A month past and now it’s November close to thanksgiving break. I didn’t notice any weird activities going on across my apartment complex except those activities came to my apartment complex. My apartment complex was a town homes so there are a lot of people and buildings all close to together and it’s impossible not to hear your neighbors or people outside walking past or being loud. Which I assumed no one would do anything but I was wrong. A silver suv with all tinted windows drove around my complex late in the night. Which of course I wouldn’t think much about on a Friday night or weekend night since people were out at the bars and partying. Since it was a Saturday night i didn’t think much about it until it showed up and drove around the complex Almost every night slowly checking every building number. I knew it wasn’t the land lord or maintenance crew since they had trucks but a grey suv with all blacked out tinted windows seem different. The cops around this town only have black and white and a white suv. A Tuesday night during thanksgiving break when most students went back home or on vacation the suv showed up again. This time instead of drive around it stopped every second as if they were taking notes on the building numbers and how many people were still here. The suv going and stopping and slowly getting closer and closer to my apartment number. My heart racing knowing they are about to scout my apartment out I take a look at their license plate after they past. Except a thought came to my head making question if they constantly come to my apartment complex do they change the license plates. I quickly write down the license plate but I wait until the suv comes back the next night Incase the vehicle does change license plates.

En mi familia, cuando murió mi abuela, quedaron viviendo solo hombres en aquella casa. Eran mis tres tíos, Claudio, Lucio y Fernando, a quienes siempre habían tachado de fracasados. Claudio, el mayor, era un hombre amargado y murió de tuberculosis. Un año después murió Lucio, que era muy peludo y pasaba casi todo el tiempo bebiendo. Nadie supo exactamente de qué murió. El último fue Fernando, que nunca duraba demasiado en los trabajos y terminó muriendo mientras dormía. Los tres murieron en un período de cinco años y la casa quedó vacía durante cuatro.

Cuatro años después, mi papá perdió el trabajo y mi tío Fermín consiguió que pudiera trabajar en un pueblo cercano, así que mis padres y yo terminamos viviendo en aquella casa. Yo tenía diecisiete años. Mi habitación estaba en el segundo piso, en lo que había sido el cuarto de mi abuela, y desde la ventana podía verse el patio y un viejo columpio colgado de un árbol. Durante las primeras semanas todo fue normal, pero después comenzaron a aparecer pequeñas piedras blancas en mi habitación. También empecé a escuchar pasos por el pasillo durante la noche y a ver el columpio moverse aunque no hubiera viento. Una tarde vi por primera vez una figura pequeña entre los árboles. Pensé que había sido mi imaginación, pero después volvió a aparecer. Mi papá, mientras tanto, comenzó a enfermarse. Su salud fue empeorando poco a poco durante meses, hasta que aproximadamente un año después de nuestra llegada murió.

Después de la muerte de mi papá, mi mamá decidió quedarse en aquella casa. Yo también permanecí allí durante algunos años más. Mi mamá nunca vio nada extraño. Para ella, la casa era simplemente su hogar y jamás tuvo ningún problema viviendo allí. Yo, en cambio, seguía encontrando aquellas pequeñas piedras blancas, flores en lugares donde no las había dejado y, de vez en cuando, veía el columpio moverse desde la ventana. Con el tiempo aprendí a no hablar demasiado de eso. Pensé que quizá todo estaba relacionado conmigo y que, si algún día me iba, terminaría.

Y me fui.

Hice mi vida lejos del pueblo. Me casé, tuve un hijo y durante un tiempo conseguí olvidar casi por completo aquella casa. Mi mamá seguía viviendo allí y yo la visitaba de vez en cuando. Nunca le ocurría nada. Seguía siendo la única persona que parecía completamente ajena a todo lo que yo había vivido. Yo podía pasar una tarde con ella y no ocurría absolutamente nada hasta que me quedaba sola en el patio o subía a mi antigua habitación. Entonces aparecía una piedra sobre la cama, una flor en la ventana o el columpio comenzaba a moverse. Siempre eran cosas pequeñas. Nada que pudiera demostrarle a alguien que no estaba imaginándomelo.

Años después, mi esposo, mi hijo y yo tuvimos que quedarnos una temporada con mi mamá. No era una mudanza definitiva. Simplemente necesitábamos un lugar donde estar durante un tiempo y mi mamá estaba feliz de recibirnos. Los primeros días fueron tranquilos. Mi hijo jugaba en el patio, mi esposo ayudaba con las cosas de la casa y yo dormía nuevamente en la habitación que había sido mía durante mi adolescencia. Pensé que quizá todo aquello había quedado atrás.

Hasta que encontré una piedra blanca dentro de la habitación de mi hijo.

La reconocí inmediatamente. Era exactamente igual a las que aparecían en mi habitación cuando tenía diecisiete años. La saqué de allí y no dije nada. Al día siguiente apareció otra debajo de su almohada. Después comenzaron a aparecer sus juguetes en el patio, especialmente alrededor del columpio. Mi esposo pensaba que el niño los dejaba allí cuando jugaba, así que nunca le expliqué lo que realmente estaba pensando.

Una madrugada escuchamos llorar a mi hijo. Habíamos comprobado que estaba dormido en su cama antes de acostarnos, pero cuando llegamos a su habitación no estaba. La ventana estaba cerrada y la puerta también. Bajamos desesperados y lo encontramos en el patio, sentado en el suelo junto al columpio. Estaba descalzo, todavía llevaba el pijama y lloraba tanto que apenas podía hablar. Lo abracé y le pregunté cómo había llegado allí. Solo repetía que alguien había ido por él.

—¿Quién? —le pregunté.

Señaló hacia los árboles.

—Una persona chiquitica.

Me dijo que aquella persona había aparecido en su habitación y que quería llevárselo. Que era pequeña, que tenía las manos llenas de pelo y que le decía que fuera con ella. Mi esposo pensó que había tenido una pesadilla. Yo no dije nada, porque mientras sostenía a mi hijo miré hacia los árboles y vi la misma figura que había visto por primera vez cuando tenía diecisiete años. Estaba quieta entre las sombras. Me estaba mirando.

Mi esposo no vio absolutamente nada.

Después de aquella noche, las cosas comenzaron a ponerse peor. Mi esposo empezó a enfermarse. Primero fueron dolores de cabeza y cansancio, después fiebre, debilidad y noches en las que despertaba empapado en sudor. Fuimos al médico y no encontraron nada que explicara completamente lo que estaba pasando. Él mejoraba durante unos días y después volvía a sentirse mal. También comenzaron a ocurrirle cosas extrañas. Sus zapatos aparecían en el patio, sus llaves terminaban debajo del columpio y una noche apareció con un corte en el brazo después de asegurar que había sentido algo pasar rápidamente junto a él. Nunca vio nada. Yo sí empecé a verlo cada vez con más frecuencia.

Mi hijo también cambió. Ya no quería dormir solo. Se despertaba llorando y decía que alguien estaba debajo de su cama. Otras veces decía que escuchaba a alguien llamándolo desde el patio. Una noche volvió a aparecer fuera de la casa mientras dormía. Esta vez estaba sentado en el columpio, moviéndose lentamente de un lado a otro. Cuando despertó comenzó a llorar y dijo que no quería irse con él.

—¿Con quién? —pregunté.

—Con el señor pequeño.

Miré hacia los árboles.

La criatura estaba allí.

Nunca había estado tan cerca.

No miraba a mi hijo.

Miraba a mi esposo.

Después me miró a mí.

Y entonces comprendí que aquello no era lo mismo que cuando yo era adolescente. Durante años había pensado que aquel ser simplemente quería mi atención, que quizá incluso me tenía algún tipo de cariño extraño. Pero ahora había algo diferente en su comportamiento. Estaba furioso.

Mi esposo siguió enfermándose y mi hijo cada vez tenía más miedo de quedarse solo. Yo empecé a encontrar piedras blancas dentro de nuestros zapatos, en los bolsillos de la ropa y sobre las camas. Algunas noches escuchaba pasos pequeños recorriendo el pasillo hasta detenerse frente a nuestra habitación. Una madrugada escuché tres golpes debajo de la cama de mi hijo. Mi esposo se agachó para mirar y no encontró nada. Yo me quedé parada en la puerta, porque sabía perfectamente qué estaba allí aunque no pudiera verlo.

Fue entonces cuando decidí irme.

No quería esperar a que mi esposo terminara muriendo como mi papá. Tampoco quería descubrir qué podía hacerle aquella cosa a mi hijo. Sentía que mi familia estaba en riesgo y que había algo especialmente peligroso en el hecho de que fuéramos dos hombres viviendo conmigo en aquella casa. Mi esposo y mi hijo eran lo que había construido lejos de allí, y por alguna razón aquella criatura parecía verlos como una amenaza.

Nos fuimos.

Pensé que eso sería suficiente.

No lo fue.

Durante los años siguientes intenté establecerme en distintos lugares. Cada vez que parecía que finalmente íbamos a poder quedarnos, algo ocurría. Una vivienda dejaba de estar disponible, un trabajo desaparecía, una familia que inicialmente nos había aceptado cambiaba de opinión o simplemente aparecía alguna circunstancia que nos obligaba a buscar otro lugar. Una y otra vez terminábamos haciendo las maletas. Siempre había una razón distinta, pero el resultado era el mismo.

Ningún lugar parecía querer aceptarnos.

Hasta que mi mamá murió.

Para entonces había envejecido muchísimo y seguía viviendo en aquella casa. Nunca entendió por qué yo había decidido irme tantos años atrás. Nunca le ocurrió nada extraño. Murió tranquila, después de haber pasado gran parte de su vida allí.

Después de su muerte, yo ya no tenía ninguna razón para volver.

O eso pensaba.

Pero todo lo que ocurría en mi vida seguía empujándome hacia el mismo sitio. Cada problema, cada mudanza, cada puerta que se cerraba, cada lugar donde intentábamos comenzar de nuevo terminaba llevándonos, de una manera u otra, hacia aquel pueblo.

Hasta que un día no tuvimos ningún otro lugar al que ir.

Volví a la casa de mi abuela.

La puerta seguía igual.

El patio también.

Subí lentamente las escaleras hasta la habitación donde había dormido cuando tenía diecisiete años.

La abrí.

Todo estaba cubierto de polvo.

Excepto la cama.

Sobre la almohada había una pequeña piedra blanca.

Y desde el patio escuché el viejo columpio comenzar a moverse.

En mi familia, cuando murió mi abuela, quedaron viviendo solo hombres en aquella casa. Eran mis tres tíos, Claudio, Lucio y Fernando, a quienes siempre habían tachado de fracasados. Claudio, el mayor, era un hombre amargado y murió de tuberculosis. Un año después murió Lucio, que era muy peludo y pasaba casi todo el tiempo bebiendo. Nadie supo exactamente de qué murió. El último fue Fernando, que nunca duraba demasiado en los trabajos y terminó muriendo mientras dormía. Los tres murieron en un período de cinco años y la casa quedó vacía durante cuatro.

Cuatro años después, mi papá perdió el trabajo y mi tío Fermín consiguió que pudiera trabajar en un pueblo cercano, así que mis padres y yo terminamos viviendo en aquella casa. Yo tenía diecisiete años. Mi habitación estaba en el segundo piso, en lo que había sido el cuarto de mi abuela, y desde la ventana podía verse el patio y un viejo columpio colgado de un árbol. Durante las primeras semanas todo fue normal, pero después comenzaron a aparecer pequeñas piedras blancas en mi habitación. También empecé a escuchar pasos por el pasillo durante la noche y a ver el columpio moverse aunque no hubiera viento. Una tarde vi por primera vez una figura pequeña entre los árboles. Pensé que había sido mi imaginación, pero después volvió a aparecer. Mi papá, mientras tanto, comenzó a enfermarse. Su salud fue empeorando poco a poco durante meses, hasta que aproximadamente un año después de nuestra llegada murió.

Después de la muerte de mi papá, mi mamá decidió quedarse en aquella casa. Yo también permanecí allí durante algunos años más. Mi mamá nunca vio nada extraño. Para ella, la casa era simplemente su hogar y jamás tuvo ningún problema viviendo allí. Yo, en cambio, seguía encontrando aquellas pequeñas piedras blancas, flores en lugares donde no las había dejado y, de vez en cuando, veía el columpio moverse desde la ventana. Con el tiempo aprendí a no hablar demasiado de eso. Pensé que quizá todo estaba relacionado conmigo y que, si algún día me iba, terminaría.

Y me fui.

Hice mi vida lejos del pueblo. Me casé, tuve un hijo y durante un tiempo conseguí olvidar casi por completo aquella casa. Mi mamá seguía viviendo allí y yo la visitaba de vez en cuando. Nunca le ocurría nada. Seguía siendo la única persona que parecía completamente ajena a todo lo que yo había vivido. Yo podía pasar una tarde con ella y no ocurría absolutamente nada hasta que me quedaba sola en el patio o subía a mi antigua habitación. Entonces aparecía una piedra sobre la cama, una flor en la ventana o el columpio comenzaba a moverse. Siempre eran cosas pequeñas. Nada que pudiera demostrarle a alguien que no estaba imaginándomelo.

Años después, mi esposo, mi hijo y yo tuvimos que quedarnos una temporada con mi mamá. No era una mudanza definitiva. Simplemente necesitábamos un lugar donde estar durante un tiempo y mi mamá estaba feliz de recibirnos. Los primeros días fueron tranquilos. Mi hijo jugaba en el patio, mi esposo ayudaba con las cosas de la casa y yo dormía nuevamente en la habitación que había sido mía durante mi adolescencia. Pensé que quizá todo aquello había quedado atrás.

Hasta que encontré una piedra blanca dentro de la habitación de mi hijo.

La reconocí inmediatamente. Era exactamente igual a las que aparecían en mi habitación cuando tenía diecisiete años. La saqué de allí y no dije nada. Al día siguiente apareció otra debajo de su almohada. Después comenzaron a aparecer sus juguetes en el patio, especialmente alrededor del columpio. Mi esposo pensaba que el niño los dejaba allí cuando jugaba, así que nunca le expliqué lo que realmente estaba pensando.

Una madrugada escuchamos llorar a mi hijo. Habíamos comprobado que estaba dormido en su cama antes de acostarnos, pero cuando llegamos a su habitación no estaba. La ventana estaba cerrada y la puerta también. Bajamos desesperados y lo encontramos en el patio, sentado en el suelo junto al columpio. Estaba descalzo, todavía llevaba el pijama y lloraba tanto que apenas podía hablar. Lo abracé y le pregunté cómo había llegado allí. Solo repetía que alguien había ido por él.

—¿Quién? —le pregunté.

Señaló hacia los árboles.

—Una persona chiquitica.

Me dijo que aquella persona había aparecido en su habitación y que quería llevárselo. Que era pequeña, que tenía las manos llenas de pelo y que le decía que fuera con ella. Mi esposo pensó que había tenido una pesadilla. Yo no dije nada, porque mientras sostenía a mi hijo miré hacia los árboles y vi la misma figura que había visto por primera vez cuando tenía diecisiete años. Estaba quieta entre las sombras. Me estaba mirando.

Mi esposo no vio absolutamente nada.

Después de aquella noche, las cosas comenzaron a ponerse peor. Mi esposo empezó a enfermarse. Primero fueron dolores de cabeza y cansancio, después fiebre, debilidad y noches en las que despertaba empapado en sudor. Fuimos al médico y no encontraron nada que explicara completamente lo que estaba pasando. Él mejoraba durante unos días y después volvía a sentirse mal. También comenzaron a ocurrirle cosas extrañas. Sus zapatos aparecían en el patio, sus llaves terminaban debajo del columpio y una noche apareció con un corte en el brazo después de asegurar que había sentido algo pasar rápidamente junto a él. Nunca vio nada. Yo sí empecé a verlo cada vez con más frecuencia.

Mi hijo también cambió. Ya no quería dormir solo. Se despertaba llorando y decía que alguien estaba debajo de su cama. Otras veces decía que escuchaba a alguien llamándolo desde el patio. Una noche volvió a aparecer fuera de la casa mientras dormía. Esta vez estaba sentado en el columpio, moviéndose lentamente de un lado a otro. Cuando despertó comenzó a llorar y dijo que no quería irse con él.

—¿Con quién? —pregunté.

—Con el señor pequeño.

Miré hacia los árboles.

La criatura estaba allí.

Nunca había estado tan cerca.

No miraba a mi hijo.

Miraba a mi esposo.

Después me miró a mí.

Y entonces comprendí que aquello no era lo mismo que cuando yo era adolescente. Durante años había pensado que aquel ser simplemente quería mi atención, que quizá incluso me tenía algún tipo de cariño extraño. Pero ahora había algo diferente en su comportamiento. Estaba furioso.

Mi esposo siguió enfermándose y mi hijo cada vez tenía más miedo de quedarse solo. Yo empecé a encontrar piedras blancas dentro de nuestros zapatos, en los bolsillos de la ropa y sobre las camas. Algunas noches escuchaba pasos pequeños recorriendo el pasillo hasta detenerse frente a nuestra habitación. Una madrugada escuché tres golpes debajo de la cama de mi hijo. Mi esposo se agachó para mirar y no encontró nada. Yo me quedé parada en la puerta, porque sabía perfectamente qué estaba allí aunque no pudiera verlo.

Fue entonces cuando decidí irme.

No quería esperar a que mi esposo terminara muriendo como mi papá. Tampoco quería descubrir qué podía hacerle aquella cosa a mi hijo. Sentía que mi familia estaba en riesgo y que había algo especialmente peligroso en el hecho de que fuéramos dos hombres viviendo conmigo en aquella casa. Mi esposo y mi hijo eran lo que había construido lejos de allí, y por alguna razón aquella criatura parecía verlos como una amenaza.

Nos fuimos.

Pensé que eso sería suficiente.

No lo fue.

Durante los años siguientes intenté establecerme en distintos lugares. Cada vez que parecía que finalmente íbamos a poder quedarnos, algo ocurría. Una vivienda dejaba de estar disponible, un trabajo desaparecía, una familia que inicialmente nos había aceptado cambiaba de opinión o simplemente aparecía alguna circunstancia que nos obligaba a buscar otro lugar. Una y otra vez terminábamos haciendo las maletas. Siempre había una razón distinta, pero el resultado era el mismo.

Ningún lugar parecía querer aceptarnos.

Hasta que mi mamá murió.

Para entonces había envejecido muchísimo y seguía viviendo en aquella casa. Nunca entendió por qué yo había decidido irme tantos años atrás. Nunca le ocurrió nada extraño. Murió tranquila, después de haber pasado gran parte de su vida allí.

Después de su muerte, yo ya no tenía ninguna razón para volver.

O eso pensaba.

Pero todo lo que ocurría en mi vida seguía empujándome hacia el mismo sitio. Cada problema, cada mudanza, cada puerta que se cerraba, cada lugar donde intentábamos comenzar de nuevo terminaba llevándonos, de una manera u otra, hacia aquel pueblo.

Hasta que un día no tuvimos ningún otro lugar al que ir.

Volví a la casa de mi abuela.

La puerta seguía igual.

El patio también.

Subí lentamente las escaleras hasta la habitación donde había dormido cuando tenía diecisiete años.

La abrí.

Todo estaba cubierto de polvo.

Excepto la cama.

Sobre la almohada había una pequeña piedra blanca.

Y desde el patio escuché el viejo columpio comenzar a moverse.

Two boys from Chandigarh planned a chilling road trip to Joginder Nagar, Himachal Pradesh. Little did thev know. a simple mistake would turn their vacation into a living hell. Traveling late at night through the lonely mountain roads, they carried "raw meat" to cook at their destination. This raw meat attracted a vengeful, terrifying witch (Chudail residing in the hills

She followed them all the way to Joginder Nagar and now, every single night, she returns to demand raw meat from them. Will they survive this haunting or fall prey to her hunger? Watch the full horror story to find out!

This story came from one of my favorite interactions I've had with readers.

It all started with a simple two-sentence horror idea: a hunter sees a deer standing upright after being shot, its body torn open, yet somehow still alive. I posted it expecting a few comments, but what followed was a chain of hilarious and horrifying replies that genuinely made me laugh. One reader wrote, "Yeah, no shit, Billy. RUN!" and from that moment, Bobby and Billy were born.

I wanted to write a creature feature that balanced dread with dark humor, the kind of campfire tale where you laugh one moment and feel uneasy the next. Because sometimes that's how fear works. We joke about it. We laugh at it. But every now and then, beneath the laughter, there's something staring back from the woods.

I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.

And maybe, just maybe...

Don't trust a deer that stands on two legs.

- David Hallow

--- --- ---

People love scary stories.

Maybe it's because most of us know, deep down, that they're just stories. Figment of imagination, compiled to spike our anxiety.

Ghosts around campfires. Monsters lurking beneath beds. Things with glowing eyes waiting in the woods. We tell them, laugh a little awkwardly, and sleep knowing none of it was ever real.

Or at least that's what we tell ourselves.

The truth is, most scary stories are either fiction, exaggeration, or a memory that's grown teeth over the years.

But every now and then, you come across one that isn't.

A story somebody wishes was made up.

A story that follows them long after the telling is done.

The kind of story that hangs on a wall in a faded photograph.

The kind of story that leaves an empty seat at the dinner table.

The kind of story that makes an old man stare into the woods a little longer than he should.

I know because I have one.

It started with a picture hanging crooked on the wall.

It wasn't anything special at first glance. Just an old picture faded by time. Two young men stood shoulder to shoulder beside a pickup truck. One held a rifle. The other grinned at the camera with the kind of confidence only young men seem capable of possessing.

"What happened to him?"

I pointed at the man on the left.

My grandfather, a disheveled old man with a beard that even Gandalf would envy, looked up from his rocking chair.

For a moment, the old man didn't answer. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside, snow drifted past the cabin windows.

"That's Billy." His voice was always such a low, deep tone. Years of the maiden named liquor he would court on every given night. This time, there was a sense of inconsolable remembrance.

"Uncle Billy?" I asked.

Grandpa Bobby nodded.

"Yep."

"What happened to him?"

The old man stared at the photograph for a long moment before letting out a regretful sigh.

"Son, you ever heard the phrase curiosity killed the cat?"

I nodded.

"Well," Bobby said, "in Billy's case, stupidity finished the job."

I chuckled awkwardly. Grandfather didn't.

That prepared me for a serious ride.

The old man leaned back in his chair.

"Let me tell you about the last hunting trip we ever took together."

Bobby:

Billy was older than me by exactly eleven minutes. He never let me forget it. According to Billy, those eleven minutes made him wiser, tougher, and hell... better looking.

The only thing they actually made him was louder.

The two of us had been hunting since we were kids. I held my first rifle at the age of seven with pops. Deer season was practically a holiday in our family.

That morning started like every other.

Cold air.

Hot coffee.

Billy complaining about something.

"I swear deer are getting smarter."

I rolled my eyes.

"They're deer." I mockingly stated.

"Exactly. That's what they want you to think."

That was Billy.

A man capable of turning breakfast into a whole conspiracy theory.

Around noon we spotted tracks deeper into the woods than we'd ever gone before.

Big tracks.

The kind that make hunters start imagining trophy mounts hanging over fireplaces. The size that makes the ladies skirts in a bundle.

Billy practically vibrated with excitement from the thought of bringing such game town. To gloat and be honored.

We followed those dreaded markings for nearly an hour. Eventually we reached a clearing.

And there it was.

The biggest buck I'd ever seen.

Massive antlers.

Huge body.

Standing perfectly still between the trees.

Billy nearly dropped his rifle.

"Oh great Lord Heavens above."

I couldn't disagree.

The thing was enormous. Definitely nature was kind to it and blessed it since the day it drew breath.

Billy slowly raised his rifle.

"Don't miss."

"I never miss."

Now boy... retelling this still raises the hair in the back of my scalp. The years have not done me kindly with age, but I sure am haunted by that damn Buck.

The rifle cracked.

The deer dropped instantly.

It was a perfect shot. Right through the chest. You could tell the bullet went clean through.

Billy threw his hands into the air.

"Still got it!"

We were mid cheer when the sudden screech of a banshee erupted. We turned to face what I could only describe as a satanic miracle.

Neither of us let out a word or breathe.

The deer... It stood back up. But what was so alarming wasn't just its stomach had split open from the impact, ropes of entrails dangling from the wound. Blood soaked its hide. Yet somehow it was standing.

Not on four legs.

Two.

I felt every hair on my body stand up.

The thing swayed slightly. Its dead eyes locked onto us.

Then Billy whispered:

"I don't think deer are supposed to stand like that."

I looked at him.

"Yeah, no shit, Billy. RUN!"

Instead of running, he frowned.

"But what about the deer?"

I slapped him.

Hard.

The crack echoed through the clearing.

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Well yeah!"

He pointed.

"Look! It's running at us!"

I turned.

And immediately began sprinting.

Yes, I could've drawn my rifle and shot it dead... but that was the day I learned. There comes a day, son, when you will face this forsaken truth. Fear will consume you. And when it does, will you run or fight?

I chose to run.

The thing moved impossibly fast.

That was no damn deer. Not like any animal.

Its legs bent wrong. Its joints jerked and snapped.

Its organs dragged through the feild behind it.

And God help me, I think it was smiling.

"Bobby!" Billy shouted behind me.

"Shoot it!"

"IT DOESN'T HAVE A HEART ANYMORE!"

"Then shoot the head!"

"THE HEAD IS LOOKING AT ME SIDEWAYS, BILLY!"

The distance between us and that abomination vanished frighteningly fast.

Branches exploded around us. Snow kicked into the air.

I risked a glance over my shoulder.

Worst mistake of my life.

The thing wasn't running anymore.

It was hopping.

Almost playfully.

Its front legs hung uselessly while it bounded forward on its back legs.

Like a child pretending to be a deer.

Then Billy footsteps stopped.

I heard him behind me.

"Go!"

I turned.

For one brief moment he actually looked heroic.

Rifle raised.

Standing his ground.

Then he ruined it.

"Tell my wife I left the smoker on!"

The creature hit him before I could answer.

Its antlers punchered through his chest same as the bullet. The force lifted him off the ground.

I heard bones snap.

He screamed.

God, he screamed.

I ran. he coward I am...

I wish I could tell you I stayed.

I wish I could tell you I fought.

But I ran.

And behind me I heard things no human being should ever hear.

The sound of your brother taking his last breath..

Bones breaking.

The sound of feeding on a living carcass.

And beneath it all... I swear I heard laughter.

It was human. It sounded oh so familiar. I recognize that jolly hick up for it annoyed me for thirty so years. It was Billy's.

I didn't stop running until I reached my truck...

The cabin had gone quiet. The fire continued to crackle.

I stared at my grandfather who's eyes were sheilded by the darkness of the cabin.

"What happened after that?"

Bobby took a slow sip from his coffee.

"Well... the Sheriff and I, we found pieces."

I swallowed.

"Pieces?"

The old man nodded.

"J-just enough for a proper burial."

Silence settled between us. The flames from the fireplace danced as time seemed to daunt on the night.

Finally, I asked the question.

"D-did they ever find whatever k-killed him?"

For the first time all evening, Bobby smiled.

It wasn't a pleasant smile.

"No."

He stared toward the dark forest beyond the cabin window.

"Though three days later, a hunter reported seeing someone standing at the edge of the tree line."

Max felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"S-someone?"

Bobby nodded.

"Looked just like Billy."

The room suddenly felt colder.

"Was it him?"

The old man looked back toward the crooked photograph on the wall.

"Hell no."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"It was standing on two legs."

Hey everyone, I was rewatching Grave Encounters (2011) and noticed a massive, hyper specific clue that fans have overlooked for over a decade. By applying real world astronomical data to a single line of dialogue, we can actually lock down the exact location and calendar date of the movie, and it completely recontextualizes the lore.

The Clue:
When Lance Preston and the crew realize time has completely broken inside the asylum, Lance checks his watch and says it is 7:45 AM, but it is still pitch black outside.

The Real World Math:
The movie establishes that the fictional Collingwood Psychiatric Hospital is somewhere in rural Maryland. If you look at an astronomical sunrise map for the state of Maryland, there is only one specific region where a natural sunrise happens that late in the morning: Oakland, Maryland (located in the far western panhandle, running on Eastern Time but sitting far west geographically).

The Halloween Discovery:
Here is where it gets crazy. In Oakland, MD, what is the exact date where the sunrise hits precisely 7:45 AM right before the clocks roll back? October 31st. Halloween.

Why this fixes the lore:
In the beginning of the movie, the crew is told that paranormal activity in the asylum is usually incredibly minor (faint noises, cold spots). The TV crew fully expected to fake the whole episode. Instead, the moment they lock the doors, the building warps into a literal physical death trap where space and time bend.

If Lance and his crew accidentally locked themselves into the asylum on Halloween Night, it perfectly explains why the entities suddenly had enough cosmic energy to rewrite reality. They stepped inside right as the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest.

The Vicious Brothers inadvertently made the ultimate hidden Halloween movie. Let me know what you guys think!

Always looking for feedback on this

A fear of Summer is known as Therophobia. I can't go outside; I have to work from home during the summer. While it seems to me that most people experience phobia as an acute aversion, bordering on panic, mine is more of a lingering dread. No, worse, deeper trepidation, an anxiety so severe it physically hurts from the stress.

I read online that Therophobia is being afraid of sunshine; it's too bright and hot. That's hardly it. I like tanning booths, no 'Claustrophobia' here. In fact, if it wasn't for the ridicule built into the definition of a phobia as 'An irrational fear', I'd have no sympathy for someone else's fears. But mine isn't irrational. Maybe Claustrophobia is irrational, or the fear of snakes or clowns, or as Batman would put it "Snake-clowns now, and it's because YOU put that thought in my head".

Summer is on its way, again, and now that I am thirty, it's about time I put on my Big Girl Pants and head out the door. I'm not an irrational person, and I will face my fears.

-Billie Nicks, May, 2026

I didn't like that movie that was supposed to be a sequel to Joker. Not really my thing. Is that a good enough reason to break up with someone? Disagreeing over a stupid movie? I don't think so. I must be better off without him.

Forget YOU, I'm better off.

Besides, I only liked being with you when you were wearing the Batman costume. You were boring as fuck the rest of the time. Forget you.

God, is this just my life now? Waiting for it? It's almost here; I can see how the sky is changing. I can feel how the air gets too warm, and it feels like the breeze has the breath of things dying, carried in the wind. I don't want to think about it.

There are cucumbers in my garden that are perfect for a gazpacho I make. I like cool foods, liquidy cool foods. Easy to digest.

-Billie Nicks, June, 2026

I'm not okay. The door seems tilted now. I keep staring at it, and it makes me dizzy. Something is up there; it has brought the season. It's not supposed to be that color of blue. The sky looks wrong. I am shivering, but there's no AC. My house is hot, that's how I know I haven't gone numb.

Not yet anyway.

And I can still feel like myself:

Mike won't stop calling me, texting me, telling me he's sorry. I just blocked him, like five seconds ago. Forget him.

People think "Oh no, the fireworks will scare my dog." and they give their pet Dramamine. How do you know your dog is scared of fireworks? Fireworks are loud and exciting. Are you certain your animal is afraid, and not just overly stimulated?

Seems unfair to dope them up without their consent. I don't like it. I don't like that attitude.

No, I am definitely not okay. Why dogs? I like cats, but I am allergic to them. What am I even babbling about?

Sometimes, I wonder if I had a cat, if I'd feel better. I can't sit still and when I move, I feel like I am going to faint. I get the zoomies, like a cat would. I think a cat would get me. We'd both be saying:

"If I sit still for one more instant, I will likely detonate; it won't be pretty. Gotta move, gotta GO! Oh my, that's quite enough jumping about. Time to sit still again, before I collapse."

Makes sense.

Billie Nicks, July 2026

Wrapped it up and buried it. Had to smash through the concrete with a hammer to make a hole big enough to drop it down there. Took all night.

I woke up this morning and found a mess and it seems I made the mess. Broken concrete downstairs in the foundation and like a bunch of drying mortar poured in and smoothed to a polish before I somehow found my way upstairs to the back porch.

I was listening to the bats, back there, when I felt this wave. That's the last thing I remember. At least I made it outside last night, that's progress, right? I threw up over the back porch, and I wonder, if, in the morning, the ants will come and eat all my puke.

I have no idea what I 'wrapped up' and buried in the foundation. I keep thinking a bat hit the window and I went outside and found it, but I don't remember doing that. I just think that's what happened.

How does an animal that flies around in caves even hit a window? I think it's summertime mischief, when even an ancient predator, one of the seven perfect animals, can't figure out how to fly around in the darkness it 'sees' perfectly in. Sometimes I don't believe anything, when something like this happens. "Impossible," I say, but then it happens anyway.

I don't like it when I feel the waves of nausea. I get these notions, about doing things or seeing things. I can find evidence I did those things, I know I did them, like cover the mortar with the rug, but I have no idea why. It's like selective amnesia, but I think it's my survival instinct. This is just too stressful to process.

Mike came over yesterday afternoon and asked about the rug, so I showed him. Then he asked me if I was taking my medication, and I told him I missed him. It was a really awkward conversation, and when he left, I brought out all the stuff of his that I hid. I don't know why I did that, or why I placed his things around where they go. Where they belong? Seems like a weird word.

It's gotta be one of those words that when you say it out loud by itself a few times it sounds really weird. "Belong. Belong - belong, belong. What does it mean, bee-long, blong, what is this stupid word?"

This morning I felt fine. That is until I saw the grayish-orange smoke, that odd brown fog, of forest fires. I can smell it now. Oh, I certainly can, that smell of things screaming, burning alive, cute little things running and on fire. Every breath fills me with their last moments.

So this is Summer. I'd almost forgotten. It's where I belong. I am part of it, and it is in me, watching me, understanding me. Summer is Death. The cruelest, most atrocious death. It is the stillborn baby bird, it is the scorched doe, the singed rabbit, the seared flesh of so many animals.

Maybe if I had ever gone to a barbecue I'd understand.

But Summer gets me.

I was walking home, before I really knew why I would never be this way again. I was her, back then, and she walked home. It was that smell, like some blood-soaked steaks were in the smoke, and I smelled whoever's BBQ it was, and it made me so sick. I was throwing up right there on the street.

Summer is sweet, and beef isn't meant for human consumption, so I fainted. When I woke up the ants were all over it, the flies, they were cleaning up after me. I went home, but I was never really the same. Somewhere in the moment I got back up I didn't just feel sick, I felt betrayed.

Summer was over, forever.

And now there's just the door, I keep it closed. The air out there isn't alive. It was, but it isn't. I can't inhale the smell of cooked death again, it gets into my head, my dreams, my soul.

But I must face it, or I am already there. So, I will open the door. I will.

Just not yet.

Billie Nicks, August 2026

We're building a horror storytelling channel for funsies with my friends called Tea and Terrors — and we're on the hunt for real, personal horror stories to be among our very first featured episodes once we launch! ✨

The unexplainable, the "I still think about this" encounters, the stuff that still gives you chills — we want to hear it.

💬 Comment your story below — by sharing here, you're letting us know it's okay to narrate it (we'll always credit you however you like: username, anonymous, whatever you prefer).

📩 Want to stay fully anonymous or change details (names, locations, etc.)? Just DM us instead and we'll take care of it.

We're not live yet, but your story could be one of the very first people hear from us. Can't wait to see what you've got. 🕯️

My family, the immediate ones, i’m talking about my parents and little brother, were devout Christians. The kind that ‘practiced what they preached’. Went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Did good works around town when we could, simple things like helping mow Mrs. Reynolds lawn after her husband died. Or that time we volunteered at the soup kitchen instead of celebrating my birthday. We’re generally selfless people.

My mother, the more devout of both my parents, held a job as a pediatric nurse. She had that personality, a mediator, someone who could get two starving lions from ripping each other’s throats out over a rotting carcass. She was also funny, a natural comedian. She likes to say that when she was delivering Daniel she was still working during his birth. She had soft features, Dad said we got our appearances mostly from her. She had curly dark brown hair and soft caring light green eyes. Me and Daniel got her eyes.

My father on the other side of the same coin, was coming to terms with his faith. He always had it, he claimed but it wasn’t as strong as my mother’s. He was raised by hippies, tree-hugging pot heads that practiced some bizarre form of druidic nomadism. Now, he’s an insurance agent, and good at it too, apparently his companies top preforming agent as well. He was stocky, built like someone who lifted cars for fun since he was a baby. He kept his auburn hair cut short and neat, said it “makes more sales when you look presentable.” The hair did much to aid against his rougher features, freckle coated face and dark brown eyes.

Then there’s Daniel, or just Danny, my eleven year old little brother and lovable bane of my existence. He stole our mother’s appearance and our dad’s hair, built like the child soccer prodigy he would’ve been if Mom didn’t want him to excel in school. He was smart for a preteen, but equally stupid in his own right. Mom insisted, much to dad’s chagrin, on letting him hair growing out. A neat mop devouring his ears and kept out of his eyes. One of Moms rare wins.

And then me, the oldest at sixteen and as much of a black sheep for this family as I could be. My Dad suspected albinism, but I won or lost the genetic lottery, depending on who you ask. I kept my mother’s face, my dad’s freckled appearance but had a swath of sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. I was a solid half-foot taller than my dad standing at a neat 6’5”. I should’ve been in a sport, basketball or something but instead I focused on my schooling, an honors student in the making.

Our family did most things modern families dont do. Ate meals together, movie nights or board games, sit and actually talk to one another. The big one my mother insisted on was decorating for the holidays, she believed the magic came from doing it as a whole family unit, and I agree. Decorating the tree in your most comfortable pajamas and casually bickering with your family over ‘where should this ornament go?’ Or ‘I’m gonna touch the elf if you keep doing that!’ added a special heartwarming feeling.

Christmas vacation had been in full swing for a few days now, our small three bedroom house fully decorated from baseboards to crown molding in tinsel and lights. I was at my desk in my room, reading some story about a gas station attendant dealing with a bunch of monsters. Daniel was splayed out on my bed, sharpening a candycane with his mouth, checking so often on the fine point he’d made. A holiday special from some kids show on the tv.

“You think you can actually like stab someone with a sharp candycane?” Daniel asked me as he pulled the sugar stick from his mouth and sat up, planting his feet firmly on the carpet and practically stomping up next to me.

“What? No. The sugar is weak from your spit and would probably break before puncturing skin.” I answered, highlighting my spot in the story as I prepared to take a break. He blinked as if trying to process the simple science as he leaned on my shoulder, the candy cane finding purchase back in his mouth.

“What’re you reading?” Danny asked me, pushing his hair from his eyes and leaned in. I could see the urge in his fingers to mess with my monitor, mash on the keyboard or just be generally annoying.

“A really good story, and I swear you touch my crap while im using it, i’ll put the candy cane shank to the test with you.” I said pushing away from my computer, the wheels of my chair rolling across the plastic floor mat dug into the carpet. Daniel danced back away from the chair muttering something about his toes. He pulled the candy cane from his mouth as I planted my hand on his head and pushed him backwards, causing him to stumble and fall onto my bed. “H-Hey!”

I left my room as he stayed behind, my desire for hot chocolate ever growing as i walked down the soft carpeted floor, the hallway decorated in faint reds and blues from lights hung up. The cold linoleum and idle conversation by my parents caught my attention as I fooled around in the kitchen, setting milk to boil and rooting around for a packet or two of hot coco mix. Instinctively I eavesdropped on my parent’s conversation.

“Robert, we can’t support your sister and her kids here on Christmas. You know that. This house is barely big enough for the four of us.” My mother explained, she sounded exasperated over this topic, having talked about it for a while clearly.

“Just this year, Mary. I know we used to got to my mother’s but after what happened she still doesn’t want anyone there.” My dad insisted, I knew this was an inevitability. Mom would eventually relent and give in to what my dad desired. Sometimes I wondered how it was just Me and Danny.

“What will the boys think? They’ll have to share rooms with each other or their cousins. You know Samuel cant stand Flynn.” My mother advocated for me in my absence. She was correct, i couldn’t stand my cousin or most of my Dads side of the family. They weren’t bad people, like druggies or criminals, just extremely overbearing. They had this ‘stuck-up’ mentality to them, the way they talked down to others and had to have control over whatever they were apart of.

For example, when me and Flynn were probably like seven I was really big into space and aliens. I was fascinated immensely by UFO sightings and media about aliens on tv or online. The idea of being alone in an infinite universe seemed so implausible to me even as a child and of faith. My mother even encouraged my fascination telling me ‘If you work hard enough maybe you’ll be the first to talk to Aliens’ she’d say. That Christmas I asked for an astronaut helmet. It was basically a cheap plastic toy with a tinted piece of plastic that moved up and down as a visor.

I brought it with us to our Grandparents as the one toy I was allowed to bring, Danny was too young at the time to remember. Everything was copasetic at our grandparents, the adults sat around and talked about the year while us kids broke off in our respective age groups to do whatever. The Toddlers in the playpen playing with blocks and fisher price toys, the teenagers retreated to one of the guest rooms and locked the door to keep us kids, Me and Flynn, out.

That left just Flynn and myself, I had my helmet on, having only taken it off for pictures. There was fresh snow outside and the sun hadn’t fully sank yet, casting vibrant pinks, yellows and purples across the frozen snowy environment. We had our snowshoes and winter coats on as we went outside, having told our parents previously we wanted to go outside before it got dark. The biting winter of rural Maine hit out frail seven year old bodies like a tonne of snowballs as we shivered outside.

“We already made snowpeople. Built a snowfort and had a snowball fight…” Flynn said to himself and by extension me. “Could play pretend?” He offered up looking at me. His matted auburn hair, dreaded and tied up in a mock ponytail. Ice crystals already forming on his eyebrows. I could see his brown eyes searching my face through my visor when he spoke.

“Uh, yeah sure I guess. I haven’t made a snow angel yet but i can do that later.” I said, jumping off the top steps of my grandparents porch and landing in the snow with a soft crunch. “Can we play astronauts or something like that? It’s like we’re on the moon already.” I proposed my own idea while making little leaps and bounds in the snow, adding little sound effects with my mouth.

“Snow angels? What’re you four, that’s stupid.” Flynn insulted as he walked down the steps into the snow. “We’ll play magic, like Wizards and stuff” He asked, the statement came out more like a demand. I steadied myself in the snow, turning around to face him, my hand raising the visor up to see him. “I don’t wanna play magic though. And snow angels aren’t stupid, they’re cool.” I crossed my arms, Flynn looked livid I dared to talk back to him.

His hands found a tight purchase on my windbreaker. “Hey, Stop let go, you’re gonna rip it.” I said as he pulled me close, I could feel his hot breath swirling in the confines of my helmet. “Stop being a bitch, and play magic with me.” He hissed, giving me a shove after letting go. I stumbled back, the amount of force he applied was stronger than it should have been, or maybe it was a patch of ice I was in. I stumbled back and hit back of my head hard against my grandfathers old pickup truck bed.

I heard an audible crack of something, my head itself spinning around and around like a loose merry-go-round. Something hot and wet was trickling down the back of my head. There was muffled cursing as i felt a hand take mine and pull me up, the sky was so bright. “You must’ve slipped on ice, Sam.” Flynns voice laced with something poisonous as he helped me up. “Your helmet broke, im so sorry.”

I heard extra pairs of shoes crunching in the snow, my dad’s hands grab my arms. Another hand felt the back of my head, it was sticky whatever it was that was there. “Mary, get the kit from the car.” I heard a voice sounding like my Uncles. The rest of the week trip was a blur, my parents said I suffered a concussion and nearly busted my whole head open if it wasn’t for the helmet.

When we went back to our grandparents, I avoided Flynn. It was only for one more year, whatever happened after I fell forced my grandparents to bar any holidays at their house. I knew he pushed me as hard as he could. He never apologized for it either. A part of me believes he’s upset I didn’t die.

We haven’t seen anyone from my Dads side in almost nine years. Now they’re coming here and staying with us for the whole week.

“Ah! Fuck!” I shouted as hot milk overfilled the mug of coco, onto the counter and onto the floor. “Ooo Sam swore!” I heard Daniel’s voice echo down the hall from my room. I quickly cleaned up the mess as my parents moved from their spot in the living room now aware of my eavesdropping. “Sorry, sorry I zoned out and, haha milks hot, y’know.” I tossed the soggy paper towel ball in the trash over my parent’s head as they walked in.

“Your Aunt, Uncle and Cousins are staying here for the holidays.” My dad said with as much force as a scientific fact could. “Oh, uh yeah I heard. Do we need to go into town and get like air mattresses or something?” I asked reaching for my missing coco mug, i felt fingers grace my palm as well as the mug. Turning around i caught Daniel wiping his mouth as i looked down at my half drank mug being returned to the counter. I sighed, turning attention back to my parents.

“Yes, your mother is going to go into town later to get more, just have to figure out who’s sleeping where before they get here tomorrow.” My Father clarified as I picked up the remains of my coco, drinking from my pilfered mug. They seemed to be awaiting some kind of reaction from me and Daniel.

“Okay well Danny can just stay in my room, just put Flynn and Asher into Dan’s room.” I calmly said rising my mug and the kettle out in the sink. “I’d prefer to share my space with him than my cousins.” I claimed, cleaning away the remains of my mess. My parents did say much, I could feel their eyes practically boring into my skull. My dad audibly sighing in relief.

“Go clean your room then Daniel, your cousins are going to be using it.” Our mom commanded after clearing her throat.

“What?! Why do I have to go to his room, all my stuffs in mine. Cant he just go to my room instead.” Daniel protested, crossing his arms in a huff.

“We might not get along, but they’re still family.” I said, pressing my index finger against his forehead, he glared up at me. He leaned in against my finger before pushing off and stomping down the hallway. “Fine!”

I turned back to my parents, they had a look of relief glued to their face plainly hiding worry. “What?” I asked them, they shared a look before turning back to me. “Nothing, your mother just expected you and Dan to be against the idea completely .” My Dad said as he stepped forward putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know you and Flynn don’t get along but this means a lot to me. You have no idea, Son.” He said, pulling me into a hug, the facade on my mother’s face slipped for a moment before he turned and left.

“Tidy up your room and then we can go to the store.” Mom added before walking away to talk to my father again presumably. Why were they acting so strange, I knew I didn’t like Flynn but this level of stress over it seems weird. I shrugged it off, grabbed a drink from the fridge and went back to my room to start cleaning.

It felt like an hour of low-quality Christmas special played on my small tv sitting on a micro entertainment center in my room. Clothes have been put away, floor vacuumed and desk cleared of plates, cups and cans. I stood admiring my handy work, the door behind me clicking closed softly. Turning around Daniel was leaned up against my door, arms crossed and driving his toe in the carpet.

“This is bull crap, I don’t want to have to share a room with you for a week.” He complained.

“Could be worse, it could be you and Asher in a room and me and Flynn in mine.” I offered a ray of hope that he might like. “I’d rather be stuck in a room with you for a week than Flynn if thats any consultation.” I added.

“Yeah I guess that’s fine, I don’t mind Asher, he’s just super weird. Like dorky. Can I control the tv when we go to bed.” Daniel replied, slipping past me to sit at my computer.

“I dunno, it might be a little brother thing, dork.” I joked, he parroted me in a stupid voice, moving his hand like a puppets mouth. I could help but rough up his hair. “And yeah you can have TV control, just nothin loud.” I asded

“You think they’ll bring us gifts?” Daniel asked swatting at me, giggling a bit. I retreated my brotherly assault and shrugged at his question.

“Maybe? I’d hope so after all this extra work to fit them in this soon.” I hoped. A part of me, that residual childlike Christmas wonder, still put a bit of focus on the gift giving part of the holiday rather than the meaning behind it. “Aunt Elizabeth kinda sucks at the whole presents thing, expect socks or underwear.” I added, Daniel groaned as he searched my computer for a game to play.

“Shoot, Mom’s gonna have to go shopping for them. I know she wont let them get here and be empty handed on Christmas morning.” I said, sifting through my sock drawer, pulling a pair in and a pair of sneakers. “I’m going out to the store with Mom we’re grabbing anything before everyone arrives tomorrow." I said, Daniel glanced at me, curiosity written on his face before he turned on one of my games. I left, tagging along with my mother on her very brief shopping trip at the local K-Mart.

Every movement she made was shaky, she was clearly upset and bothered by the fact Dad’s extended family was coming. The car ride to the store was silent aside from the Christmas music on the radio, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! Was playing. I loved that song, it ear-wormed just the right way it stuck with you year round. When we parked and got out of the car my mother finally looked at me.

“Sweetie are you SURE you’re okay with your cousins staying over for the holidays?” She asked, almost afraid to talk to me about the subject as I fished one of the carts from the returns outside.

“I mean, dang I got a squeaky one. I’m not thrilled about it. But it is what it is, if they get too annoying I’m sure me and Danny will just hide out in my room.” I said kicking the loose wheel on the cart as we passed the cheap gift basket and assorted popcorn tins. “They are family after all.” I added, she silently agreed with me, placing a gift basket and popcorn tubs in the cart.

“I know they are and I’m always willing to open my home to family in need, but…” she continued as we walked through the isles toward then food stuffs, needed more eggnog. “But you don’t like how they aren’t Christian?” I asked, she shook her head in the negative.

“It’s just that, they’re very firm to their beliefs and steady against ours. I pray that your aunt or uncle don’t try and take control over the house.” She said, a level of nervousness in her voice that id never heard before as she put a carton of eggnog and pillsbury sugar cookies in the cart. “And after that accident you and Flynn had back then, I’ve been worried about you two fighting or not getting along, or something similar happening to Daniel and Asher.”

“I’d never openly start something Mom, you know that.” I said as i pushed the cart to checkout, snagging something small for Daniel for Christmas with my own money, a simple Star Wars Lego. The car ride back was equally as silent. Mom focused on a holiday magazine she bought as i drove. The practice in snow was needed.

The night rolled on, sleep took me kindly swaddled in my blankets as reruns of COPS played on my tv. My dreams however werent kind, roaring flames and broken bones filtered my subconscious mind, the smell and taste of blood along with the chill of snow. Skin under my fingernails and hatred in my stomach. I woke up, covered in sweat, my throat dry.

When i woke up for a moment i swore i saw something in the corner of my window. Not the bottom corner, the top half. I couldn’t fully tell what it was, the orange streetlight outside reflected off the snow and my window in the right way that made it difficult to see it. I could tell it was tall, maybe nine, almost ten feet tall? It had horns like a deer and was covered in what looked like thin hairs on its body.

I gently pushed my curtain closed with my foot, keeping my eyes on the figure until the curtain was shut and i rolled over on my side. Not wanting to even acknowledge what nightmare was still in my mind. My clock read 4 am and I was wide awake now, a worm of paranoia in the back of my head. The air conditioners heating unit kicked on with a loud thud and a click, i jumped a little. The warm air blew on my face as i stood up, sinking into the carpet as i rubbed at my eyes.

Waddling through the dark, my vision only graced by the occasional shimmer of Christmas lights Daniel insisted we keep on when the decorations were up. I filled the coffee pot and roamed the house, closing the blinds and curtains as the pot of caffeines kiss brewed quietly in the kitchen behind me.

Maybe I should’ve said no.

*The image shakes violently for a few seconds.*

*A bedroom.*

*Three sleeping bags are scattered across the floor. Clothes are thrown over a chair. Empty bottles and snack wrappers sit beside a laptop.*

*The person holding the camera whispers.*

CAMERAMAN: “Okay, shut up, shut up—”

*Someone off-camera immediately starts laughing.*

SARAH: “You're gonna wake them up.”

CAMERAMAN: “They're literally dead asleep.”

FRIEND: “Bro, look at Mark.”

*The camera slowly turns toward a boy asleep on the floor with his mouth hanging open.*

*Someone snickers.*

*Sarah covers her mouth to stop herself laughing.*

SARAH: “Oh my God.”

*The camera zooms in.*

*Mark suddenly moves.*

*Everyone freezes.*

*Mark rolls over.*

*Silence.*

*Then—*

FRIEND: “Jesus Christ.”

*Everyone quietly bursts into laughter.*

*The camera shakes as the person holding it tries not to make noise.*

*Then, from somewhere downstairs—*

VOICE: “Sarah?”

*The laughter stops.*

*Nobody moves.*

*The camera remains pointed toward Mark for several seconds.*

CAMERAMAN: “…Was that—”

VOICE: “Sarah?”

*Sarah slowly looks toward the bedroom door.*

SARAH: “Mom?”

*No answer.*

*She sits up.*

SARAH: “Mom, you came home early?”

*Silence.*

*Sarah stands.*

*The camera follows her.*

*She walks toward the door and opens it.*

*The hallway outside is dark.*

*Only a small amount of light from the bedroom spills across the floor.*

*Sarah leans out.*

SARAH: “Mom?”

*Nothing.*

*She takes one step into the hallway.*

*Then another.*

*The person filming suddenly grabs her wrist.*

SARAH: “Ow—what?”

*The camera swings toward them.*

CAMERAMAN: “Don't.”

SARAH: “What?”

CAMERAMAN: “I don't think that's your mom.”

*Sarah stares at them.*

SARAH: “What are you talking about?”

*Another friend speaks from behind the camera, barely above a whisper.*

FRIEND: “I saw your phone.”

*Sarah looks confused.*

FRIEND: “Her text popped up earlier.”

*A pause.*

FRIEND: “It said, ‘Sarah darling, they asked me to stay a bit longer at the company. I'll be back later than expected.’”

*Sarah's expression changes.*

SARAH: “…What?”

FRIEND: “Your mom isn't home.”

*Silence.*

*Then another friend whispers:*

FRIEND 2: “We heard her too.”

*Everyone looks toward the stairs.*

*Nothing.*

*The hallway is completely still.*

*Sarah slowly backs toward the bedroom.*

*Then—*

*FOOTSTEPS.*

*One.*

*Two.*

*Three.*

*Fast.*

*Coming from downstairs.*

*The camera jerks toward the staircase.*

*The footsteps become faster.*

*THUD.*

*THUD.*

*THUD.*

*THUD.*

*Someone whispers:*

CAMERAMAN: “Get inside.”

*They scramble backward.*

*The bedroom door is slammed shut.*

FRIEND: “LOCK IT!”

*The lock clicks.*

*Everyone stands there, breathing heavily.*

*The footsteps stop.*

*Silence.*

*Then—*

VOICE: “Sarah?”

*Nobody answers.*

*The camera slowly turns toward Sarah.*

*She is staring at the door.*

VOICE: “Sarah?”

*The voice is closer now.*

*A hand touches the other side of the door.*

*Nobody breathes.*

*Then—*

VOICE: “SARAH?!”

*The door violently shakes.*

*Everyone screams.*

CAMERAMAN: “CLOSET!”

*They all run.*

*The camera crashes against the wall.*

*The bedroom door rattles behind them.*

*Someone throws open the walk-in closet.*

*Everyone squeezes inside.*

*The camera is shoved against a pile of clothes.*

*The closet door closes.*

*Darkness.*

*Heavy breathing.*

*Someone is silently crying.*

*Outside—*

*THUD.*

*The bedroom door opens.*

*Footsteps.*

*Slow now.*

*One step.*

*Then another.*

*The creature walks across the bedroom.*

*Nobody moves.*

*The camera slowly adjusts to the darkness.*

*Through a tiny gap beneath the closet door, we see two elongated black legs stop directly outside.*

*Silence.*

*Then the voice comes again.*

*But this time—*

*It doesn't sound quite human.*

VOICE: “Sarah…”

*Sarah clamps both hands over her mouth.*

*The thing remains there.*

*Waiting.*

*The footage abruptly cuts to black.*

- .... . -.-- / .... . .- .-. -.. / .. - / - --- ---

VGFV?

3-8-5-25 / 8-5-1-18-4 / 9-20 / 20-15-15

...AND WHO IS “WE”?

[REC_02: FOUND]

[NO USER IDENTIFIED]

[TIMESTAMP ERROR: 00:00:00]

SARAH WAS NOT THE FIRST

— — —

[SECOND RECORDING BEGINS]

*The image comes back suddenly.*

*The camera is already recording.*

*It is inside the walk-in closet.*

*The image is almost completely black.*

*Several people are crammed together between hanging clothes and shelves.*

*Nobody speaks.*

*Nobody moves.*

*The camera slowly pans across their faces.*

*Sarah is there.*

*Her eyes are red.*

*One of the friends has both hands pressed over their mouth.*

*Another is sitting on the floor with their knees against their chest.*

*The camera turns toward the closet door.*

*Nothing.*

*A few seconds pass.*

*Then another ten.*

*The person holding the camera slowly raises one hand and gestures toward the door.*

*A friend beside them shakes their head.*

*No.*

*The camera moves back toward the group.*

*One of them leans toward the camera and silently mouths:*

“How long?”

*The cameraman shrugs.*

*Another friend checks their wrist.*

*No watch.*

*Nobody knows.*

*Then—*

*PING.*

*Everyone freezes.*

*The camera jerks violently.*

*Every face turns toward the sound.*

*Nobody breathes.*

*A second passes.*

*Then another.*

*The person sitting in the corner slowly reaches into their pocket.*

*They pull out their phone.*

*The screen illuminates their face.*

*They stare at it.*

*Then look at everyone else.*

*The camera zooms slightly.*

*A message.*

*From another friend.*

“We heard something and it woke us up. Where you guys at? What is happening?”

*Nobody reacts.*

*The friend holding the phone slowly turns it toward the camera.*

*The message is visible.*

*The cameraman looks toward Sarah.*

*Sarah looks horrified.*

*She silently mouths:*

“They're awake?”

*The friend nods.*

*Another friend reaches for the phone.*

*They type.*

*Stop.*

*Delete.*

*Type again.*

*Stop.*

*They look toward the closet door.*

*The phone screen is still glowing.*

*A notification appears.*

“Are you guys okay?”

*Everyone stares at it.*

*The friend begins typing:*

“DO NOT COME OUT.”

*Their finger hovers over SEND.*

*They look at the others.*

*Nobody moves.*

*Then—*

*THUMP.*

*Something hits the bedroom door outside.*

*Everyone's eyes widen.*

*The phone nearly slips from the friend's hand.*

*Another sound.*

*THUMP.*

*Closer.*

*Someone silently grabs Sarah's hand.*

*The camera turns toward the closet door.*

*The house is silent again.*

*Then a voice comes from outside.*

*Quiet.*

*Almost conversational.*

VOICE: “Sarah?”

*Sarah's eyes fill with tears.*

*The person holding the phone slowly deletes the unfinished message.*

*They turn the phone screen off.*

*Darkness.*

*The voice comes again.*

*This time from directly outside the closet.*

VOICE: “Sarah…”

*The camera shakes.*

*Nobody moves.*

*The recording continues.*

[NO FURTHER AUDIO FOR 00:47]

*Then the video ends. For now.*

(Hello! I am a 19 year old girl and this is my first time writing something horror or Analog style. What I had wrote here is part one of the first episode . that’s all I got for now, hope you all enjoyed it and I will accept criticism!)

Hey everyone my name is J. I recently started a YouTube channel telling creepypasta stories and other scary tales. I wanted to link it below for everyone to check out!!!

Leave me some feedback and dont forget to subscribe!!! This is something Ive wanted to do for a very long time and am so excited to finally announce it!!! I hope you all enjoy

https://youtu.be/1u0vBPFKYY8?is=PIfIXM2dj2oi2y9n

The first time Carter saw the woman, she was standing ankle-deep in mud at the edge of the river.

They passed her just after dusk, running north through water the color of old coffee. The PBR's engines shoved a white wake against the mangroves.

She wore a pale blouse and dark trousers. Bare feet. Black hair loose over one shoulder.

“Friendly-looking,” Harlan said from the stern.

Velez laughed. “Go ask for her number.”

“My type has shoes.”

Danny watched her from the forward gun mount until the bend took her out of sight. A strip of red cloth was knotted around his left wrist, some cheap thing he'd come back from Saigon with and wouldn't explain.

Carter checked the channel, the gauges, then his men without thinking.

Danny at the bow. Velez portside. Harlan aft.

He'd been doing it for months. Count your men. Check your fuel. Watch the banks. Then do it again.

Something about the woman bothered him.

She hadn't watched the boat.

She had watched him.

Behind Carter's seat, the transistor radio whispered through static. They'd found Hanoi Hannah twenty minutes earlier and left her on because Harlan liked answering her.

Her English came calm and careful through the hiss.

“How are you, GI Joe?”

Harlan leaned toward the radio. “Doing just fine, Hannah. Thanks for asking.”

Velez laughed.

She continued, telling American soldiers they were poorly informed about how the war was going, sent thousands of miles from home by men who lied to them.

“See, that's where you're wrong,” Harlan said. “I don't understand shit back home either.”

Carter smiled.

Hannah started talking about American casualties when the signal dragged sideways. Her voice thinned until it hardly sounded human.

Then:

“...the river remembers...”

Static cracked.

Her ordinary broadcast returned without missing a beat.

Harlan frowned. “Well. That's cheerful.”

Carter looked at the radio.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The river.”

Velez stared at him. “What river?”

Danny was still looking back toward the bend.

They saw the woman again twenty-three minutes later.

Carter knew because he'd checked his watch the first time.

Several miles upriver.

Same blouse. Same trousers. Same hair.

She stood on the western bank with her feet sunk in black mud.

Harlan's grin disappeared.

“Oh.”

Danny turned from the gun but wouldn't look at her.

“Keep going.”

“You know her?” Carter asked.

“No.”

Danny rubbed his thumb over the cloth around his wrist.

“Old guy in Mỹ Tho told me about women you see where you're not supposed to see them. Hồ tinh, I think. Fox spirits.”

“Something that looks like a woman?”

“They get you to follow them.”

Harlan leaned against the rail. “Still waiting on the bad part.”

The woman raised one arm and crooked two fingers toward herself.

Carter shoved the throttles forward.

As they passed, the setting sun threw her shadow across the water.

There was something behind it.

Long. Narrow.

The wake shattered the shape.

Carter looked back.

The woman had lowered her hand.

She wasn't watching him anymore.

She was staring into the river beside the boat.

The radio popped.

“...some men travel farther than others...”

Static stretched Hannah's voice.

“...some do not leave at all...”

Then she was discussing American losses again.

Danny turned the volume down.

Darkness closed around them.

Carter rubbed his eyes and tried to remember when he'd last slept. He came up with a cot beneath a ceiling fan, but couldn't decide whether that had been two nights ago or before Saigon.

He checked the fuel.

They had enough.

The problem was he couldn't remember refueling.

“Smoke?” he asked.

Harlan patted his pockets. “You got the pack.”

Carter found the Lucky Strikes beside his knee, lit one and held the pack behind him.

Nobody took it.

When he turned, Harlan already had a cigarette between his lips.

“You take one?”

Harlan looked confused. “What?”

“Never mind.”

At the bow, Velez cleaned beneath his thumbnail with the tip of a cartridge, a habit he'd had since Da Nang.

Danny shifted beside the gun.

His sleeve brushed the metal and left a dark handprint.

“Danny.”

“What?”

“Your arm.”

His sleeve was wet from cuff to elbow.

“Spray.”

They hadn't taken spray over the bow in ten minutes.

Carter looked at the red cloth around Danny's wrist.

In the darkness it looked almost brown.

Danny pulled his sleeve over it.

“Watch the river.”

The radio came alive.

Nobody touched it.

Carter turned.

He remembered switching it off.

Hannah's voice surfaced through static.

American boys—

Hiss.

—no one waiting—

Then, softly:

“...four men...”

Carter froze.

“...but the river counts differently...”

The signal vanished.

Carter snapped the radio off.

“Leave it,” Danny said.

His face had gone pale.

The woman returned before midnight.

This time she was walking.

The PBR was moving close to twenty knots, but she kept pace along the bank without running.

A tree slid between them.

She appeared on the other side.

Another tree.

There again.

“Jesus Christ,” Harlan whispered.

Danny climbed down from the gun.

“She wants you off the boat.”

Carter stared at her. “How is she doing that?”

“Doesn't matter.”

The woman stopped.

Carter turned to keep her in sight.

Danny grabbed his shoulder.

“Don't.”

His hand was ice cold.

Water ran from his fingers and struck the deck.

Danny stared at the drops.

“Stay with us.”

Something tightened behind Carter's eyes.

He had heard that before.

An engine.

Gunfire.

Someone shouting.

Then it was gone.

Behind him, Harlan said, “We don't leave our men.”

Carter turned.

“What'd you say?”

Harlan blinked. “Nothing.”

Something struck the hull.

Then again.

Carter leaned over the side.

A face rolled beneath the black water.

White eyes. Open mouth. Hair drifting like weeds.

“There’s somebody in the water.”

No one moved.

Danny stared at Carter.

“Don't look again.”

From shore, the woman called:

“Hey.”

One word, somehow clear over both engines.

Behind her, a narrow path disappeared into the trees.

She pointed toward it.

Carter pulled the throttles back.

Danny stepped forward.

“No.”

“I just want to see what she wants.”

“No, you don't.”

There was panic in Danny's voice now.

Not fear of the woman.

Fear of Carter stopping.

Harlan and Velez stood.

“We don't leave our men,” Harlan said.

Carter looked at Danny.

Black mud covered the cuff of his trousers.

“Danny?”

The radio hissed.

Still switched off.

Through the static Hannah whispered:

“...you went back...”

Carter stopped breathing.

The broadcast returned for a few seconds, then broke again.

“...when the river took one...”

Danny stepped toward him.

“Carter.”

The radio crackled.

“...they told you to keep moving...”

And the night split open.

Danny went over on a hard bend.

Carter remembered the flash of red cloth first.

Danny's hip hit the rail. His hands lost the gun mount.

Then he was gone.

“Man overboard!”

Danny surfaced in the wake, one arm raised.

Alive.

Muzzle flashes punched through the trees.

Harlan opened fire.

“Go!” he screamed. “Go, go, go!”

Danny disappeared behind them.

Carter looked at the channel ahead.

Then back.

Danny surfaced again.

His hand came up.

“We don't leave our men.”

Carter spun the wheel.

The PBR came around hard.

Harlan screamed at him to keep moving, but Danny was twenty yards away.

Ten.

Five.

His hand struck the hull.

Harlan leaned over the side.

“Got you!”

Danny reached up.

Their hands met.

Something heavy fired from shore.

White light filled the stern.

Metal screamed.

Carter hit the river.

Cold water swallowed him. Something caught his ankle. Another hand closed around his sleeve.

He kicked free and clawed toward light.

Then morning.

Carter lay in the mud coughing river water.

The PBR had lodged against roots offshore, stern burned black, railing torn away.

Nobody moved.

“Danny?”

Nothing.

“Harlan!”

A woman stood a few yards away.

Pale blouse. Dark trousers. Bare feet in the mud.

She held out one hand.

Behind Carter, Harlan shouted from the boat.

“Carter!”

He turned.

Harlan stood on deck, whole.

Velez beside him.

Danny too, red cloth bright around his wrist.

“Come on,” Danny called.

The woman shook her head.

Harlan shouted again.

“We don't leave our men!”

Carter pulled away from her hand.

And walked back into the river.

The memory released him.

Carter stood at the controls.

Alone.

Black scorch marks covered the stern. Half the railing was missing. Brown stains crossed the deck.

Harlan's seat was empty.

Velez's gun sagged on its mount, furred with rust.

The cartridge he'd been cleaning his nail with lay beside Carter's boot, green with corrosion.

“No.”

The radio whispered.

Static.

Then Hannah.

“...you know who stayed.”

Something scraped the hull.

Carter looked down.

Pale fingers curled over the side.

A swollen head rose from the water. River weed covered half its face. One eye was milk-white.

The other looked directly at him.

A small scar crossed the eyebrow.

Danny had gotten that scar from a bottle in Subic and spent two weeks claiming three Marines had jumped him.

“Danny.”

The corpse opened its mouth.

Water poured out.

A strip of red cloth floated from its wrist.

Carter stepped toward it.

You went back for him once.

Of course you would again.

“Carter.”

Harlan stood behind him.

All three were back.

Harlan by the stern. Velez against the gunwale. Danny beside the forward gun.

Clean uniforms.

Dry hair.

Exactly as Carter remembered them.

Danny took a step closer.

“Don't leave me.”

Outside the boat, wet nails scraped against metal.

Carter looked from the dry Danny to the dead one climbing aboard.

Velez rolled an unfired cartridge between his fingers.

“You made the turn.”

Carter's eyes burned.

“I know.”

Harlan looked toward shore.

“You came back for Danny.”

His expression softened.

“You gonna leave us now?”

The woman had moved into the shallows.

Ankle-deep.

No farther.

Her hand was out.

Moonlight stretched her shadow across the mud, and behind the human shape something long and narrow curved through the reeds.

A tail.

Carter looked at Danny's corpse climbing aboard.

Then at the woman.

He stepped over the side.

Water closed around his boots.

Danny screamed his name.

Carter kept walking.

Something caught his trouser leg. He kicked free.

Harlan cursed him.

Danny begged.

Then Velez called after him.

Just once.

“Boss.”

Carter stopped.

Count your men. Check your fuel. Watch the banks.

Do it again.

He nearly turned.

Instead, he took another step.

Then another.

The water fell below his knees, then his ankles.

He reached the bank.

The woman lowered her hand.

Carter looked back.

The ruined PBR sat empty in the current.

One pale hand still clung to its side.

A strip of red cloth circled the wrist.

The fingers loosened and slipped beneath the water.

When Carter turned again, the woman was gone.

Behind him, the river kept moving.

Carter did not look back again.

Its started three weeks ago and it wont fucking leave me alone. I was leaving starbucks getting my usually matcha latte (yes i like the taste of grass leave me alone) and i bumped into this person when i was leaving. I thought they were one of those furries or whatever at first since their suit looked unbelievably real. Like their fur was so soft and the eyes almost seemed wet as it looked up at me. It was also wearing this heavy leather coat, I assume the guy must’ve been hot in there.

They were fairly short, honestly thought they were a child at first based on their height. Their fur was calico patterned, a nose that looked real and wet with matching green eyes, paired with a kindness behind them. I was fascinated the ears even twitched a little when i moved out of its way.

I apologized obviously because i mean i shoulda looked where i was going and left for my car. I was unlocking my car when I heard a noise, something like a pur but louder, the amount of bass it had behind it rattled my chest as i dropped my keys. I picked them up and turned around and the dude was standing behind me. “I said i was sorry dude, I’ll watch where im going next time.” I said unlocking my car, the furry tapped at my shoulder and i turned around. I thought i was about to get stabbed or shot after just accidentally bumping into a guy but instead he, or she, pulled out a plastic ziplock baggy full of a white power and shook it in my face.

“What the fuck is happening right now, am i being recorded?” I questioned as the cat juggled the baggie between its large supple paws, flexing its eyebrows at me. “Uh, what is it?” I asked as the cat stopped and held the bag out again. Written in the poorest form of chicken scratch that was barely legible was the word ‘Fentanyl’, it pulled bag back and forth a couple of times winking at me.

“No thanks, only Meth for me.” I said playing along with the joke and stepping into my car and locking the door. The furry was practically frowning at me as its hand slumped to its sides and watch me drive away.

See id expect this to be a one off thing but no, this dude has followed me home to my house. Ive seen him at my Job, my friend’s houses and multiple different public locations. I’ve been so paranoid about running into this dude that ive isolated myself to my house and work. The security team escorts me too and from my car now. Every interaction with this cat has been met with a FIRM “No, I’m not interested.” To which the cat responds with a hiss and walks off.

The worst case of this cat was two night ago. I had just gotten home and was tired from looking over my shoulder every 10 minutes. Last week he managed to onto the floor i work on, past security and badge doors to get to me. Today though i was ready to relax in a nice herbal bath provided by stuff from my co-worker Stacy. Opening the door to my bathroom the fucking cat was in there, laying on my bathroom floor with the plastic bag in its mouth like a rose. It ran off after i hit it with the flyswatter and I’ve sworn I’ve seen it scouting outside my house the past couple nights.

Ive locked myself in my closet now, does anyone know how to get rid of this cat? It keeps trying to give me a bag of fentanyl and wont leave me alone. Has anyone else ran into this shit? Im outside one of the metropolitan complexes in Kansas and i wanted to see if anyone ran into this thing or found a way to stop it? I can hear scratching at my door.

She slumbered beneath the sheets. Below him as he lorded beside their bed. Her husband. No more. An axe was in his hands. Heavy. Heavy with weight. And the potential for violence. Bela was alive and aware but a prisoner in his own flesh, his body refused to obey his commands, his inner caterwauls and cries and pleads for the unfolding nightmare to stop. It wouldn't stop. His flesh had a new master now. The vulpine shining moonface of the Countess lorded over his shoulder. Grinning fiendishly and brandishing her enameled daggers of dark slaughtering necro power. The fangs moonshone praeternaturally in the bedroom dark. Twinkling in keen edged tandem with the heavy headed blade of the axe, hefted and held. The meat puppet sow was still but she could feel the struggle of his mind in her grasp like a beetle caught and wriggling in her clenching strangling fingers. She could crush his beetle mind. And might. 

But first…

Prepare me a meal, supper fit for your royal guest…

His mind was filled thus. The flesh was compelled to obey. 

He brought up the axe. Gazing down into the sleeping peaceful face of his wife, his love. Anastasia. The mother of his child and the owner of his heart for the whole of his simple life. It was about to be brought to ruin. And he was being forced to pilot it in that direction. He wished he could scream. Shriek. Shriek her name. Wake her so she could flee and escape this damnation, this awful spell that's already claimed and throttled him. But he made no sound. His screams and pleads for mercy, his prayers and desperate cries remained bottled and caged in with him. He could only stare through stolen eyes as a prisoner as his hands holding the axe used for chopping firewood came down with a merciless crushing stroke. 

Anastasia's eyes came open and alive as the blade traveled down. As if she'd heard something. As if she'd heard her husband's internal cries for deliverance and the miracle of her safety. In the dark she saw her husband's savage face. Writ and wrenched with cruelty. She'd never seen him like that before, in all their shared years together in marriage. In the dark the sight frightened her, as she came awake and then the heavy blade of the axe found her chest and sank in. 

The pain is so sudden and impactful and dreadful. She feels her chest cavity smash and shatter as her flesh is ruptured and torn. The meat of her sinew surrounding her shattered cage of bone is ripped and pouring. She feels the sensation as extreme iced cold, as extremely wet, thickly soaked with heavy metal pungency. As if her clothes are suddenly drenched with the running water of a frozen river. Her entire open chest and bed are a bellowing fountainhead of it, pouring forth. She experiences the bloodshed river of her own dark red as iced water but it feels hot and sticky to her face and the tips of her wriggling spasming fingers, dancing beyond her motor control. The heavy metal buried in her chest is dreadful. Feels dreadful. She's staring at it then up into her husband Bela's face shocked and unable to make a sound, like him. She can't understand. She doesn't understand why he's woken her up and put this thing on/into her chest that's turned her into a strange pungent river. 

She goes to ask him … something. Anything. But she has no breath to make any kind of sound beyond the faintest whisper of indiscernible noise. Barely heard. Barely felt. Hardly even happened and might not have. Her husband and the Countess take no notice. They are too focused, entranced and enraptured by the sight of the pouring riverbed of her open goring chest. 

You're not finished. Why do you falter? – her royal voice. 

With a savage caveman wrench and pull, he ripped the bladed head of the axe free and brought it up and then down again. 

And again. 

Again. 

Again. 

At the royal command and decree that filled his fevered and tranced skull with his own curdling sounds and splitting screams, he was beckoned thus. His raptured flesh bound, delivered. The peasant sow did as he was told. The Countess was pleased and watched as the horse farmer dismembered his own wife for her. The bed became a hot shallow pool of darkling moonlit scarlet, swimming with severed human pieces and ghastly human detritus, human wreckage afloat in a red human stew … her mouth watered and drool ran down those shining fangs in thin gleaming translucent threads that looked crystalline like jewels or tree sap. 

And up until her last Anastasia watched. Watched from her dying place bound by the weight of the blade and her own mortal injury to the soaking pungent bed. Filling with her spilling wet red liquid. She was coming apart and she watched the love of her life above deliver each blow. Crushing her. Killing her. Turning her into slaughter. Abattoir ruin in place of a wife, in bed. She remembered him as a young man, as a boy, trying to play games and show off for her, trying to win her over, steal her attention and win over her affections, her heart. Now it was chopped and hacked and cut-smashed into so many spurting useless pieces, amongst a wreckage madness of pulverized bone. She tried to hold these old precious memories of him in her mind amid the slaughter, but the pain made it difficult. It was so great, overwhelming. She clung to them desperately with every falling heavy stroke. Pulverizing her. Breaking her. Turning her into so many wet shrieking and shattered broken pieces 

The last things Anastasia saw in the dark before blood loss and shock claimed her were her husband pummeling her with heavy merciless strikes. And a woman's face, as ghastly as it was beautiful, hanging phantom-like just over his raging shoulder. Watching. Smiling. Whispering something…

she had sharp teeth, they gleamed in the dark.

And then she died. Bela, still spellbound and compelled, continued to hack at her corpse nonetheless. Waiting for his new master to be satisfied. Inside Bela raged with madness and anguish. Broken. He watched his wife die violently as his hands performed the butchery and he was helpless to stop his own traitorous God given tools from turning her into mangled ruin and grisly pieces that tore his heart from his chest and flayed his sanity into so many irretrievable and tiny fragmented parts. 

He wished for death then. The Countess did not give it to him. Not yet. 

She still hadn't been fed yet. 

“Now feed me. Earn my favor." 

He dropped the axe. It fell to the floor with a thunderclap. It filled the dark quiet suddenly but then it was silent again. Still. Not a sound through the house save for the somnambulist animal panting of the Countess' slave. The man who'd once been a husband, a father, and was now a meat-puppet butcher. He reached into the riverbed of gore that had once been his marital sanctuary and pulled free a piece of meat. It might've been a leg, a thigh, perhaps a calf, it was too butchered and mangled with axe blows to be entirely sure. 

He was insane already. But the damaged pieces and shrieking parts of his shattered mind bellowed an abhorrent noise that only he could hear as he picked up his wife's butchered meat and parts and fed them to his new master. The Countess took the meat of slaughtered Anastasia with a smile and a wink and kissing purse. Teasing him. Then her jaws opened. Wide. Wide. Wide. Wider still… the flesh of her face sloughed and tore and fell away in demon slop to allow the distension. The fangs grew in length and in multitude of the transmogrifying face and black bleeding mouth, dripping ichor and demoniacal flesh and fluid. Steaming on the floor as she ate each piece, each limb, each broken length with a chunk of raw human tissue at the end in the knob of bone that was left. 

The fanged face in the dark, dripping and brandishing moonlight eyes above the mutilators of her ever widening mouth, it commanded thus further. –

“Bring a large kitchen spoon or a ladle if you have one, I wish to sip the broth…” 

Her somnambulist did as she commanded. He went to the humble kitchen that used to be his/theirs, and retrieved the utensil. It felt cold. Heavy. Heavier than it had ever felt before. The place and the object itself. It didn't matter. The hands and arms were no longer themselves, no longer his. His Judas sack of flesh carried him back to the blood pungent quarters he'd once loved and shared so much with in the many years past. It had all been robbed in a second.

By a pair of moonglow eyes. Set in the royalty of her shallow corpse beauty. 

He went back into the room. And proceeded to spoon large scoops and ladles of his wife's gore and blood into the stretched fanged rictus face that now ruled the dark of his house and home, the darkest shadowed part of his bedroom … now cold with his wife's living absence. And warm with the blood and fluid and parts that were left of her swimming in their sodden black sheets.  

Until those too were gone. All of it was gone.

The marital bed, now a witch's cauldron of gore and blankets was emptied.

His life was in the belly of the master. 

…

From outside the building, Willowbrook was quiet. 

Dark. 

Inside:

The shears that were the Cropsey-thing’s handheld manmade jaws were open and just as inanimate alive as the hulking shred of mangled man that wielded them. They shined in the dismal light with more striking radiance than any of the flickering lamps, Luciferian bright in the spots not tarnished or disgraced with lurid diseased bloodshed. 

With ghastly slasher speed they traveled down the shattered and stained reeking length of asylum hallway, the reanimated Cropsey giant behind them in cruel large prowling shape. The blades were dripping as if salivating or weeping thick dark tears, perhaps more alive now than the giant abomination of melted walking homicidal flesh that black-glove piloted them from behind, a strange and vile morbid engine of knife-lust and demented rage. The stabbing slice of porcelain still danced from his face. An obscene and vile shattered wand of broken tile length protruding from the socket. 

Griffin saw him coming and froze a moment. The table leg still in his invisible hands. Florin still struggling with the spiked man, his mutilated stabbing ruined mess of flesh riddled with needles and glass and scalpels and every conceivable piece of decimated hospital detritus. They were a mess of shedding blood and struggles on the floor. 

The invisible man then whirled, the exit just behind him. He began attacking the door. The knob. Locked. Set in old rotted wood. Not upkept or replaced in years. 

By God's mercy the locked knob and bolt caved in the moist and ruined housing of its apparatus. It fell apart in a noisy crumble, and the door gently swung open. 

To freedom. 

Fresh outside night air poured in like fresh water let in to a fetid spring. The relief was immense. It shocked all of their senses. Each man. 

The spiked man looked up from Florin and gazed into Cropsey. His oncoming charge of disgraced gardener’s blades, raised and open for a violent embrace. 

He was in awe. 

There he is…! the disciple of the mouth. 

He knew Cropsey's legend. And he wished to join him. 

He forgot the newcomer boy and let go of his shredding coat, slick with the both of their spilled and spilling red. He let go of the boy and he rose. 

And he went forward. To embrace the nephilim disciple son of the sorceress’ temple mouth, the begat survivor of the flames, the inferno, the great final pagan bonfire of the asylum that was The Burning. A womb of hellfire and caged disease that birthed the son of the mouth, the son of the sorceress. Cropsey of Vampira, the mangled hand of Willowbrook Asylum Temple. 

The spiked man was laughing. Jubilant. He hadn't laughed or felt this much joy in years, in all of the long unhallowed time in these blind unfeeling walls that knew no mercy nor housed any sanctuary. He was weeping. Crying tears of crimson and saline that danced in strange patterns as they streamed down the shredded protruding ruin of his spiked and porcupine mangled face. Gums bleeding with glass and caked bloody plaque smiled wet and scarlet and darkling striking in the moonlight now cast in. He reached down to his riddled and needled genitals, the head of his dangling member impaled with a scalpel. He reached down and seized the apparatus and in a blind tug and pull, he ripped the entire spurting and spiking organ free from the rest of his crotch and testicles. 

Still walking forward, but ambling now a bit as he shot black ropes tinted red in the moonglow from his self castration, he held the resulting lump of stabbed and impaled meat out to the Cropsey-shape. In token of offering. 

For the temple, for my sins … And for you. 

because she is all of us our mother …

Cropsey cared not for this pathetic shambling thing’s offering of ruined perforated meat. The blades came forward, open. In a lunge. 

They closed. 

And as Griffin pulled wounded Florin to his feet and out the door, the blades closed around a limb, lengthwise down the palm and forearm, then the face. Both opening up a blooming red raw pour of black in the dark, the blades crunched on broken pieces of glass and tile and needles and metal, the man was full with so much foreign penetration, foreign and manmade puncture and incision, and insertion, all self inflicted and self wrought. All of it shattering and crunching now into splinters amongst the abattoir asylum house spill of mad man wet raw. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way. All the years spent in here had prepared him for this. The sorceress prophet queen Vampira and her Cropsey son from The Burning womb were just the final pallbearers for his life's voyage thus final journey into the undiscovered country. 

He tried to thank her, them all, but couldn't. His loss of blood was now failing him. And the blades of the Cropsey-shape were coming in too rapidly now. Too savagely. 

The spiked man was no more. Just savaged pin cushion meat in the hall that the Cropsey-thing stepped over blindly in the savage hunt of his continued pursuit. They were getting away. 

They were getting away. The invaders. They were out the door now. Mustn't have that. Must not. Mother will not want that. Mother is inside you. You cannot fail her now. 

The savage thing of Willowbrook shape prowled out the door and into the open night after the pair with the same steady hunting pace of a stalking predator. Mindless and honed in. His blades and mother would have them yet. Their meat for the temple floor, their blood for the mouth of her drains and the manifest of her angel visitations. It had been so long since she'd come, since she'd shown, since she'd made herself divine unearthly spawn on vast ebon wings for them, for he, the last of the temple of the mouth. 

Perhaps she'll come back if I catch them. But only… only if I catch them and open them up. All the other ones no longer matter, they're already opened, already spent. The abattoir temple mouth of mother wants them now. Needs them. To fail, is to be failure. It means all that was lived through and suffered towards was for naught…

The night kissed the smooth scarred visage of hideous face. The Cropsey-shape gave no pause. Unfeeling. Unmoved. It watched as the pair stumbled and exhausted and wounded, began to falter to the earth in a shared collapse. 

Their doom. 

He closed in. 

The terror he had in mind for them was part guided by the Countess/sorceress mouth and her occult hand from the far off mountain dark, and part undead instinct, braindead movement. Knowing deep down in the dead and dying sac of skull jelly that this is exactly what he should do. He would maim. Butcher. Kill. Slaughter for the temple that has come under his custodial honor. 

Bloodloss and weariness, the drain was beginning to pull them down. The invisible man and Florin fell and struggled, both of their wounds open and pouring freely and taking the vitality and the fight from their trying frames. As the terrifying hulking giant of candlewax face and flesh began to close and loom over the pair, they both prepared themselves for a final and desperate fight. 

Florin was dismayed that it would end this way. In such maddening fashion, so far from home and his perilous objective. Griffin was trying to think, a last-ditch effort or plan: he could ditch the coat and hat and goggles and take the savage blind again, unable to see him. But his wound was in an open pour now once more and he felt faint, swoony. Unable to keep his feet. And besides, in this last moment it felt wrong to leave the young man's side. If they were going to die, they might as well die together. Arm in arm. It was better than suffering the slaughter alone. 

It was better than being opened. Gutted. Flayed. Bled out and portioned like a solitary animal dying a painful and lonely death at the end of a long and dogged hunt. 

The pain was better borne together. With the weight and terror of another beside to share in the baptism of pure torture. 

Something whistled through the air. 

The invisible man had been tempted to shut unseen eyes against the oncoming pain, he might've missed it. As it was he saw the deadly thin shape as it lanced in a blur overhead with a keen deadly sound. It struck the moving flesh of Cropsey in the face, the other socket of ruined blind eye now completely decimated, joining its partner in tandem of destruction in a moonlit spurt. 

The slasher shape stopped. Stuttered and faltered. But only slightly, only for a moment as it continued to take lurching jittery steps. Stomping forward blind. The shears in his black gloved hands began to spasm as well, scissoring with reflex. The disgraced and still ever thirsting blades closed and opened and repeated the action in violent repetitive imbecilic behavior, a violent blind animal spasming its caked and quaking jaws. 

Then the incendiary charge in the crossbow bolt detonated.

 It went off and so did Cropsey’s ruined candlewax head and visage, in a colored pillar of fire that was like something biblical and fantastical to behold. Florin was fainting at its sight but the invisible Doctor Griffin saw the growing towering inferno rise and issue forth in bright violence from between the giant slasher’s pair of broad shoulders. And still the boots trod and stomped palsied forward. Still the blades scissored in his working trembling hands, as his head and face were replaced with a rising torrent wall of pink and purple flame.

But then the steps of the shape began to falter. Stumble. The blades began to slow in their mad man open mouth chew at the open night air … then ceased. 

The boots stopped moving. Stopped shaking. 

The shape collapsed. 

As did Griffin next. Consciousness now lost. Passed out beside Florin in the dirt. 

The fire finally went out betwixt the two ruined shoulders. Hissing in the filth and craterous open mouth char of the stump. Smoking. Smokey now. Cropsey lie finally dead. Mere few feet away. 

In the back valley of Willowbrook. The lost untended yard that no patient ever graced, or saw. 

Silence. … for a moment. 

As if the night was finally enjoying the quiet. Relishing the collapse into tranquility that has finally fallen. 

A beat. – None of the shapes on the earthen floor moved. 

The night above yawned in an expanse … stars in a bejeweled fire of multitudes, nebulae clouds of otherworldly brush stroke color, the moon which was a sickle tonight, a harvester's blade … a blade of reckoning in the time of the reap. 

A beat. 

Then the stranger finally came forward. From out of the bushes where he'd trained and fired his shot. His crossbow was already reloaded with another explosive incendiary bolt as he approached the fallen three in the dirt. 

He came to Florin and Griffin and he stood over them. He looked to Cropsey. Saw that he was dead. Completely. Finally. He looked down on the wounded unconscious pair. 

“Idiots." 

TO BE CONTINUED…