, they eat souls.

Credit To – J.S. Lawhead

So, three friends and I decided we were going to camp out in this 30 acre sanctuary down the street from my neighborhood. It’s paralleled by railroad tracks and a road on one side, and then a small road on the other said. There’s a lot of forest and trails, but also these big sand dunes and a huge lake that is pretty deep. So deep we can’t see the bottom. And in Florida there’s always shit to worry about like mosquitoes at night and spider webs along the wooded paths. Snakes thankfully left us alone.

Now understand when I say three friends I mean two friends and sort of my friend’s Uncle. So that’s Brandon, Dalton, and Mike. Brandon is cool when it comes to nature and a survivalist guy. Dalton’s my best friend and he’s funny but can get freaked out as easily as me. Then there’s Mike, the horrible uncle with the shit-eating grin that you’d never let your kids hang out with. He’s awesome.

We settled on three nights, so we got ourselves a big tent and brought two coolers worth of shit out there. The sun’s high up in the sky and there’s no clouds anywhere to be seen. It was a lovely day in autumn which meant it wasn’t nearly as hot as Florida sounds like. As we unload our truck at the front of the trail (we kinda had to hide the truck because there are no trespassing signs in a few places, but I see people out here occasionally so I think it more or less was a dumping warning) we notice that there are absolutely no foot prints this time. I thought that was odd but Mike just drew a dick in the sand.

So as we’re walking out there, Brandon is explaining that this area used to be home to the Ais tribe that was fond of east Florida. It was interesting to listen to because apparently they built both mounds and thatched huts and stuff like that. Mike asked us if we’d ever heard of a Banshee. To this I sort of facepalmed and Dalton laughed. Mike even chuckled and said he’d keep it for the night.

We lugged our shit some ways, passing a few retention ponds and an open area towards the railroad crossing and had a drainage ditch on the other side. The trail ran down pretty far until it turned into a huge scrublands area that then turned into another scrubland cut off by huge trees. You know, the kind of huge tree that’s so thick you can’t tell if it’s just now popping out of the ground or not. I always thought the place was cool but I wasn’t sure how I’d feel being here overnight.

We passed the big trees and it opened up into a shaded place with pine leaves forming their own little hills and then the huge sand dunes hugged by the Floridian forest. Then just touching the right tip of the place was this body of water we nicknamed Willow Lake. Most of the place was either sand, or little scrubbery pushing up out of it and right along the banks of the lake was a downed telephone line god knows how old.

We decided to lug our shit up the side of the dunes, because they turned into some secluded trails. We found the opportune location, too. It was a huge open area of sand with a patch of tree jutting up on the outskirts from the left side of the entrance, and then all wood on the right side spare for a small path that seemed barely beaten. This is where we would set up shop.

Within the hour we had the huge tent up and Brandon went off with Dalton to collect some firewood. Florida’s really bad on that part, so we’d use palm fronds to get the fire going and use actual wood to keep it burning. Good thing to know in Florida, because the skeeters hate thick smoke.

Since I was at the camp site with just Uncle Mike, he’d brought some Gin and popped it open. I’d never had alcohol in my life and I was just now eighteen, so I knew he’d try to have me drink some. Sure enough, “here ya go Rob!”

I told him no naturally, but my own curiosity was getting to me. I knew Dalton would jump at the chance to drink some Gin or Mountain Busch, and I knew Brandon would side with me. I told him to wait until the others returned, that way I’d at least have someone to agree with.

That’s when we heard it the first time. A wail that sounded like it came from at the base of the dunes. It was so close the hairs on the back of my neck were livid for seconds. Mike just laughed and cupped his hands “Will you sillynannies stop playing in the sand?”

Just as he had said that, Dalton stepped out of the woods, firewood in arms, and into the camp site to ask what all of that was. Mike and I asked him where Brandon was and he thumbed over his shoulder that he was still carrying some palm fronds with him.

“You mean you weren’t the ones who just made that wailing down there?” Mike asked him, folding his arms together.

“Mike, I’m being completely serious right now. You’d know if I was fucking with you.”

Mike sighed deeply and told him to bring Brandon back to the camp. He turned to me. “Rob, you’re comin’ with me.”

I looked awkward and asked him why, since I wasn’t used to being entirely alone with the guy.

“Because if this turns out to be Dirty Mike and the boys, I need someone to trip so I can get away.”

So I went with him. We walked down the sand dunes, having to pick our feet up because of the sand. And when we got to the bottom, we did a scan of the area. Honestly, the only thing that had changed was the position of the sun and the brightness of the horizon. It was now dusk, barely dark but getting there.

I turned to Uncle Mike who was rather puzzled himself and asked him what he thought it was. He just said it had to be a tyrannosaurus in heat. Now I couldn’t help but laugh. Mike was definitely the comic relief of us, but even so he looked concerned. He said he brought the machete for woodcutting but told me it was inside the tent near the back if I needed it.

We shrugged the whole thing off after that and swapped some stories around the campfire. Thankfully, the mosquitoes were nowhere to be found. Brandon continued to tell us more about the location, and how the Ais were also hunter-gatherers. That meant they didn’t farm or grow anything, but they hunted animals and gathered resources to survive. Dalton told us about some of the spooky stories he’d read on /x/ late at night and for the most part, some of what he told us was genuinely spooky. Mike even contributed by telling us more about the Banshees, and how they wailed and the person would always die nearby, but that sounded rather vague. Mike opened his mouth and screamed horrifyingly after the silence settled in, and Brandon was shaking his ass off. Of course we all laughed at him and told him the Banshee was gonna get him. Yeah, the rest of the night consisted of Mike fucking with Brandon. There was even one moment in the tent where Mike told him, “Calm down Brandy. Banshee’s only show up when there’s a flash of light.” After a few seconds, Mike lightly held down the button on the flashlight and Brandon screamed “FUCK”.

The next day we woke up and went about our business of taking a piss off in the woods or going down to the lake just to enjoy the morning breeze, but I noticed something odd. Upon walking down the reclusive hill, there was something amiss in the dunes themselves. I saw our footprints, which were hugely distorted due to the sand, and then I saw what appeared to be deep impressions like something on all fours had bolted up the hill- or down it. They were just so perfect that it couldn’t be real.

I’m paranoid about these things, so I constantly had my eyes glued to the trails that we came from and others we hadn’t checked out yet. Which I knew if we were, I’d be bringing Brandon or all of them along. I really didn’t feel like going alone after the wail yesterday.

I sat on the downed telephone pole to wash my face off from the water, and that’s when I noticed it. Mike’s bottle of gin, still half filled like he left it, just dropped in the sand in front of me. I blinked blankly, figuring Mike must’ve wandered out last night or early in the morning and drunkenly left it here.

I went back up to our spot where Dalton brought more wood to and asked Uncle Mike about his bottle. He tilted his head and asked me where I found it. I told him down by the lake. He told me to stop fucking with him.

“You didn’t get up early in the morning and take it down there?” He told me no, but I raised my eyebrows at him. “So you weren’t hammered?”

I sounded like an idiot sure, but knowing Mike he could be hatching some kind of prank on us as we spoke. Bottom line was he said he didn’t move it, so I just gave him the gin and sat down at the camp.

It was pretty lazy for the rest of the morning. All we did was eat some of our canned stuff and decided which trails we’d go down. Naturally, since the place we were at is connected to an actual nature park, we thought we’d try seeing if we could reach it. So we chose the path going around the side of Willow Lake. Mike stayed behind and made some phone calls while we went out there, since animals could’ve gotten into our shit if we just left it.

This little dirt road had the retention ditch adjacent to it, with big tilapia swimming freely and at least a twelve foot stumble if someone tripped. And boy, it was far. By two P.M. we’d probably walked at least three miles or so, and I could barely believe that myself. The place was supposed to be thirty acres, and the fact that this trail rarely curved or made a turn bothered me at how far we’d gotten from the sand dunes.

The only thing we had here were jagged trees, and overlying canopy of Spanish moss, and the just barely audible noise of the highway. So we weren’t entirely that far from civilization. Our big problem now was that the path split into three. They all looked the same, spare for the center being riddled with pine needles. So we went down the mid-path, figuring less sand meant easier walking.

The wail again, from yesterday. As soon as I heard it in front of us, I teared up. Consider myself a pussy, but I knew it wasn’t Mike screwing with us. There was no way he could’ve been ahead at this rate. Brandon was giving us worried looks but he brought out his six inch knife, and Dalton told me to lie low. We were all speaking so softly that it was almost surreal.

Brandon, though easily spooked, seemed so calm here. He slowly went ahead, minding where he put his footsteps because the pine needles didn’t actually make too much of a noise. So while he slowly progressed twenty yards ahead of us (and also remember that the trail is pretty isolated in the forest at this point), Dalton and I covered our six. We noticed something really strange just lying off to the edge of the pine needled path.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to deny every ounce of it. But there was no denying the fact that an unopened can of Mountain Busch was right here, far from our camp. The damn thing still had precipitation on it.

I told Dalton I was really fucking scared right now, and he nodded and nudged me towards Brandon. We decided we’d head back to the camp and tell Mike about it.

Something entered our peripheral vision, a blurring mix of gray and white, ran from one side of the path from the other. One thing I remember definitively were three boney fingers on each hand passing through the bush and leaving nearly no trace that it was there.

I’ve never seen Brandon hop to his feet and sprint as quick as he did, but we were all on our feet. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen my own two feet work like they did. We forgot taking the can back and just ran as fast as we possibly could back to the Lake. And we didn’t stop there, we ran up the sand dunes, nearly collapsing because of the thick sand, and shouted for Mike.

Mike wasn’t there. Are you fucking kidding me, I thought. We shouted for Mike for several minutes, looking all around. Brandon checked the cooler and did a count of our stuff while Dalton kept pacing back and forward, calling Mike on his phone.

“What are you sissies screaming about?” Mike answered the phone. We found out he had walked back to the truck to go to the 7-11 down the road, but he told us he was pulling back up. He asked us if we were really gonna pussy out of our only time together over break, and we decided we would just meet him at the front and tell him what happened. Fuck staying behind at the camp, none of us were man enough to do it after what we just witnessed.

We made our way back past the two large trees and down the long trail until we found Mike walking up with a bag of potato chips and some water. He thought our expressions were hilarious, but asked us what was going on.

Once we told him, he was almost in disbelief. Mike asked us if we took his machete, and I answered no for him. He told us we should consider knowing where it is if we seriously saw something.

The rest of the day consisted of us staying near the tent, not really going anywhere alone anymore. We had all stepped down near the Lake because Dalton and I started goofing around. We were wrestling, causing a huge dust cloud from rolling down the dunes. Mike loved it, because I was being so desperate to kick Dalton’s ass yet I wasn’t built like he was. And Mike, seeing another opportunity to fuck with Brandon, did the banshee cry yet again.

Only this time, off in the distance, the same wail from before answered him. We all said “what the fuck!?” at nearly the same instant. This was when Mike stood up and scanned the perimeter, making his own checks of everything.

“See Rob, this is why you need to get your concealed weapons permit.” He said, walking down to help us up. When I asked him why, he answered “You really think I’m allowed to carry a gun?”

We weren’t very talkative the rest of the night. We sat around the campfire paranoid, tried roasting some marshmallows and playing some music from our cell phones but it was hard to shake the feeling that we were under surveillance. You know, like there could be big red eyes somewhere just watching, waiting.

Mike kept his machete by his legs, and Brandon had taken his own knife and carved the end of this long stick to make a spear. This is how spooked we really were. There was something out here and we were alone.

“Look guys, if you really wanna just get the fuck out of here, we can. I’ll just drive us back to Rob’s place.”

At that point, we were all ready to get up and go, so there were no objections. Some camping trip this turned out to be.

Mike stood up and lit a cigarette for a few moments, then muttered profanities to himself. He turned to us with a half-grin half-frown. “You guys are gonna hate me… I think I dropped my car keys.”

Of course we all gawked and asked him if he was serious or if he was fucking with us. Because of course, Mike’s been known to do that. But he was serious. He fanned out his pockets and checked all over camp, using his cell phone as a light.

So that’s really it. We were fucking stuck here unless we wanted to walk the whole way back to my house. And frankly, we were tired and our hearts were still pounding from earlier. We just wanted to dig in and hold until daylight. We’d cut this trip short, making it two days instead of three.

So we all huddled like frightened animals in the middle of the tent. That primal fear kicked in of being exposed, or being towards the outside of the tent. Mike slept next to his machete, keeping his shoulder on it. Brandon and I couldn’t sleep, and Dalton drank some of Mike’s gin to try and keep him sleeping. Brandon was petrified and told me not to close my eyes. His paranoia made it harder on my own, and we kept ourselves up for as long as I can remember. We heard the mosquitoes on the outside of the tent, we heard some splashing down near the Lake, and we heard a train horn eerily pass by.

It must’ve been three hours before we finally started settling in. I was about to bury myself in my sleeping bag when my ears sprang alert. There was a thumping of sand being thrown around. It was getting closer, and more to our ground level.

I dared not sit up, but I started to tear up once more. That thing was bolting up the hill and into our camp site, just like it probably did the night before.

I held my breath as the thing’s heavy exhalation passed on my side of the tent. Its footfalls weren’t too powerful, the thing appeared like it was trying to sneak around. It also slowed down now that it was on even terrain.

Now I couldn’t help it. I turned slowly and silently to see Brandon’s eyes completely open, staring straight at me. He was shitting bricks so bad but I wasn’t gonna call him out on anything. This was horrifying and I really thought about the possibility that this monster could kill us with those long boney fingers.

While it sulked around the camp and went through our cooler, I nodded towards Mike’s machete. Brandon tried to take it, but Mike was too heavy. So we had to wake everyone up. I brought a hand out and suggested prodding Mike with his stick, so we did. Mike quietly groaned but we covered his mouth. Before he could object, we heard the cooler spill and all the shit pour out. The thing outside grunted and its heavy breathing panicked for a moment before subsiding. The thing’s fingers were tapping on the insides, and it lapped up the water like a big dog would.

Mike wanted to whisper but we frantically shook our heads against the idea. So instead of talking, he mouthed stuff to us. It was hard to understand him, but he reluctantly spoke. “Wake up Dalton. Sit up slowly.”

We all remained silent, for the night around us had as well. We were almost terrified that it heard him. I couldn’t stop shaking, as if I got the chills. But we were reassured that the thing was still there because it started digging in the sand for some reason, and the sand smashed against the outside of our tent, like we were being pelted with tiny pebbles.

We pushed on Dalton’s shoulder, and he muttered “what”.

Mike sat up and held the machete ready, because the thing outside stopped digging in the sand. We clasped our hands over his mouth and whispered into his ear to sit up slowly, which he did with uneasiness.

The thing was casting a shadow over our tent, now. It was just taller than Mike, who was prime in that category here. Like a grizzly bear or something, it stood to full height to observe the tent. It had to be at least ten feet away, right against the heavy forest. And since we were all on our knees inside the tent, we weren’t even half of its height. Uncle Mike raised the blade, his own tattooed hands shaking.

The monster moved its legs and stalked towards our tent. It extended an arm to poke the tent, running its delicate fingers across the fibers. Its breathing pushed in on the tent, and out. The shadow gradually turned and its hands ran over the entrance, particularly along the zipperline.

I was literally holding Dalton’s hand, in a completely maternal instinct. This was real. This was a real nightmare, a story you’d read or a movie you’d watch. And I was in the middle of it. My heart was pounding so hard that I could not only hear it, but feel it in every ounce of my body. He could feel it too as he squeezed my hand. Even Brandon who was sitting by himself was literally losing his shit in the calmest way imaginable. Because if we weren’t calm, I thought we’d be dead.

The fingers finally found the zipper. It fiddled and experimented with it, and the thing looked like it had difficulty understanding. It pulled out on the tent, moving us a few inches. Then it pulled up, started unzipping the tent.

It was halfway unzipped when Mike struck. He lunged out at it, swiping the thing across its arm and the monster letting out a shrill that could boil blood. We all screamed, seeing the thing roll around in the sand with Mike grunting to stay on it. They knocked over the ashpile and the partially burnt bonfire and dust was in the air, everywhere. It was horrible because we didn’t know what to do. We were fucking sitting here watching my best friend’s Uncle fight off a creature with his blade, and we weren’t sure who was winning.

I don’t even remember much of the fighting, I just recall being petrified at the skeletal humanoid monster that in the middle of this fight had glowing yellow eyes and snarled like something neither from Hell nor Earth.

Brandon took both Dalton and I by the arms and ushered us down the hill. Dalton didn’t want to leave Mike, but Brandon said tough shit and told him we were going to dig in. I reminded him that this thing was six feet tall and fast, but it didn’t matter to us anyway. We were in the sand dunes in pitch black, and there was absolutely nothing keeping it from bolting down the dunes and ripping us apart!

We saw them hurdling down the hill, Mike literally punching the fucking thing now with his fists. He didn’t even have the big knife in his hands anymore until I noticed it was protruding from the creature’s gut. And what’s worse is the thing was digging its claws into his shoulder. It looked damaging, like someone dragging a dissection tool across the skin. In their struggle, the thing must’ve rocked back and forth because his neck was pretty diced.

Now with Mike bleeding from his neck we really knew we had to do something or else he could die… or we could all die. So Mike, groaning from his pain, finally kicks the thing off of him and stands up. He’s literally dripping blood down his shoulders. The creature on the other hand just sits there, its body churning inwards and outwards, catching its breath and recuperating.

We all hauled ass, fuck everything back at the camp. The sand made it difficult to sprint, and that made things even scarier. The thing could lunge and snatch any of us at the rate that we were going. It was like trudging through heavy snow! Thank god for Brandon’s heritage, he told us how the Mohawk Indians ran. He suggested that he we ran their way or stick to the side of the path once we got back on it, and it would keep us from sinking into the dune.

We were at the bottom when it wailed and we heard it charging after us. I was already flying for all I knew from the adrenaline pouring into my veins. The sound of breaking glass shocked me but I didn’t stop running. I ran faster than any of them.

I passed the two big trees and got out of the scrubbery, and I passed the second large lake and I reached the truck. I had covered the distance so fast that my chest was about to explode from pain. My asthma was acting up and I started having trouble breathing. I didn’t even bring an inhaler because I hadn’t used it in so long.

I found Mike’s keys on the ground next to the car tires and just grabbed them. I couldn’t do anything right now with my heart pounding and my lungs in anguish. I didn’t even realize I left anybody behind in the dust and frankly the only thought on my mind was the horrible creature.

A few moments later, Dalton and Brandon came hauling Mike over and put him in the back seat of the truck. I gave them the keys and without them asking me if I was alright, got in the truck and Dalton took the wheel.

We turned on the truck and its engine revved up. The headlights came on and the yellow eyes reflected, while it continued crawling for us. Dalton shouted the Lord’s name and put his foot down on the pad. We ran the thing over, causing a huge thump. After that we backed all the way out of the trail and without paying any mind, we sped off down the roadways to the nearest hospital.

Mike was in I.C.U. for days until they managed to save him. As for us, well we told our folks what had happened and they thought we were all dropping acid. They wouldn’t let us see each other or Mike for months until some hiker got killed out in the place we were at. The whole city was in panic over this fiasco and nobody wanted to leave their homes.

No other killing happened. The police did a huge sweep of the nature park and although they did find the remains and everything we reported, they found no creature. Not even the blood. The Mayor’s response was to completely seal off the nature park and the thirty acres beside it and the city made it illegal and punishable by fine to enter anywhere around it.

I finally got to ask Mike what the fuck happened only a few months back. He had told me the breaking glass was his bottle of gin, with his last sip he had been saving, against the thing’s face. Said he cut it up pretty badly.

I’ve never set foot in the forest down here ever since.

Credit To – Rob Allen

Kat sat alone on her couch, shoveling popcorn into her mouth. She stared at her TV tied to the suspense of the movie. The sky darkened as the sun approached the horizon, hidden behind the ocean of trees her house lay among. One lone tree stood in the center of her yard, visible through the living room window. A menacing presence filled the area yet to make itself known.

Kat was glued to her movie, but still able to catch a glimpse of the black object aimed at her door. THUD! Kat jumped, startled by unexpected disturbance, spilling the popcorn. “What the hell?” she whimpered, approaching the door. The door knob was cold in her hand, her heart pounded in her chest. The hinges squeaked as the door creaked open. A rush of cold air washed Kat’s face as her eyes scanned the dim yard. Nothing could be seen. Nothing made a sound.

She slowly shut the door, then cleaned up the popcorn. She had just sat down when another black object hit her door with a louder thud than before. She looked at the tree in the yard, almost certain she saw what threw it. Kat sat there watching the tree, waiting for something to happen. “It’s just some kids,” she thought “nothing to worry about.” She quickly made herself comfortable and began to turn on another movie. Minutes passed and another thud shattered the silence, shaking the door. Kat raced for the lock, and quickly shut the blinds. “They’ll go away.” she said, but grabbed a knife to calm her nerves and give her a sense of security.

Tap. Tap. Tap. She heard light pecking on the living room window. The pecking grew louder, faster. She froze there in place, staring at the windows as the tapping became more profound. She was afraid to investigate, but brave enough to stand her ground. Her home was small and every hiding place would be too predictable. Besides, she didn’t want to hide. She wanted to see it coming instead of cowering in fear.

The tapping suddenly stopped. Kat slowly made her way to the door and put her back to it. A shadow eclipsed the light from the window atop the door. She stood just out of sight, holding her breath. With her back pressed against the wood, she could feel it knocking, three times softly Kat could hear the galloping beat of her heart in her head, her anxiety raised to the peak. Three more knocks hit the door, harder this time. “Let me in.” a hoarse whisper slipped through the door and into Kat’s ears. She bit her lip, tears filling her eyes. Another three knocks erupted, furious now. “Let me in.” a now angry voice ordered.

The knocking didn’t cease. It grew harder as the voice grew louder. “Let me in! Let me in! LET ME IN!” The knocking grew so fierce it could have shattered the door. Tears leaked from her eyes. “What do I do,” she thought “should I open the door?” The knocking was more than she could bear. “I know you’re in there, Kat.” it said. Her stomach twisted, her breath caught in her throat, and tears now streamed down her face. “Go away!” she shouted finally. “Let me in!” it screamed in response. “Leave me alone!” she cried. The voice and the knocking echoed in her head, making her more nauseous than before. Reaching for the lock hesitantly, she sucked up her tears and held her breath, unlocking the door and throwing it open.

Nothing was there. The tree stood in the yard unmoving, no wind. Nothing. She shut the door, shaking in fear. With the click of the lock, the room grew cold. Goose-bumps covered her skin. “Thank you for letting me in.” a voice whispered behind her.

Credit To – Savannah K Davis

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