CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 2+ HOURS of Scary Reddit r nosleep Chilling Horror Stories

Episode Date: February 8, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00​ "Your Memories Don't Die With You" Creepypasta►15:50​ "I visited my dying grandfather one last time. I wish I had let the old man rot instead" Creepypasta►42:32​ "The long legged beast of the Magura Forest" Creepypasta►57:52​ "Burned Alive or Buried Alive. If You Had to, Which Would You Choose?" Creepypasta►1:12:02​ "I found a diary about an earthquake that never occurred" Creepypasta►1:32:36​ "I'm a Replenishable Organ Donor "Creepypasta►2:01:52​"There's a VTuber on the Dark Web" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...​iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...​SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...​►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...​►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...​►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...​FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta​►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/​►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta​►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt​ ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM​ ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I was in a room. It looked like the ground floor of an office building. There was a desk with a receptionist tapping away at a keyboard and stairs leading up to the next floor. But the design, it was all white. I had to turn away at first, blinded by the brightness. When my eyes adjusted, I turned back. The receptionist took notice.

Oh, hello there. Come, please. I won't bite, I promise. I hesitantly stepped over to the front desk. What is this place? I asked. She smiled. This is the hereafter. Hereafter? I asked, baffled. Yes, you had a terrible accident, I'm sorry to say. Took a tumble down the stairs and bumped your head.

I tried to remember, but everything was fuzzy. You're expected upstairs in room 371. I'll take you there. Before I could object, she walked out from behind the desk and grabbed my arm, pulling me up the stairs with a vicious grip, smiling the whole way up. Don't look so trouble, dear. It'll all be over before you know it. A quick procedure, then you can move on. Procedure, where are you taking me?

She smiled again. You humans are so inquisitive, such a strange trait. Soon enough, we arrived at what I presume was room 371. A black door at the end of a long, white hall. The dissonance was unsettling. Here we are. The receptionist knocked twice. An older gentleman opened the door to greet us.

He was maybe in his 50s, well-dressed, grey moustache. Ah yes, this must be our latest arrival. How are you? He asked, putting his hand on my shoulder. A little confused, actually. Is this heaven? I asked. The man and woman.

chuckled. So strange how they all ask that. Well, let's begin. The receptionist handed me to the gentleman and closed the door behind us. I was now in an equally black room, small, maybe 12 by 12 meters. There was a chair, akin to one you might find in a dentist office and a podium behind it, upon which was the device. Before I could get a better look, the man pushed me into the chair. restraints automatically wrapped around my wrists and ankles. What the hell is this? I tried to break free, but it was no use. Calm down.

You'll only make things worse for yourself. It's best if you don't struggle. Not much point in it anyhow. Another individual entered the room. A younger gentleman. Henry, we're in God's name if you been. Quick, come man the controls. Yes, sir.

Sorry, sir. Henry stepped over to the podium and started adjusting things. The older man walked over to me and smiled. He pulled a sharp silver utensil out from his pocket. Don't fight it. It's just a few small incisions, that's all. In a flash, the silver met my forehead. It was over so fast that I barely had time to wince.

The man had engraved three straight lines into the skin just below my hairline. There, that wasn't so bad. Henry, are we ready? Yes, sir. Everything has been calibrated. Good. I chimed in. What are you doing to me?

They both laughed. Then, the order man leaned in. We're extracting your essence. But first, we need to access your memories. The powerful ones. The recollections that have stuck with you, even after long bouts of time have passed. You have those, don't you?

I felt Henry place a helmet on me. It shrunk to match the outline of my head. The man gave it a few knocks. Here, this will show us what we need to see. Then, the pathway should illuminate, a roadmap to the human soul. That's what we need. Fire it up, Henry. Sharp needles pierced the cut to my forehead from within the helmet.

I felt a searing pain as they penetrated my skull. I screamed, but the men in the room didn't react. Suddenly, an image appeared on the black wall ahead, like a projection or, It was... A memory. One of my memories. As I watched, awe struck, something happened. My consciousness was seemingly transferred.

In an instant, I was transported to the scene, now reliving the moment on the wall. Rebecca and I stared at the farmhouse. It was a much to look at, but it had potential. That and the land around it was vast, surrounded by a beautiful forest. Is this everything you hoped it would be? Rebecca asked, wrapping her arms around me.

It is, actually. I put my arms around a waist and turned to meet her gaze. We had been together only a year, but I knew. Before this point, I truly cared for her, but in this moment, I fell. Now that we were starting her life together, all bets were off. She was the one, and I couldn't have been happier. I awoke in the black room like a diver coming up for air.

My lungs were on fire. Reliving memories was not a painless procedure. No, Henry, what have I told you a thousand times before? Happy memories won't do. They're not powerful enough. Find me something dreadful and do it fast before he's a goner. Goner? I asked. The receptionist entered and handed the man a cup.

A beverage, I can only guess, was their equivalent to coffee. Thank you, Mildred. Lord knows I need it. She left. Henry fiddled around at the helm and chartered a course for a different moment in my sordid past. In an instant, I was transported there.

This was one memory I tried so desperately to forget. It was dark right around midnight. I woke up to an empty rest of the bed. I assumed Rebecca had gone to the bathroom. I can't explain it, but as I waited for her return, something felt wrong.

The kind of feeling when you enter a room and a picture frame is slightly askew. You can tell something's amiss, but can never quite put your finger on what. I laid there for a long while and let the unrest consume me. It was only then that I decided to get out of bed and see if Rebecca was all right. Something drew my attention to the window, a figure in the clearing behind the house. I stepped over the glass for a better look and saw it. It was Rebecca falling to the ground. My heart sank.

I raced out of the house, screaming a name. When I reached her, I knelt to the ground by her side. She was covered in blood, holding a kitchen knife. She cried and spoke with what little energy she had left. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I had to. The voices. They wouldn't stop. I had to make them stop. Her voice trailed off. the life left her eyes. She was gone. Once again, I sprang to life in that godforsaken black

room, left a reflect on my past. Rebecca was mentally ill. She was seeing a psychiatrist, but unbeknownst to me, she had stopped taking a medication. I had no idea her condition would get that bad. I had no idea she would even think of taking her own life. And of course, it was all my fault. I should have seen the warning signs. I should have seen the warning signs. should have sought better counsel. I should have gotten out of bed sooner. My introspection was interrupted by the older gentleman. Henry, that's it. A perfect memory, if there ever was one. Keep going. We need another. Just one more should do it. Look for... The sound of liquid meeting something electrical filled my ear. Sparks flew into my peripheral

vision. The man had spilled his drink on the controls. Dear God, I heard Henry say. Henry, how could you let this happen? me? He was then that I saw a new image appeared on the wall and I was once again transported to another place. This time, I didn't know

what to expect. Blood. At least, that's what it looked like. An ocean of red, tossing and turning in the field behind my house. At the centre of this blood sea, a door, void of any connecting architecture,

standing absolutely still on the surface despite the pandemonium unfolding around it. I was adrift in the fierce current, barely able to keep my head above the waves. Whilst treading water, I watched the door open. My wife, Rebecca, was within. Her spread arms and the tides followed. The sea parted below me and I landed below, coughing the contents of my lungs out under the ground. I turned to see her, stepping past the threshold of the door.

She walked out into the field, walls of red water on either side of her. Eventually, she stopped where I was and looked down at me. She was beautiful, just as beautiful as the day we met. Hello, my love. I tried to respond, but there was still water in my throat. I blinked and she was gone. Her voice met my ear from behind. Why didn't you save me?

I turned and saw her, now blooded. It was the same state she was in when I found her in the field. Was I not good enough? Did you want me to die? I finished clearing my passages and stood, tears rolling down my cheeks. I'm sorry, Rebecca. I didn't know, I... She interjected.

That's not good enough. She vanished again. I turned around and there she was, now clean, holding an infant in her arms. This is Abigail. Isn't she precious? I trembled. We never had a child. Rebecca. You're right, hon. This is the baby I would have birthed had I lived long enough to have her.

Don't you remember picking out the names? Jack for a boy after his father and Abigail for a girl. I remembered. We lay in the field for hours one night, looking up at the full moon and discussing where our life together was headed. At one point we talked about children. Rebecca wanted three, but I insisted on no more than two. One boy and one girl, Jack and and Abigail. We mapped out their childhood and pictured every moment. Parenting wouldn't be easy, but re-agreed it'll all be worth it. I remember Rebecca. She walked over to me and handed me the baby. I looked into its eyes. She was perfect. It's hard to say how I knew, but it was her, the same Abigail we pictured years ago. You should have saved me, Jack. Now they'll never exist.

harsh wind came from the forest. I watched in horror as Abigail's form turned to dust and slipped through the gaps between my fingers. I'd only known her for a moment, but still, I cried. My little girl, gone. Why are you doing this? I pleaded. Her face was now tinged with anger. You deserve to feel the same regret. I plunged the blade into my skin, but you could have stopped it. I needed you that night, and you weren't there. With that, the floodgates opened, a dam of tears burst and streamed down my face. So too did the blood water around us. It towered overhead for a brief period before crashing into me.

Once above the waves, I watched as Rebecca walked across the water and into that red door. She looked back and offered me one last sentiment. Goodbye, Jack. The torment was over, but it had taken its toll. I let myself sink into the depths of the ocean. It would be my final resting place. After everything, they'd have been dredged up. I truly wanted to wither and die.

I wavered in and out of consciousness. I could hear Henry and the man arguing. He's not doing so well in there. We may have to cut this one loose. We can't afford the backlash if this gets out. Pour yourself together, Henry. If we can just get one more good one. That was the last thing I heard before passing out.

For a time, I drifted through the black void of a dreamless slumber until finally something pulled me out. Rebecca's voice, a thunderous cadence that would have woken up a bear from its hibernation. Wake up, Jack! I awoke in a white room, the kind of which I recognised. It was a hospital.

A nurse was checking my vitals when she looked over and noticed. Oh, gosh, you're awake. Brilliant. You've been out for quite some time. What happened? I asked in a groggy slur of speech. You were found inside your home, at the bottom of the stairs. You've been comatose for nearly a week. I tried pulling myself up into a sitting position.

She pushed my shoulders back down. Please rest. You've lost a lot of electrolytes. I'll go get the doctor. She'll help. Sit tight. The nurse left and I gathered some composure. Comatose, huh? Does the body one day? us, strange nightmares, repressed memories, the works. I let out a morbid laugh,

amazed that my brain could even construct such dream worlds. Still, my eyes welled up, recalling the image of Rebecca and our unborn daughter. After a few moments, the doctor came in and greeted me. She explained my battered state and advised me to stay for observation over the next few days. I agreed. She went over the finer points of my treatment,

but then took a detour to discuss. something else. There is something troubling that we can't quite explain. Troubling? What is it? I asked. Well, when you came in, you were coughing up blood. We didn't find any signs of internal bleeding, so we sent this sample out to be tested.

As it turns out, it wasn't yours. We cross-referenced it with other patients in the database, and there was a hit, a suicide from years ago. Your wife, Rebecca. I gasped. How could this be? Unless. There's one more thing I wanted to ask.

What happened to your head? My head? I asked, unsure of what she was referring to. It was then that I noticed a faint brush of gauze against my scalp. Here, take a look. She handed me a mirror and carefully remove the bandage. I was mortified by the sight. Above my eyes were three perfectly straight cut, etched across my skin.

When my parents invited me over for brunch, I didn't expect to be asked to go to visit my dying grandfather. I knew that he was dying, but I figured that I'd be the last person he'd wanted to see in his final days. He'd never show me any kind of affection. No grandfatherly advice was ever given, no inside jokes ever shared, no parent-angering and mischief encouraging gifts

ever snuck into my hand beneath the table at birthday dinners. I'd experienced none of the things I'd come to know about a grandfather-grandson relationship, learn through books, TV and movies. But my mum swore that he wanted to see me and not just have me come visit, but come alone. My parents hadn't been asked to join me in my weekend visit to his house. I loved my parents, especially my mom,

no offence to my dad, he's great too. So I agreed, figuring that despite the apathy he had shown me my entire life, I still had a familial duty to uphold. My mom assured me that the visit wouldn't be as bad as I'd anticipated and that my grandfather had softened in his old age, that coming to face his mortality had humbled him. I told her that I wasn't worried about not getting along and promised that I tried to have a good time.

She smiled and I saw how much it meant to her by the tears. that gathered in her eyes. I knew she and her dad were close, that he hadn't married or so much as dated another woman since his wife's death almost two decades ago. That gesture of death-defying faithfulness, that long-held abstinence had meant so much to her. My dad always said that she loved her mom more than anything

and that the old woman's death had seemed to irreparably dampen her spirits. Fortunately, for everyone involved, I had recently been promoted at work and my boss had been kind enough to give me a short, paid vacation before I started my new position, which was sure to keep me busy and devoid a free time for the foreseeable future. I promised my parents that I would go to my grandfathers later that day and we finished our food with smiling faces. Later that day, I packed my things.

My mom promised me that regardless of my thoughts at the moment, I'd eventually want to stay the whole weekend with him. I tried to think of some memory, some nice moment I'd shared with the old man. but after several minutes of earnest thinking nothing came to mind I couldn't recall a single moment in which is cold almost scornful demeanour towards me had been broken

my dad called me just as I finished packing he wished me luck and echoed my mom's promises regarding my grandfather's change in personality still he sounded a bit troubled as if there was something he wanted to tell me but couldn't I would have pressed him to speak his mind

but I wanted to be on the road before dark. There are no streetlights along the roads near my grandfather's woods-enclosed house, so I only thanked him for the reassurances and promised the text him once I arrived. With everything packed and the house locked, I drove on to my grandfather's house. He lived about an hour away, preferring the less suburban, abundantly silven spaces of Missouri, presumably so he could brood and grumble in solitude. As I drove, I tried to keep my thoughts light, even as the sky darkened. It would have been easy to allow the darkness to act as a viable testament to my preconceptions about my grandfather and the time I would have.

But I suppressed the negativity and thought only about the dying old man who wanted to make amends for 23 years of grand parental indifference. I arrived just as a night fully settled, and the moon had beautifully nestled itself amidst the clouds above my grandfather's house, casting a few brilliant rays on the loosely shingled roof and the chimney which seemed to have weathered its first. fair share of storms, its bricks faded, dislodged and pockmarked. The house appeared deceptively small on the outside. Two stories sandwiched together with no structural attachments or supplemental buildings. But, once inside, the place seemed sprawling, with many nooks, hallways and curtain-contilled recesses and which statues and busts were curiously hidden from view.

There wasn't really a driveway, more of an intermittently paved path that led from the road all the way to the front of the house. I parked my car a few feet away from the porch, shouldered the one bag I'd brought, and walked to the front door. I could hear nothing inside and the single window that overlooked the front yard, no yard to speak of,

and its thick curtain drawn. I wrapped my knuckles on the heavy door five times for good measure, not remembering whether or not the old man was hard of hearing. A few moments of silence passed. Then I heard the varied metallic sounds of some absurdly complex mechanism from the other side of the door.

The door opened, revealing the slightly hunched but broad-shouldered figure of my grandfather. There was a fire going in the fireplace of the living room, the only source of light visible through the doorway,

and the outline it gave him was almost sinister. The all man's face was grave, deeply scrutinizing, giving him the appearance of a butler coming to the late-night call of some misdirected traveller. I smiled, and he stepped aside,

allowing me to pass across the threshold. He closed and locked the door behind me and the metallic noises again rang, the locking mechanism firmly secure. I withdrew my phone from my pocket so I could text my dad, but my grandfather nudged me and said, I asked he here to talk,

not to watch you fiddle with that device, put it in the bowl. He hadn't gestured towards anything, but before I could ask to what bowl he was referring, I saw a carved clay bowl in the table beside the front door. Several keys, organated by a bronze ring, sat therein. I quickly turned my phone's volume down and placed it in the bowl,

then joined my grandfather in the living room. He'd taken a seat in one of the two armchairs, each angle towards the fireplace. Its glow filled most of the room, as did its warmth, and I was naturally drawn to it, even though the man beside it would have ordinarily repelled me. I sat in the remaining chair, whose arms and back had had the fabric embroidered with some aesthetically elaborate design that was unfamiliar to me. The chair was comfortable enough, although from what I could tell, by quickly studying his before meeting his eyes, mine hadn't been occupied for quite a while.

There was a stiffness about my seat, whereas his appeared worn and almost seemed to contort itself to his form. I figured that my seat had been my grandmothers, and visitors, if he'd even had any, weren't allowed to seat themselves in the chair. Finally, I turned my attention to the old man, who hadn't taken his eyes off me since the moment I entered the house. The shadows caused by the fire danced about the room, making it seem as if there were other occupants, which in turn eased my mind a bit. I was severely nervous, unsure of how to proceed in conversation with a man who hadn't even so much a smiled at me my entire life. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but then shut it and reached down to the side of the chair for some.

He then raised a large mug, took a hearty sip of whatever was inside, and sat it upon his lap, over which was drawn a velvet quilt whose handiwork as I recognised as being that of my grandmother's. What do you see when you look around this room? His voice was intoned with the surprising vitality. I hadn't heard him speak in years, and had expected his voice to be at least be soft-spoken, if not rough and interrupted by coughing. His illness hadn't been described to me. My parents had only told me that he was certainly, inarguably, dying. My eyes scanned the room.

I was happy to put off having to look directly at him, even if it were only for a while. Above the fireplace was a mantle that held framed pictures. Most hadn't been dusted in years, but two, which held pictures my grandmother, had been positioned in a place in front of the rest, nearly to the edge of the mantle. The firelight lit up the glass with the,

the frames, making the captured images behind them appear in motion, as if my grandmother's smile grew wider or smaller, depending on how the light played upon the glass. The walls, which bore a faded crimson wallpaper, held other photographs and even paintings, though none of these have been cared for like those of my grandmother. Nearly every wall throughout the house contained a curtain section, and behind the curtains, I knew sat sculptures, statuettes and busts of my grandfather's ancestors. and other historical figures he allegedly knew or admired. Photographs, paintings, statues?

I kept my voice light, casual, trying not to somehow offend the man. His eyes hadn't left me for one moment, and they only narrowed in response to my answer. No, this room and every other room in the house contains history. History, our past, is all we have. It is by the wisdom of history that we may chart past for the future. our future must go on for the first time since inviting me in his gaze wondered

travelling down though I doubted his thoughts rested on the fire-lit floorboards he cradled the mug in his hands absentmindedly caressing the ebb and surface with his thumbs his chest rose and fell rhythmically his breathing perfectly measured if I hadn't known of his imminent death I would have thought him appropriately healthy for a man of his age I couldn't think of how to reply to his statement, which had seemed somewhat prepared,

so I kept quiet and peered around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since I last visited, was last brought as a teenager, and yet I sensed that something major, something imperceptible but momentous, had happened within the home. My grandfather stirred, coming out of his reverie, and I dismissed the thought of this great change

as just the half-perceived aura of death hanging over the whole situation. Yes, our history is what defines us. One anchors us to this world. Reality, as we know it, is nothing more than histories attesting to each other. Stories, those of fiction, rather legend, are what binds these great histories together. The resultant weave, the great tapestry, being reality as we know it. Have I told you any such legend before, my son? The shock of his words caused me to stutter out a reply of

No, you haven't. Not only had he spoken more in that brief moment than he'd ever spoken to me before. He'd also called me son. Something I would have never expected to hear from him. He rarely referred to my father outside of his name, and it always called me boy, or the child. He nodded, took another sip from whatever he had in his mug,

adjusted the quilt laid over his legs, and turned his gaze to the fire. His green eyes, not at all dimmed by age, sparkled in the firelight, and he proceeded to tell me a legend. Many, many years ago, before the lives of your eldest ancestors, there existed a man in despair. The man's despair was born of his inability to obtain a certain piece of knowledge, a knowledge to undo, or at least indefinitely forestall death and its reaping.

The man's wife, gravely ill, was certain to die, and there was naught to be done besides prepare the funeral rights and ensure that her passage into the mortuary state be carried out comfortably, respectably. On the day in which she was, by physician's decree to die, the man stumbled into his home early in the morning, having been out all night in desperate search of a collection of books whose contents proposed methods for the prolonging of mortal life.

The man only managed to obtain one volume from the half-crumbled attelier of a wizard long dead, before the sun's light began to blanket the mountains and awaken the moon-suppressed flowers, nearly delirious from the over-exertions of having overturned stones and pushed aside bookcases which had survived the ruination of time through some nonsensian arrogance. The man sat heavily upon his chair, opened the blinds of his dust-chalk study, and began reading through the sole remaining volume of that necromanic collection. An hour later, he stumbled into his bedroom, which had become a veritable sick room,

and closed the blinds which remained perpetually open so as to allow his bedridden wife the lights of both governing celestial bodies in the futile, pitiable hope that the rays of one might have some healing effect upon a body. Startled by a sudden intrusion, his wife opened her eyes and raised her head from her pillows. The most movement her debilitated body could muster. The man nearly crushed her in his embrace and wetted her gown with the tears of joy that fell hotly from his face. weakly she asked what the matter was and he responded that he had beaten it when she asked what it was he exclaimed happily proudly death i've unlocked the secrets of a perpetual life and in turn cancelled that appalling dreadful appointment with the reaper as a parent might read a bedtime story to a child before they sink away into a dreamful sleep the man read from that curious book the necromanic secrets of death's evasion just before his wife would be would plummet irretrievably into the ever-yawning, ever-darkening abysm of the afterlife.

An hour later, he closed the books, having read the requisite passages, and stood away from the bed, his eyes dry, utterly bereft of tears. His wife rose from the bed and stood to her feet, before nearly falling upon the floor. But she hadn't faltered due to some remnants of the illness which had plagued her. No, she was completely bodily cured. Shock, had a complete recuperation, had turned to the legs of jelly. The man held her to her feet and laid a kiss upon her forehead that reddened her cheeks, and this in turn had brought more kisses, but he had not seen such vitality in her face in what felt like centuries. When she was finally steadied by his passion, she cried out, To what God must we make oblations? Upon what altars, before what idols must we cast ourselves

in thanks to the eternity of heaven or hell that has given you this ultimate death divine power. He smiled and replied, If you must give thanks to some ultra-mundane spirit, give it to the god of love, for they alone had instilled me with a vigour at the direst hour to go out and search among the ruins of that necropolis beyond the city, in which it is rumoured exists the libraries of those hard-remembered wizards and preceptors of great magic. This volume is the last remaining book of the whole lot,

and I have plunded it and boldly poured over its assuredly sacrilegious contents so that I could restore the life that was so unfairly stolen from you. The woman cried out many things to the god of love and hugged her husband even deeper than when he had hugged her. When the priest and the physician arrived sometime later, they were shocked, almost petrified by the sight of the woman flitting around the house in her apron, a tray of freshly baked cookies resting nimbly upon a mitted hand

and a parsley kettle held in the other. She beckoned them to be seated and, in the manner often displayed by the dumbstruck, they sat quietly, with mouths agape and eyes practically bulging. She had offered them cookies and tea, and they accepted. The husband entered a few moments later, accepted the same offerings from his wife and sat in his favorite chair by the fire. The wife sat upon his lap, and together they stared pleasantly and warmly at the guests who ate and drank automatically. After a time, the physician, having practical inquisitiveness that demanded he understand what he believed was a mundane secret to the world, asked how exactly the woman had so speedily recovered. He himself had declared the inadequacy of then modern magic and the restoration of her vitality, and even his companion, the priest, had sensed or divined the irremediable wilting of a spirit.

The man, after taking another sip of his tea, bend his head and kissed his wife on the forehead, eliciting that sudden crimson vibrancy of her cheeks. She smiled and nestled a head into his chest. He looked up to his slight jawed guests and said, It was love, my friends. Throughout the story, my grandfather's eyes had remained fixed just beyond me. When he finished, his gaze relaxed, first going to the mug in his hands, then to the fire,

and finally to my right, where a bookcase sat against the wall. I didn't know what to say. The story clearly had some personal meaning to him, possibly a fantasy told to him, or constructed by him, that reflected his sorrow and not being able to save my grandmother from the illness that had taken her. After an interim of prolonged silence, I finally spoke up, saying, that was a nice story, Grandpa. I had never called him that before, or his grandfather, but in the moment, the shawd and term had come naturally, almost lovingly. He nodded and even smiled, though not at me. His eyes remained in that bookcase steeped in the darkness of the far end of the room where the fire's light couldn't reach.

He took another sip from his cup, then set it on the floor beside the chair and rose from his seat. I got up to help him, but he waved away the offer. Confidently, almost proudly, he walked over to the bookcase, retrieved a book and returned to his seat. The book was plainly old and the shadows which passed over. it seems sufficient enough to destroy its withered frame. But my grandfather opened it, as he would, any other book. Without any special care or acknowledgement, as if knowing the book could withstand such heavy, indelicate handling.

Without giving any information about the book, he began to read from it. He didn't read out loud, but his eyes scanned the pages quickly, fervently, as if the words therein fled from his sight, and he endeavored to catch them before they leapt from the page. I stared, both surprised and unsettled by his hyperactivity, demonstrated by a man who should be lying upon his deathbed. I don't know how much time passed before he closed the book. He placed it on the floor just beside the mug and stood again.

Instinct, or maybe just the old glint in his eyes, it made me stand up as well. I'm sorry, my boy, but it is done. Confused and growing increasingly alarmed, I asked what he meant by that. He smiled, discarded the quilt, and pushed his chair several frees away with a kick of his foot. He seemed to grow in that moment,

his stature becoming unnervily imposing. His body, though still retaining the signs of his age, seemed to have been empowered by some spell read within the book. Terror seaped into my veins as I witnessed this bizarre transformation. Forgive me for the coldness I've shown you over the years. All this time, I believe that the offered soul must be alike with the soul to be restored.

I cursed you for being male. But the book, The Necromantic Volume, which has survived uncountable cycles since its initial publication, states that the nature of the soul needn't be exactly the same. All that is required

is the soul to be related to the would-be deceased. You, your grandmother's grandson, will do just fine. The arm swung at me, but I'd even fully process these words. The fist caught me in the temple, sending me sprawled onto the floor. My head knocked against the floorboards, dizzying me even more than the punch did.

Dazed, pain arising like a climator's wave in my head, I tried to scramble away, but my grandfather seized one of my ankles and pulled back towards him. Forcefully demonstrating a strength well beyond anything I'd ever felt or seen before, he pushed my face to the edge of the fireplace. Only through instinct did my hand reach out and land on the brick of the threshold, stopping my progress into the searing flames. My grandfather's strength was immense, indomitable, and I felt my arms bending

as his manic power surmounted my desperate resistance. The fires heat singed the skin of my face, and I smelt the awful, horror-inducing stench of burning hair. I knew by the almost beastial grunts that escaped his lips that pleading with him would be useless. He was lethally determined to mercilessly end my life in the bizarre hopes of somehow extracting my spirit for the necromanic resurrection of his long-dead wife.

I remembered then the fully-scaled statue of my grandmother, resting behind one of the curtains in the room, and how it disturbed I had been as a child by its ultra-real likeness to the woman it depicted. I was impelled toward action when a tongue of flame licked my face, eliciting a horrible, mind-clearing pain. In a moment of supreme agony that I'll never forget,

I quickly plunged one hand into the burning pile of wood, gripped a log, even as my skin was hung. really attacked by the roaring flame and withdrew the flame-coated piece, swinging it with a quickness and force aided by my body's natural urge to recall from extreme heat. The log crashed against my grandfather's head, knocking him back and under the floor. I fell away from the flames, dropping the still burning wood upon the quilt. I cradle my scorched hand, not wanting to look at it, but feeling the patches of charred skin and heat-borne blisters.

I started towards the door, but an unconscious inhibition stopped me, and, before I knew what I was doing, I had turned and kicked the old wizard's toome into the fireplace. It took several kicks to break the door's complex locking mechanism. Once the door swung outward, I dashed into the night. While behind me, I heard the insane raging

on my grandfather as he rolled around the floor. The cool air tinged my burnt hand, but I couldn't tell if the tingling was a good or bad thing. I quickly got into my car, started it, and backed down the intermittently paved pathway. Before me, the house was a little. seemed to preternaturally glow from within, and I realised that the flames, either from the dislodge log, or, as some consequence from the book's destruction, had spread throughout the

house. No figure emerged from the front door. Automatically, I drove to my parents' house. I'd grown numb to the pain in my hand during the drive. It wasn't until I pulled into the driveway that full awareness returned to me, and I realized I'd forgotten to grab my phone from the bowl in my grandfather's home, but the loss seemed inconsequential compared to what I otherwise could have lost. I stumbled to the front door, and as I knocked, I realized how much I smell like smoke. I saw in the small and distorted reflection of the brass knocker that streaks of black lie in my face, and that great swaths of hair had been burned away, exposing a blackened scalp. As if seeing this had reminded my body of the damage, I felt the related pain shortly after.

My mom opened the door and, upon seeing a half-burned, wretched son, abruptly and surely screamed, I smiled, stumbling into the fire and kicked the door closed behind me. It was late, and although I felt awful, I didn't want to attract the attention of the neighbours, not until I told my parents what had happened. My mom quickly quieted, perhaps coming to the same line of thought, and watched me with wide eyes as I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

She paced around, hands on her head, eyes alight with terror. I asked for some water, realizing only then how terribly thirsty I was. She nodded and brought me a picture of water and a cup. A few moments later, my dad entered the kitchen, and I saw shock and something that almost resembled relief on his face. There was a wordless, inscrutable exchange between them, and then my mom finally asked what had happened. Through several sips of water, I told them the story, and by its conclusion my mom was in tears.

My father stood behind her silently, eyes averted, hands delicately placed on her hips. I could understand grieving the violent loss of her parent, especially since she had already lost a mother, but she seemed someone inappropriately saddened by her father's death, as if he hadn't died in the process of attempting my murder. when my mom pulled a face away from her hands I saw a black, malicious rage in her eyes Before my day could stop her She lunged across the table at me Knocking over the picture and drawing a nail

Savagely across my face I fell back in my chair Landing hard upon the tarred kitchen floor I heard footsteps rounding the table And then a sudden exclamation of surprise Followed by the sight of my mother Landing roughly on the floor beside me She had slipped on the water that had poured in the picture

A second later, my dad had restrained her, kneeling with all his weight on her back. He looked deeply at me, with tears and dark knowing in his eyes, and whispered, Go. I took one look at my mother's madness reddened and viciously snarling face and got up from the water-streaked floor. A few seconds later, I was in my car. The pieces fell in place within my mind as I drove away. My parents had known about my grandfather's desire to, sacrifice me in some attempt to use my soul as the catalyst for the resurrection of my grandmother.

My mom, happy to have a mother returned to her, had presumably held no issue with the idea, and my dad just wanted to see my mother happy again had gone along with it. He had saved me in the end, but only after my grandfather had died. I was only an object, a thing to be used to accomplish something else. That realization crushed me. the pain of it far greater than any of the physical injuries I'd sustained in the night. I drove to a hospital several towns away, knowing that I'd receive only the most superficial care,

care of the body, with no recuperation available, for the ghastly emotional trauma, an unforgettable terror, I endured. His sheep's skin coat was covered with snow and mud. The rifle strapped across his back was broken in half. Without greeting us, he stumbled to the barkeep, and demanded Palenka. What happened to you, Yosko? Asked Halsian, his big belly bouncing with laughter.

Got into a fight with her dog yours. This got a couple of laughs from the men, but as soon as the woodman turned around, all mirth disappeared from the room. Yosco was built like a bull and wore a true woodman's beard, yet beyond the rough face, plain as day,

we could all see he was terrified. The woodsman didn't answer. he just swallowed the bar keep's offering. It wasn't until his second shot that he spoke. There's something in the woods. Damn right, there's something in the woods. A damn snowstorm. What a fool you are to walk around in there during the winter,

Halshin said. But fool or not, come join us and let me buy her drink. As soon as someone closes that damn door, you might actually find some warmth here. Outside, a mighty storm raged in the dying light of the afternoon. Peaking out of the curtains of snow were the outlines of the Magura forest, a forest thick enough to be dangerous, even in the brightest of summers. As the door closed, I quietly took pity on any man who would get lost

in that wilderness. The woodsman took two more helpings of the palenka before he sat down among us. The liquor smelled heavy off of him, but as soon as he took off his coat, the room filled with a stench of sweat. So, Yosco, last week you sit here and brag about how you finished all the winter The preparations a month early, but now we catch you getting lost in the forest, never took you for a liar. Halshen boomed, hoping to get a response out of the woodsman, but his jabs didn't land. The man sitting before us was in no mood for arguments or jokes. What brought you to the forest, friend? Halshen finally asked with a hint of kindness in his voice.

The woodsman stared into his beer as if it was to provide answers to his torment. When no answers presented themselves, he started. excited to speak. Baco, he said, ever since we finished the winter work, he'd been anxious, kept on howling and biting his paws, figured taking him out

for a quick walk in the forest would help. Ah, you treat that dog like a child, Houshan hollered. You let an animal sleep in the house and soon enough it feels entitled to complain. This got a couple of murmurs of agreement from the rest of the table. Bacco, much like the rest of the village dogs,

was a product of untraceable parentage or breed. Yet, he wasn't treated like the simple farm animal he was. The woodsman seldom left the house without the dog, kept him by his side whenever he could. He would even converse with it when he thought no one was watching. Even though the hound and the woodsman were well-liked, many crude jokes will be made on account of the relationship. Yet, no one felt like joking that night. Where is Baco? Someone asked. The woodsman didn't answer. Instead, he took a dull swig of his beer. Getting out of the house helped, he said. As soon as he got to the forest, he was off like a cannonball, jumping around in the snow, running back and forth on the path. Haven't seen him

that happy all month. I wanted him to have his fun, figured I'd take him with me to check on the feeder and salt lakes. The woodsman's words were hollow. It was as if his body was present in the pub, but his mind was still somewhere off in the forest. That's when I found the tracks, he said. there's something in the woods. Ah, I understand now, Howchin said, grinning. You went out for some of your season hunting. Yosco, we're among friends here, so no one will report you. But if you do find yourself with some venison sausages, it would be a sin not to share.

The rest of the table laughed hungrily. So you had a running with a bear? Is that what happened to your rifle? No, the woodsman said, and took another heavy swig of his beard. The tracks didn't belong to a bear, or a deer, or a boar, or anything else that roams in our forest. It was something bigger, something heavier, something taller. Taller, someone asked. Taller. These tracks went deep. The legs that left them were tall.

But the tracks were still of hooves, long, flat hooves. Thought that maybe I'd come across some freak deer. Been a hard year, figured a bit of sausage would cheer everyone up. For a moment, the woodsman smiled. For a moment, our drinking buddy was back, but then his eyes glazed over. What we found wasn't a deer. While Bacca played in the snow, I followed the tracks. They ended up leading me all the way past the stream.

They led to... The woodsman paused. It was as if he suddenly became aware of who he was speaking to. He looked up at Halshan. They led... To your fields. I dressed my potatoes. so was doing well.

Halsian laughed. Others left with him. No, the woodsman said, silence in the crowd. No, Halsian, your fields are. It was as if bores dug through everything you planted. Everything is dug up. There's mud everywhere. That's ridiculous, someone said.

No bore is smart enough to dig through the snow. Is this true, Yoscar? You're not pulling my leg? When the woodsman shook his head, all the joy had left Halshant's eyes. For a moment, Halchon said wordlessly, letting the anger fill his cheeks. What happened next? Who dug up my fields? He finally asked.

Bacchow was too busy running around in the snow to notice the tracks, but when we reached the field, there was no snow to play in. I tried to get him to follow the scent, to trek down whatever animal destroyed your fields. He didn't want to. The woodsman's voice jumped in Octave. His dark eyes closed. Baco wanted to go home. "'See, this is what happens when you treat your dog like a child.' Houschen slammed the table, nearly spilling his beer.

You treat an animal like a man, and they start to form opinions. That hound was meant to follow the scent. That hound was meant to lead you to the animals that wrecked my fields. He did, the woodsman said. Bacca wanted to go home, but I forced him to follow the scent. I forced him to track down the animal. Good, Houshant said, calming. have to remind the animal who was master from time to time.

Owshend looked beneath the table, as if you expected the dog to be there, but Bacco was nowhere to be found. For a moment, it looked as if the man would ask about the dog, but he didn't. What did Bacchow find? He didn't want to lead me, but I insisted, the woodsman said, his head bent over his beer and sorrow. He led me through your fields, down to the valley below.

For a while, I could. could see the tracks, I could see those long-legged hooves in the snow. But when we walked down the valley, the snow disappeared. All that was left was mud, mud and fog. Bacco kept on whimpering. He kept on looking back to me, begging me with his eyes to leave, but I didn't listen. I just kept on walking through the mud, hoping for some good meat. We were walking through the fog for a good ten minutes when I heard it. I heard the animal, like a mating grunt of a deer, but darker. I heard it coming from above. Above, someone asked.

From the sky, Yasko, are you trying to tell us you saw deer mating in the sky? No one laughed. Looking at the woodsman's terrified face, no one dared to laugh. The fog was far too thick to see through. I was barely able to keep track of Bacco. But I could hear it. I could hear something groaning above us. At that point, even I was scared.

I couldn't see anything. The dog was nervous, and whatever was out there in the fog was big. I tried to turn around. I was finally going to listen to Baco's instincts, but it was far too late. The woodman attempted to continue his story, but no words left his mouth. He was still out there, in the forest, trying to make sense of what him and his dog had seen. Rana Palenka's on Meebar Keep. House-in-ordered, breaking the tension for a split moment.

Yet, as the glasses of clear liquid were placed on the table, the pub descended back into complete silence. Everyone was waiting for the woodsman to speak. He remained wordless until he swallowed his medicine. The legs, he finally said. The legs were the first thing I saw. Tall, grey legs attached to a body I could not see. The skeletal limbs were enough for me. As soon as I saw them, I ran.

I ran and backer followed me. but we weren't alone. The beast ran behind us. Its steps were frantic and clumsy, but it moved fast. Even on those disgustingly thin legs it kept up with us, and the groaning,

the groaning kept on getting closer, as if whatever was making those horrible sounds was descending from the sky. Out of nowhere, the animal put on a burst of speed and overtook us. It nearly trampled us as it ran ahead. Then it stopped. A head descended from the fog

on a sickeningly long neck, eyes blacker than the darkest night, her long purple tongue and giant yellow teeth. Staring at me was the maddened snout of a beast I couldn't imagine in my worst nightmares. It foamed at its curled lips. It snapped its monstrous moor. The beast meant us harm.

I squeeze off one shot, went wide, by the time I loaded next. The woodsman nodded to his rifle, propped up against the table. The barrel of the gun was crushed and bent, halved by a thick tooth bite. There wasn't a second shot. I fell to the ground and that horrible head descended towards me.

Even past the mist, I could see those big dark eyes. They weren't dumb. They weren't like the eyes of any animal I've ever seen. No, there was malice in those eyes. The beast wanted me dead, not because of hunger, not because of fear, but out of pure spite. For a moment, I was sure that my days had been numbered.

but then Baco someone whispered The woodsman drained his mug and nodded He jumped out of the beast's neck And tore into it I didn't look back

I just ran I abandoned him I left Baco alone With whatever spawn of hell that creature was All that could be heard Was the howling of the wind outside We were all trying to make sense

of the woodsman's story Trying to figure out If the man had simply lost his mind In the forest Or whether there was any truth To what he was saying Halsian brugged the silence with his fist. Bako died an honourable death for a dog, he said, slamming the table.

He died serving his master. Barkeep, Arenapolena Pelenka in the hound's honour. To murmurs of agreement, another round was poured. Before the glasses were raised, however, Houshen struck a gentle tone. Yosco, none of us here doubt your story, but you have to admit it is a difficult one to grasp. impossible to grasp, might I say, for those of a more gentle nature.

It has been a hard year. The last thing we need is the women and children being scared of some long-legged monster in the woods. I suggest to you, and everyone gathered here, that we do not speak of this matter further. I am sure that whatever beast you encountered will not stay in the Magura forest for long. If there are still traces of it come spring, we can investigate the matter further. But as far as I am concerned, all you and Baccao encountered in the woods was a particular. particularly restless bear. The table all turns at the woodsman.

We all studied his blank face in search of a response. Yes, the woodsman said, after a moment of thought, let us not speak of this further. Tobacco, Alshan said. Tobacco, we echoed. Once the glasses were drained and slammed down on the wood, another wave of silence followed. No one knew what to say.

surely it was no time to cast doubt upon the woodsman's story and it was most definitely no time to make jokes but conversations around the village pub seldom revolved around anything other than humour and distrust he was a good boy the woodsman whispered the others started to murmur their agreement but suddenly everyone went quiet there was a scratch on the door

something was trying to get inside of the pub what was that someone said behind us the barkey shock and cocked into action. He was aiming straight at the door. The fear in the room was palpable. What once seemed like a fever dream of a man lost in the woods now seemed like an undeniable reality. There was something outside, and it wanted in. The force on the door grew more erratic. With each second, I could feel the sanity draining out of the room. We were all thinking of the long-legged monstrosity that the woodsman had described. We were all fearing for our lives. But then,

Then the scratches were joined with another sound, a familiar sound. Behind the door, her dog whimpered. Backo, the woodsman yelled as he leaped to his feet and rushed to the door. You're alive! The dog was alive, but barely. Bacco's fur was matted in blood and he scarcely managed to stay upright on his paws. Whatever struggle Baco had emerged from was a brutal one. The pub immediately mobilized into a flurry of activity.

Within seconds, the injured dog was wrapped up in the woodsman's coat and carried out into the night. In the spirit of communal support, or morbid curiosity, perhaps, the whole pub followed the woodsman to the village veterinarian. Soon enough, Houshian and I were the only ones left in the pub. You think the woodsman was telling the truth? I asked. Yosko has a strange relationship with his dog. Housen said, waddling over behind the bar and grabbing the bottle of Planker. But I do not take him for a liar or a madman. for that matter.

But the thought of some long-legged monster hiding in the woods, though? As the rest of the men trudged through the snow and darkness hoping to save Bako, Halsham poured two shots of the clear liquid.

Let me once again suggest that we do not speak of this matter until spring. Whether there is or isn't something in the forest right now is not of our concern. It is the winter, it has been a hard year.

Let it simply tend to our homes and enjoy the fruits of our labour. He handed me the glass. I accepted it. At least the dog is alive, he said. And then, in the little bastion of civilization surrounded by a dark forest, we drank, burned alive and buried alive,

the two worst fates for any living creature that I could ever possibly imagine. If forced for the choice, which would you pick? Unbearable physical agony or extreme mental torture. The most excruciating pain imaginable, or the utmost form of horror that the human mind is capable of conceiving.

Up to a few years ago, I didn't know either. What would you even consider it, if not forced to? Well, one day, I found out which I choose. A day so dreadful that there's no adjective in the English language strong enough to properly convey the horror of it. A day so awful that I struggled just to recall it. I hate the choice but upon me. Yeah, here's what happened.

Years ago, I bought my first home. Being an overall fan of the macabre and living in rural New England, I decided on a nearly ancient American colonial-style home, reminiscent of something out of a Nathaniel Hawthorne or Arthur Miller story. It was the product of a bygone era. Though it was built in the 1800s, as the cliche goes, it had had good bones and had been fairly well maintained considering its age. That being said, it still needed some work.

A few weeks after closing, while fixing some of the faulty old wiring in the basement, I came across a centrist-old drain set into the stone flooring. It was maybe three feet in diameter and covered with a heavy iron gate that was worn with many decades worth of rough brown corrosion. It resembled the entrance to a dungeon. Like I mentioned, I have a curiosity for all the dark and morbid elements of the world. finds like this were the exact reason I wanted this house, so I decided to have a closer look at the forgotten thing.

I laced my fingers through the dirty old grate and gave it a firm pull. It opened with a paint and rusty cry. I gazed down into the hole, a faint, acrid stink arose from his depths. It was as dry as old bone and quiet as a crypt. I assumed due to the home's location on the side of the small hill that the basement had once been prone to flooding and that modern technological developments had rendered that

like so many other things in this place, a relic of the past. I poked my head a little farther in and looked into the deep, dark recesses of the ancient plumbing. I could make out just the faintest bit of light at the far end. I went out in the yard and found the outlet hidden deep in a thicket of tangled brush, evidently lacking access to chicken mesh, someone had covered it with a makeshift criss-quist.

crossing a merciless-looking barbed wire, apparently to keep any unwanted creatures from crawling in during the night. I thought that whomever had done so had made a smart choice. The pipe looked nearly big enough for a person to squeeze through. A few months later, I was back working in the basement. The previous owner had left boxes upon boxes of yellowed-old newspapers, books and other forms of age literature stacked under the stairs. I wanted to move out what I could,

as they were taking up a lot of valuable storage. space and were a possible fire hazard, especially under the dry, sponging wood of the basement rises. Honestly, though, I really wanted to look through them to see what sort of curious volumes might be hidden within the dusty mound. About 30 minutes into my task, I'd sifted through and moved about five of the boxes without finding anything of much interest. In the sixth box, however, I came across a strange volume bound in worn leather that looked like it must be older than the house itself. It had the words Kidab Alkanus embossed on the cover and was written in what appeared to be Arabic, though I'm no linguist.

There were English translations or notes of some sort written in the margins. They seemed to say something about the locations of lost and hidden treasures. This was exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. Excited by my find, I moved out from under the stairs in search of better lighting to read it by. I went over to a large floodlight and left in the basement from a previous project and flicked it on. The decrepit wiring running under the stairs sparked violently. I spun

quickly, and, in doing so, tripped and fell backwards. By the time I got up, the sparks had already lit a fire in the stacks of boxes that stood nearly a metre high. It was licking and biting at the withered stairs like the jaws of a hungry animal. In hindsight, at this very moment, I should have sprinted through the flames to safety. Whatever burns I would have suffered would have paled in comparison to the trauma I was doomed to endure by staying putt. But, like they say, hindsight is 2020.

Instead, I sat frozen in shock of the sight in front of me. When I snapped out of it, I looked around frantically for any sign of something to douse the flame with, but of course, it was nothing. Nobody thinks to keep a fire extinguisher in the basement.

The blaze rose higher, engulfing the staircase, and spreading around the door jam at the top like some sort of hellish decoration. I tried desperately to hold back panic and think of a way out. My basement had no windows and no hatchway either. Then the fire spread to the exposed fiberglass insulation in the ceiling. It jumped from section to section like a stone skipping across a pond. The air became thick with the baking heat.

The sound of the flames crackling was now constant and unrelenting. Smoke was already filling up the already close air, curling and twisting through the space. Every breath I took Tasted of hot ash I finally decided My only hope was the sprint of the stairs Through the Inferno

And pray my injuries weren't life-threatening Thoughts of pink, stinging burns Blisters, wet peeling flesh And skin grafts flashed in my mind I hesitated I tried to still my nerves against it all Then the staircase collapsed I drew back against the concrete wall behind me

Hoping for a respite from the sudden gust of fire air that followed. It didn't help. It was like standing too close to a bonfire, but with no way to back up. I looked up at the doorway, the threshold is 15 feet up and surrounded by flame. I moved away along the wall, desperately searching for any relief from the heat and smoke. Everything was on fire now. I could barely see. My eyes burned and every breath choked my lungs. I was beginning to feel light-headed and nauseous. I was going to die down here. asphyxiated and burned alive. I prayed to God to feel as little as possible.

I got down to my stomach, hoping to delay the inevitable. My hands felt cold metal on the floor. I heard it grind and shift with my movement. My fingers slipped through the elongated holes. I was lying on top of the drain. My heart jumped and then immediately dropped to the pit my stomach. I had a way out, but he meant squeezing through hundreds of feet. of suffocating underground tunnel.

I pulled it open and he gave that same rusty cry from before. I put my head inside. The air felt cool and fresh compared to the basement. I looked at the speck of light way down in the darkness. It looked miles away.

I tried pushing myself inside. My shoulders pressed against the sides of the drain, pinning my arms tightly to my side. Clostrophobia hit me like an electric shock. I scrambled back up immediately. I couldn't do this. It was so narrow.

I would get stuck in the windpipe and slowly die in there, deep under the earth. I sobbed and cried out in utter despair. The fire was closing in around me. I could barely breathe anymore. The heat was like being in an oven, like baking to death. I felt flames licking my back and I jumped forward. Fire burnt the skin of my face. I pulled back.

I had nowhere left to go. Without stopping to think any further I shoved my body headlong into the hole I wriggled like a worm The flames burning my feet and legs Giving me the dearly needed motivation to move forward My arms were pinned to my sides again Because of the L shape of the drain

I had to go in upside down It was like being trapped in a coffin It was like being stuck in a cave Miles below the Earth's surface Dread and anxiety Like I've never felt before consumed me I wriggled and squirmed and kicked. I moved mere centimetres with each desperate effort.

The sides of the pipe clenched around me like a fist. Every move felt like it would wedge me hopelessly in the pipe. In my position, I couldn't even see where I was going. I had no idea how much progress I was making, if I was even getting closer to the opening. The darkness was total. I sobbed and screamed and squirmed further, scraping my self. skin on the rough sides of the dried of bold pipe. My mind was pure panic now.

I pushed with my legs all I could, but I only had room to lift my knees a few inches. I struggled wildly to keep moving, the sides of the cylinder grinding against my shoulders and hips. My manic breathing and hopeless cries echoed deafeningly in the pipe. Then I came to a rise. I could feel it like a ridge under my back. The build-up of cindures of rock-hard mineral deposits created a stalemite-like formation. underneath me, I gradually rose up the side of the passage.

I kept pushing and squirming as feverishly as ever until I felt my shoulders squeeze right up against my neck. I kicked and twisted and yelled, but I could not move. I was pinned within the jagged ridge. There wasn't room to move forward and I had no way to back up. I was stuck. Completely and totally stuck.

I thrashed my legs and jerked my toes. so violently. I wits my head around and cried out like an animal in a trap, banging my forehead against the top of the pipe and scraping the skin off. Still, my body wouldn't move. I cried, and I screamed until I was exhausted. Then I cried and screamed even more. I began to fade in and out. I dreamt that I saw the faces of the dead climbing out of the earth above me. I heard the voices of demons in my ears, chanting and laughing at me in strange languages. I could feel the pipe squeezing and tightening and relaxing just to play with me. The world spun uncontrollably at times,

making me dizzy and sick. Other times I floated, paralyzed through the void. My thoughts whirled violently around my brain like mad, biting flies. My head felt like an oven with my brain baking inside. The salt of my tears burned my dried-up eyes. I was going to die near, alone, stuck, unable to move. I completely lost my sanity during those hours My consciousness turned to a soup of constantly churning, manic thought

With nothing resembling rational or ordered cognitive activity remaining Consequently, it was my wild, animalistic screams That finally alerted the firefighters to my whereabouts deep within the pipe They had to wait for the fire to die down Before they could call in an excavator Eventually the heavy machine became too risky as it could have easily collapsed the decaying old tube burying me within. So they said to work, digging a note with shovels.

After they moved enough earth to expose the pipe, they had to cut out the section I was entombed in with a large saw. I know people were speaking to me during this time, trying in vain to keep me calm. But all I remember is the deafening, metallic shrieking that echoed through the pipe, stabbing at my eardrums like ice picks. Once freed from the rest of the conduit,

they lifted the section that held me out of the ground with a small crane and set it down in the yard. I vaguely remember another floating sensation. I'd hoped I died. Soon they went back to work with smaller, yet barely less hideous sounding sores. It was night at this point, so I didn't even get the miniscule benefit of daylight to ease the suffering. Other than the noise, it felt no different than when I first crawled in. Finally, it felt as if a great weight was lifted from all sides of me. My body seemed to expand in all directions.

Cool night air brushed across my skin. I was lifted up and carried away. This, like I said, was years ago. I am just now regaining the sanity needed to be able to process these events and write them down. My therapist tells me as a good idea that it will help me get past the event to whatever degree possible. He says it may help me with my night terrace. too. I can barely sleep without teleporting right back into that suffocating space. The other patients in the hospital are used to my nightly screaming by now. So were the nurses

and orderlies. It was they who gave me the details of my rescue. They tell me I was stuck in that pipe for nearly ten hours before the rescues got me out. They also tell me that crawling into it was the only reason I survived. The house was nothing but a pile of ashes after the fire, and because of his subterranean location, very little heat or smoke got into that awful drain. So, in the end, that nightmare is the reason I'm alive. Though, if I could go back to that day,

to that moment standing above the ancient grate, surrounded by roaring flame, I'm not sure I'd make the same decision again. I may let the flames take me. I may let myself burn alive. Day 7. Blink. My name is Adrian Kagwit.

I know this. I am sitting against the floor of dust, my back absorbing the cold of the wall as I stare at the ground, trying to get a grip of the last seven days. I tell myself this will pass. In a few more hours, I will get back home,

reward myself with my home-cooked dinaguan and greet my students hello. My left arm is freshly cut to the shoulder, slowly bleeding out the rest of my life. I take a deep breath. My limb felt like being pounded between steel doors every half a second. My stomach aching, like sharp teeth, are eating the way out of my insides. I don't have enough strength to move.

I'm stuck in a dark corner inside a mall's hardware store beneath the ceiling that fell into the slope. Where is this goddamn rescue team? It had been a week since the earthquake. The air was heavy of gasoline and rot. Among the darkness, the dust, the broken shards of fluorescent, light, the limbs of those who did not make it, some blood and darkness, a black existence by itself, in itself.

Blink. Sasha squeezed my hand. We'll get through this, she assures. Her palm is soft against mine, warm even. It is only then that I realised I've been trembling hard. I always tried to distract myself from the pain, staring at Sasha's face. I focus and arise, her long black air, in her. Then tried to relax.

I felt the air implode inside my lungs, thought about all the other things I will do after I get out of this ruin, then exiled. Sasha smiles at me with the dimples bearing inside her cheeks, and I managed to calm down a bit. She then helps me eat by hand-feeding me meat. For one demented reason,

it felt good having her stuck here with me. During the earthquake, the department store's upper floor collapsed. I thought that would be the end of it, but by God's holy miracle and a probability jackpot, the upper floor slumped to the side and fell into a slope, shielding my group

from other falling rubble and left us untouched. Electricity was the first to go out. We made away blind and lost in the dark. At first we were just happy we survived, but as the days went on, we were forced beyond our limits. Joseph, one of the clerks,

broke a water sprinkler straight to the pipeline, turning it into a source of water. It served as a solution to thirst and was enough to fill a stomach that was empty on food. Although, of course, not completely. One needed protein and carbohydrates just as much as one needed oxygen. Blink.

I chew, munch and swallow. Once one gets too hungry to even consider the taste, one will stop thinking about what they eat and just focus on the fact that one is eating. Sasha yanks another chunk of raw flesh from my recently amputated arm, then proceeded to feed it to me. My teeth munch it like it's undercooked to Sino. I savour my own blood-like juice,

squishing out between strands of meat. Jatoy, thank you, Mr. Martin said. His voice is old and scruff, but calm and gentle. He robs my shoulder, maybe trying to comfort me. Your sacrifice saved us all, and that is the most important part. He continued his pep talk. And, in a normal occasion, his words would flow in and out of my ears. Mr. Martin's words reminded me of the old movies I used to seize a child,

those lines about nobleness, heroism, and other morality talk films wanted to prime in its audience. Today, it were just music to my ears. It was a rational decision. We all had sacrifices to make, and this one was mine. Yes, it was my arm. But what was the piece of a limb compared to all the lives he could save? Just one thing, Mr. Martin added. Please don't tell my son what is eating.

He's been through enough. He turns and looked at his seven-year-old son, who they referred to as junior, minus the eating a chunk of meat. Day 8. Blink When I woke up, my throat was as dry as a drought, and my head was a spinning sandstorm. My fever wasn't helping either. Water is the first thought I had. I was going to use my left hand to help myself up, and as I fell, I was immediately reminded of what I lost.

I groaned, swearing I could still feel it. Hey. Joseph came up to help and walked me to the broken pipeline. Water rained from above, caught inside an empty tool bucket. Joseph carried the bucket up to my face so I could take a gulp. I let the liquid flow down my throat, as soothing as water soaking in dry soil. I close my eyes. remembering the day of the earthquake, how I wouldn't be stuck here if I didn't make the small

decision to buy a new screwdriver. It seemed like divine invention for leaving us alive. Today, it seemed like damnation for being given the slowest possible way of death. Sometimes talking made things cozy. Even just for a moment, we could forget about the situation we were in. Joseph and I had casual talks about the bad system of contractual work, since we both worked as salesman once. Mr. Martin and his son shared stories about Europe, the countries they had visited, lighting up the topics a bit, and Sasha, a godsend nurse, reminded us to be strong. She told us about a most hopeless patient, about how people could survive and defy imminent death. That was after we stopped trying to get out, after we accepted the fact that only bulldozers

could destroy the walls and set us free. But as time went on, I shared hunger and paranoia. Neuer fed their doubts. Today, I just sat on the floor and cried. We were long due for rescue. It was an earthquake with enough magnitude to bring down a building. How come the rescue team were not here yet? How is it that I hear no machines outside or people shouting for survivors? Have they abandoned us?

I didn't bother to wipe the tears from my cheek. I didn't bother to hide my weak sobs. Most of the time, I thought about the idea of how it being cruel. crushed under debris was better than eating yourself to death. Day 11. Every passing day is worse than before. My head ached, my body is weak. Every second I felt like I was going to puke.

But there is nothing to vomit. I can almost see my own hands ripping through my skin to my intestines. My stomach banging, burning, yet bloated from water. In two days, it will be Joseph's time to sacrifice an arm. I could still feel the handsore, bearing itself into my limb. the blade grinding against my bone. Soon there would be a new member of the amputee cannibals club, and I didn't ponder a single thought

about how hard it would be for Joseph to share my fate. The only thing I cared about was that in two days, I'm going to eat. Day 13. Today I woke up to Mr. Martin's cries from a distance, screaming his son's name over and over again, shaking the walls, shaking my head. I scrambled to my feet, half awake.

I'm sorry, I could hear Sasha speaking in a muffled sob. I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything. I rubbed my eyes as I sprinted across the rubble, stepping through stones, stepping against the palm of a corpse. My stomach growls, my headaches, my veins burn. There is Junior, lying motionless on the asphalt, his shorts torn on the left, revealing a narrow, swollen wound on his leg. The cut is yellowish, rotten, surrounded,

with dried blood. It started from his upper knee to his lower waist. The boy's eyes are open the whole time, never blinking once. His whole body was steady, stiff. Mr. Martin sat behind them, crying as he held his son, caressing Junior's cheek. Sasha beside them and Joseph coming from a distance holding a hand saw. My stomach writhes and writhes and writhes. Martin, Joseph mumbled, his face dripping with sweat.

There's nothing else we could do. Sasha tried everything. He continued, taking a slow step forward. And I know he is your son, and I'm sorry that I'm saying this, but... He paused. All of us are hungry. Joseph looked at Junior, and I knew, in that moment, that those eyes weren't looking at a corpse,

that those eyes were already looking at his food. It was the amazing miracle of death. It's been six days since we've seen. last eight. Don't you dare lay a finger of my son. Mr. Martin swept Jr. into his arms.

His voice was deep now, stern, like that of a soldier commanding his platoon. Look, I'm not a bad guy, and I know what I'm saying is wrong. Joseph reasoned out. I mean, damn, I'm supposed to give up my goddamn arm today.

His hand closed into a fist. But because this happened, maybe? This is my son's body. Mr. Martin's voice boomed throughout the room, his whole face turning red. I intend to burrower.

him whole. Sasha tried to squeeze in between, begging them to stop, pulling Joseph by the arm, but a word's faded into white noise. I watched and writhed and writhed and writhed. In my ears, all I can hear is a concert of chaos and disorder,

the sour of islands and bitter piano screaming in high pitches, trying to out sound each other. Joseph's eyebrows folding underneath. All right, then, we'll bury your child, and then what? You're going to cut off my arm? Joseph's foot charged another step forward

I'm going to give up my limb Or we're bearing some goddamn food I could hear church bells swinging back and forth At choir in Fortissimo Just try it In a quick second Martin rose to his feet His height meeting Joseph's

His fist swung straight into Joseph's face Joseph kept his footing His nose leaking drops of blood He fought back knocking Mr Martin to the floor He wrestled over the all man's chest landing punches against his cheek. I think of juice, leaking out of tender meat. I stared at Joseph, pounding on Mr. Martin's head,

the way the bones of the hand buried against cheek, turning it to red like pounded beef. It felt like a spell, a requiem forming within me. Blink. Mr. Martin reached for a screwdriver he kept in his pocket as Joseph delivered another swing. Blink. I don't know.

I was lost in a trance. my eyes were looking at Sasha but I wasn't really looking at her I wasn't really listening she had grabbed me by the shirt and was shaking me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth blink

stop them Adrian she was saying Adrian blink blink get the hell away from my son I brought Joseph away from Mr Martin he'd bludgeoned half of the man's face Mr Martin's right eye had swollen half the size of a golf ball

I turned to Joseph What were you thinking? Blink. There was a screwdriver impaled through Joseph's right eye, pierced through his skull. His body fell flat to the floor as I let go. Blink. In my head, I thought of barbecue, skewered through a stick. Day 14.

The wound is still healing. Don't try to move much, or you might bump into something. Sasha wiped a wet cloth where my shoulder used to be. She cleaned the blood stains around. Then tied it with another cloth. We can't risk another infection. She continued. I failed, junior, but I won't let myself lose another person.

I leaned against the wall, looking at the small light that managed to squeeze itself through the tiny cracks. It must be morning now. I wonder how many days it has been. I could see Mr. Martin from a distance. The old man's loathing eyes aimed directly at me, at his hand, at Joseph's leg between his teeth. I'm sorry I wasn't able to.

to do anything, I told Sasha. Told, I thought, I'd apologize. Semantics. I stopped lying to myself that I was not glad of my inaction, that what it deserved wasn't an apology, but gratefulness. It was my inaction that served as a hand to pull us from the abyss of starvation. I wanted to tell Mr. Martin that I wanted to grab the words and shove it into the meatball of those eyes.

We were all in shock, Sasha justified. his kid just died, my patient just died, and you were still burdened by this. She placed the hand in my shoulder, and then my head. I'm so sorry. Mr. Martin sat beside his son, blood on his hands. I wondered how he could stand the smell, but paid it no attention. He approached him and offered a chunk of Joseph's flesh. Just don't think about it, I said.

I wanted to give the old man back the same pep talk before, back when I offered up my own arm. I thought that it was the least I could do for the man who gave us food. It's done. It happened. Mr. Martin simply shook his head in response. I looked at the old man's beaten eye, swelling in blue,

trying to imagine how painful it must have been. But all I could think of was how it would taste like. We need to eat. Let's stop worrying about anything else for now. I tried to encourage him. At this moment, the only thing worth of value is our lives, so we eat, he insisted.

We can live for days out of Joseph's body. Miss Martin paused for a brief moment. Then he turned to him like he was told a bad joke. What happened to us, Adrian? He mumbled. I killed a person, Adrian. I murdered a human being. For God's sake, he should still be alive with us right now.

He should be at the corner trying to make a toilet or a light for us. And I killed him. His eyes were filled with horror, with a watery weight of guilt that holder saw from its windows and pulled it down the cheek and you made us eat him I wanted to tell him

that it was simply a rational decision that we did what the situation forced us to do that we were only playing the cards we were dealt with but I knew that the old man was past that reality that all that is my good think of was death and despair of Junior of Joseph of the piles of corpses that littered the hardware store

of the walls left undistroyed I could see it in the way that Mr Martin stared at random spaces as if every pile of rubble gave him an existential thought or a moral crisis. What was real was simple and I understood it. I understood that we needed to eat and none of the dust, rocks or hardware tools

were at the very least edible. Are we still human, Adrian? The odd man asked. He looked at Junior's corpse lying beside him. you're a teacher right what would you say if i was one of your students i tossed the chunk of meat on his lap morality is a privilege of the fortunate now stop your drama and eat day thirteen mr martin lay in a pool of blood and in his hand was the same handsaw sasha used at cut joseph's body the old man lost it all i could think about was how fresh were the remains in my head that body wasn't the same living, breathing, caring father I knew

at this moment he was just a corpse dead, lifeless, decaying organic matter meat it was simply a rational decision we needed to maximise what we had and Sasha the alive body could only bury her face in my shoulder

her arms wrapped around the last ray of hope she had every inch of her skin was trembling her hands shaking as they pressed against my back. We can do this, Sasha reassured, but I knew that she had had enough. I knew she could not simply take more. We can do this, she repeated, but she sounded more like she was trying to believe it herself.

For one, demented reason, and it felt good about having a stuck here with me. Day 18. I found myself being carried to the inside of an ambulance. beside me was a woman wiping alcohol to clean the cut in my left arm. You are Adrian Kaguen, correct? She asked. I wanted to nod.

I wanted to tell her, yes, that's me, and that I survived. But I was not Adrian. At least, not anymore. Because Adrian was a cultured, educated man who lived a life so cushioned that survival was never an issue. And inside me that Adrian was already dead. I was barely even a remnant of what Adrian was.

Is there any part of your body that hurts? You're a piece of crap. Adrian was supposed to be a good young man who was willing to give his left arm to save other people. Adrian wouldn't have the heart to slaughter Sasha in a sleep. Adrian would never consider the idea of killing someone just so he could eat. And of course, Adrian would never have survived.

Perhaps the proper question to be asked was, why now? Why the hell is it just now? It was a magnitude 7 earthquake, enough to crumble Manila and its old set of structures in just a few minutes. The rescuers lacked numbers and were working in small groups. The country didn't have the resources to respond quickly to such a massive catastrophe. Blink. How did you hold on? The woman asked.

You're the only person we found alive in this building, she continued. No offence, but after a month, most people, would have lost hope. We've seen lots of cases of suicide, she added. But you, you cut your own arm off so you could eat. I don't have the right words to express how hard that was. How did you survive all of that? It was an interesting question. And Adrian Kagwit would never have grinned so wide. I found these notes tucked inside an anatomy book I borrowed from our school library. his previous owner was named Adrian Kagwit, who, after asking my professors and alumni, never existed within the university. The notes had stains of dried blood and smelled like sport food.

Aside from this, there was never a magnitude 7 earthquake in Manila. My friends and I dismissed the disfiction written by someone who watched too many psychopath documentaries. That was until, while passing by a mall within my area, in a split second between blinks, I saw the city crumbled in itself, then and returned to normal. I am a replenishable organ donor. The title in itself should be an indicator of how messed up this is going to be. If anything, it's just a piece of what's happened and what's going to happen.

I didn't know how well of this began. This curse. None of us did. It's been on my father's side for generations at least. He used to tell me that when I was a kid, and a few occasions where his mind was. sober enough. He had it, his father had it, his father's father had it, and so forth for several centuries. None of us knew where we had gotten it from, though there's been a couple of theories

circling around the family. Some claimed that a distant ancestor made a pact with the devil in exchange for it, while others theorized that is the result of some kind of genetic defect. I didn't know for certain if involvement with the supernatural or evolution had anything to do with it, but it didn't necessarily matter. All I knew was that it was carried only through the males in the family, and if you were unfortunate enough to be born with the XY chromosome, your fate had already been decided. My odd man knew the effects of the curse,

as he had already suffered close to four decades because of it. He initially didn't intend on marrying my mother, solely because the thought of having an offspring with the same defect as him scared him senseless. But, as they say, The heart wants what it wants, and in his case, he had several despair. When I was born, my mother said that my old man had a look of affection and despair of equal measure in his eyes. He was happy that I was born healthy and well, but the fact that I was born a boy was enough to make my birth a bittersweet occasion.

As far as I know, my dad didn't believe in God. He had abandoned faith years ago, but he prayed that I wouldn't have the same condition as him. Unfortunately, following a rather nasty accident when I was six, after dropping my ball in the middle of the road, his worst fears were confirmed. I don't know how bad the collision was. Hell, I don't even remember half of what happened. But according to my mother, I hardly looked human when the ambulance arrived. I'm pretty sure I was already dead at that point, but as if by a miracle, they managed to resuscitate me at the hospital with a little effort. The doctors that initially evaluated my condition predicted that I would need several surgeries and a new set of organs if there was going to be any hope for me.

But to their astonishment, not even a few weeks later, I recovered. My face returned to normal. My organs were accordingly stabilised within me, and I didn't look like I'd been in an accident at all. I was just... Fine. The doctors didn't know what to think of the situation, and my dad didn't know. My dad wouldn't let them get the chance to inspect it any closer before he had me discharged. We drove home that day in complete silence.

But when I looked at the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of my father's face, all I could see were tears streaming down from his eyes by the buckets. What's wrong, Dad? I asked, naive to the circumstances. He only said one thing. I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry. after that my dad lost himself to substance abuse and alcoholism

he had suffered from it for years before I was born but after he met my mother he had put his addictions to the side for the sake of her happiness following that incident however he relapsed and drank himself half to death each and every night he was never violent or abusive even in his intoxicated state but he was broken beyond repair our family tried to cope with it for a time my mother tried her best she really did she knew about the curse

but she didn't understand a damn thing about it despite this she tried her best to be there for both of us but her efforts were in vain my dad couldn't help himself nor could she the years my mother spent trying to repair the family

only caused her to fall into a similar hole like my dad after five years of pulling and pushing things up she led herself slide down the hill as well She started leaving her house late in the evenings, sometimes not even returning until the day after. I knew she sought comfort in the arms of other men. And to be honest, I can't blame her for trying to find another source of happiness.

She still loved us, I knew she did. But the weight of our curse was pulling her too far down. When she was home, she was my mother, caring, thoughtful and kind. But when she was out, she was out. When I was 10, on a night when my mom was out, I woke up to the sound of running water from the bathroom down the hallway. Curiosity overtook me, and I ventured down there to check it out and open the door

to find my father in the bathtub, completely drenched in bloody water with the faucet still running. My childhood innocence came to an end when I noticed the gaping, bleeding hole in his chest, and the image of his damn heart floating seemingly haphazily in the water that would come to haunt me for years. screaming his name, I pulled my father up from the water to the best of my ability, even when my strength was the equivalent of a 20-pound dog at that age.

By some miracle, I managed to get him out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor, though I slid and bumped my head slightly against the countertop in the process. The pain was there, and I started to bleed, but all I could afford to concern myself with was my dad. I don't know how long I sat there for, screaming and pounding at him like a rabid animal with a rabbit animal with him. tears pouring from my eyes. The water had by then started to stream

from the bathtub rooms and gather on the floor, soaking both me and my already wet father, but I didn't care. Maybe five minutes later, I heard a gasp erupt from his throat, and I froze. My dad's eyes began to flicker,

and when they found mine, he started to tear up as well. Seconds later, he sat up and assessed the gaping hole in his shirt, inspecting it for any damage. I couldn't see anything at first from the amount of blood that had stained his clothes. But when he opened his shirt and looked down at his chest, I was shocked to see that his skin was free of any wound.

My dad began to cry. No, he didn't cry. He was screaming. He bent over the submerged floor and repeatedly slammed his knuckles against the tiles and didn't stop until his hands began to crack and bones became visible through the severed skin. He was wailing like a newborn chivaled. child having just escaped their mother's womb. With the amount of blood that covered him, it actually seemed like he had just been born.

And yet, with what remained of my childlike innocence, I could already tell that he wanted nothing more, and to die. God damn it, he cried again and again. God damn it, damn it! My mind couldn't comprehend half of what he said, but all I knew was that I didn't want him to hurt himself. I desperately clung to his side. begging him to stop, but my words fell on deaf ears.

It wasn't until maybe ten minutes later that he stopped, stripped of all stamina and strength to continue his self-destructive actions. He turned to me, and the guilt that overwhelmed him was almost equal to the rage he experienced minutes before. We were both crying like children, and he wrapped his arms around me and apologized over and over again until there was no strength left in his voice to apologize with. I'm sorry, Nathan.

He said, barely the volume of a whisper. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I did this to you. I didn't know if he was apologising to me for having attempted suicide, or because of what he had unknowingly done to me by conceiving me. To this day, I still don't. But I'm willing to bet that it was a mixture of both. When we both calmed down, he sat back against the bathroom wall with me still on his lap,

clinging to him like a drowning man to a straw. in appropriate comparison I know he then proceeded to tell me everything everything about this curse about his family about what this entire wretched ordeal was about I listened and I understood everything right away

having abandoned my innocence minutes ago it was easy for me to grasp the severity of the situation I don't know how but I got it my father's family we couldn't die we simply couldn't

neither nature nor mankind would grant us the privilege. Only age seemed to do the trick, when the body naturally started to decay, and all that would be left was an empty husk. As such, we would be forced to endure the cruelties of the world until our final breath, never knowing the sweet release of death until he came knocking on the door himself. There weren't a lot of people left to my father's side of the family, and the few that remained did what they could to handle the situation on their own premises, Most of them already had their foot in the graves by the time I first came to see them,

but they hardly resembled humans anymore. Some dealt with drugs or used their immortality to commit heinous deeds for a living. They were already living a hell, so they didn't fear returning to one once their lives had expired. I would come to meet some of them later in life, either through coincidences or by choice, but it resulted in absolutely nothing. I thought at some point that meeting others like me would help ease me

my pain, but all we could do was offer our condolences and go on with our misery. I'm not going to go into too much detail about that, because it's not that relevant. My dad then let out a deep sigh and slammed the back of his head against the wall, and I didn't doubt that it was a deliberate movement. He was far from dumb with punishing himself, as I would come to learn years later. Then he said something that didn't make sense to me at the time. I won't let her take you, he whispered, I won't. Looking back on it, I've come to realize that he was already dead.

The worst part was just that his body wouldn't let him go. After that night, I fell into a deep depression. While I never entered quite the same darkness as my dad, I entered darkness nonetheless. Depression weighed down to me during my teenage years, and I tried on various occasions to end myself, though it was more of a dabble than anything else. Sometimes it would be by ingesting different substances

that I managed to get from different sources, varying from everything between bleach and simple sleeping pills. However, all there ever was in terms of death was momentary darkness, followed by ruined clothes and a new sense of apathy. But whenever I was in that brief darkness, I thought I saw someone standing there, mockingly smiling at me.

I never got to see them for long before I resurfaced into the world, of the living, and so I never gave it much thought, though I should have. Eventually, I lost count of how many bones, organs, and senses of self-respect I lost over the years. Damn, I even lost the concept of pain at some point during my adolescence, and so I didn't fear it anymore. It was still there, but nuns from years of experience. At one point, I tried to pull the 13 reasons why method, but it was messy, so I wouldn't recommend it. The only thing I gained out of that endeavour was a ruined shirt and a new appreciation for bleach.

I tried to find some sense of purpose in this never-ending life of mine, some kind of belonging, but there was none to be found in my circumstances. My dad continued to wither away and my mom couldn't handle it anymore and left. I was 17 when she up and went, but before she did, she left me a letter at Bible length apologising to both me and my dad. She loved us, but she couldn't handle the death we reeked of. She had a life to live, and she intended to do just that. I don't blame her in the slightest. It was a miracle that I managed to make it past high school,

but I didn't bother applying for college. My grades weren't bad, but not college material, so I settled for a simple job instead to carry me into my early adult years. It wasn't much, but it was enough to support me and my dad and keep a roof over our heads, so it was adequate enough. As for my job, I worked several of them, though my most prominent one is as a server at this fancy restaurant called the Red Gardiner.

It's one of those places where only the richest buggers go to entertain themselves, and I'm surprised I even got the job at all. The pay is good enough, but sometimes dealing with the snobbery that occupy this space isn't worth it. I can't tell you how many times I've come close to ending myself while taking someone's orders, not that it would do me much in the long run. However, it's not worth it to mention that it was here

I met one of my more interesting customers. A woman, young and extremely attractive, wearing a red dress that matched the interior within that godforsaken building. Her hair was in a deep crimson that hardly looked natural, but still, it seemed that way. She was a regular at the restaurant, and I was the one who more than often took her orders. The thing that surprised me was that despite how she blended into the restaurant,

something stuck out about her like a sore thumb, though I couldn't put my finger on it. For some reason, she seemed familiar. At first, I linked her. Interesting presents with her appetite. While she was thin and covecious in all the ways that any man would find desirable, she had a seemingly insatiable hunger. She often ordered large plates of meals at a time,

but none of them were for any companions. She always sat there by a lonesome, like a lady who had been stood up by a companion, though it was clear that there was no companion in the picture at all. She ate everything on her own and finished off all her meals at record speed. I often wondered if she simply sucked them into a mouth like a vacuum cleaner. After watching her on occasions, however, I came to the startling discovery that she ate just like any other person, albeit at a considerable pace.

One day, while working my shift, I saw her again. There she sat in the corner booth she always occupied, in the same red dress as before, and a sultry smile that she only aimed towards me. I had seen other servers take her orders, but there would always be this strained look on a face of disappointment. Anyway, I walked over to a note in hand and prepared to take a request as be usual.

Before I could come up with her, Good day, what will you be having today? She rested a cheek on her hand and said, You're Thomas's kid, right? I blinked. Um, excuse me. You're Thomas's kid, she repeated casually. Thomas Evry?

Yes, I offered, uncertainly. I'm sorry, but do I know you? She shrugged. Somewhat, though we've never met before outside of this disgusting establishment. Disgusting. If she found it disgusting, then why bother to come here at all? If there's been an issue with the food, then I can give you a review to the chef. But she raised her hand and stopped me mid-sentence, evidently disinterested in whatever terrible excuse I can come up with for the food.

I'm not here for the food, not this facade at least, she said. I'm here for you, Nathan. Unable to contain my composure any further, I narrowed my eyes. Who are you? how do you know my name? She released a laugh that reminded me of someone who's been waiting for ages to tell a bad joke. I know you, or your family at least, she explained and played with the rim of a wine glass. We were associates once, though it's long now and I'm willing to call dust my friends.

You just said we've never met outside this restaurant, I pointed out, careful as to keep my tone down. That's true. I've never known you, but your ancestors were a funny lot, making promises only to go against them once they found ideal unappealing. She suddenly grasped the glass around the edges so much so that it looked like she was about to break it. I gave them the power of gods in exchange for their services, and they repaid me by scattering into the wind and leaving me in the dust to starve. The elegant way she carried herself couldn't conceal the sheer anger that radiated from her words, but it did little to make me understand. understand the situation. What the hell are you talking about?

I asked, not caring about how unsavory my words were. This woman was crazy. She eyed me with mild exasperation, as if she was talking to a child whose only response to her answers were, why is that? I told your spineless ancestors that I would grant them immortality for as long as they lived if they fed and sustained me. And they did for a while. But then the idea to run off and exploit the gift I gave them came to this small.

small, underdeveloped heads, and they left me to rot. The glass broke in her hands, and I flinched. I bestow them the gift of lasting life, void of pain and sickness, and they repaid me by leaving me behind a starve. I wanted to believe that this woman was messed in the head and needed a desperate psych evaluation, but something in my head seemed to come together at a word, and rather than confusion, I felt nothing but raged toward her instead.

gift i spat clenching the notepad in my hand to the point where i threatened the tear it to pieces what gift my family suffered because of this curse my dad dies a little each day and you call it a gift i didn't know what she was or what she wanted but yet something about me already knew her but a long lost acquaintance she seemed unimpressed with my anger if anything she found it amusing whatever mess you've made of my gift you've done to you've done to you've done that you've yourself, don't blame me for your petty grievances. I wanted to shout at her, screamed like I did, as my father did, and like my mother did. Instead, all that came out of my throat was a question that was hardly audible. What the hell are you? She smiled. I guess you could call me an old god of sorts, she explained. Though I've never much cared for your human labels.

Call me whatever you wish. "'Assol immediately came to my head, but I refrain from saying it. "'A god,' I almost scoffed. "'Your God!' "'Don't be foolish,' she sounded, almost offended. "'I'm not that God like you're familiar with. "'Contrary to what I think, it's not the only one, and he's far from the kindest. "'He's got his own mess to deal with, and I don't have time to meddling his affairs.

"'Wait, God is real?' "'She shrugged again, indifferent to the name. "'In a way.' though he's grown bored with humanity as a whole. I, on the other hand, am codependent on your lot, unfortunately. Why? Your flesh is, like it or not,

of vital importance to me. I cannot live without it. She dusted the broken shards to the floor, not caring about the fact that I was the one who had to clean it up after her. However, I'm not a savage. One of the deals I made with your ancestors was so that I wouldn't have to hunt like an animal

to sustain myself. you were supposed to be my providers. I gave pieces of my flesh to them and in turn they would feed me. That's why you cannot die because a tiny, miniscule piece of me is inside you. She placed a finger on my chest,

ignoring all sense of personal space. Let me get this straight, I said, eyes wide as I studded her finger. You're an old god who cannot live on anything else but human flesh to survive and my ancestors made some kind of screwed up deal with you to make them live to their fullest capabilities until they die?

Yes, she said. Why not eat someone else then? Her eyes narrowed. I'm not some savage animal. I prefer to keep things decent when I can afford it, though your lot have made it difficult for some time now. I paused, thinking carefully about my next question. And why is it just the men who get this gift?

Again, she shrugged. I gave my gift to men, and so it was passed through them to their sons. Though in hindsight, maybe I should have given it to the women instead. You obviously don't have the required brain capacity to think things through. She leaned back again and sighed. I'll cut to the chase, Nathan. I'm starving.

It's been ages since I last had a proper meal, and this cheap flesh you're serving tastes like crap. I cannot live by it, so I'm willing to propose an offer to you. I quirked an eyebrow at her, not necessarily liking where this was going. What kind of offer? She pointed at me again. You.

Me? Yes, you, she said. You can become my provider. She spread her arms open with a six mile in her face. Feed me, Nathan. Give me your flesh, your organs, your skin. Give me your life for as long as you live. And when the time comes, you will let your offspring continue the tradition and the offspring in return.

Keep the promise your ancestors failed to deliver. and I will repay you accordingly. No more pain, no more misery. Your family can die when you please, as long as you keep your promise to me. Why me? I asked, bewildered, anger like some kind of freak show attraction.

Why not other members of my family, the ones who are left? Why not you? She smirked and leaned her cheek back down again on her hand. The rest of your family is too widespread for me to bother searching for them. Too old. You're the youngest one they're really.

is, the one with the most potential. The rest have blew to themselves with far too much to be considered, desirable. I only found you by chance. The story of how a young boy managed to survive a fatal car crash was quite exhilarating to read about in the newspapers. That's how you found me?

She nodded. I pondered at a request for far too long. The deal sounded shady as hell, but the notion of being freed from a misery somehow made me tempted to accept. The only thing I didn't trust was a conditions And a put load of other things But I wasn't in a place or shape to keep awaiting

What will you give me in return? I asked cautiously To this inquiry She stood up and walked over to me Leaned her head into my ear And whispered her compensation I'll let your father go I stepped back from her Face pale as I processed the words

What? I'll let your father go, she repeated. Except my proposal and I'll let Thomas Avery die. You can do that? I asked, not believing her at first. You can kill him. I can. You can kill any of us?

Again, she affirmed my question with a simple nod. Yes. Then, why did you let us live? I was on the verge of shouting at him. at her. Memories of the pain my family enjoyed at her hands flooding back into my brain. Years of torture, suffering, misery, all because of her. Why? Her lips turned into a firm scowl, and I'm ashamed to admit that I felt threatened by it.

What did you think your punishment was for denying me what was mine? She asked, voiced dangerously low and sounding inhuman at some point. Her attractive, beautiful appearance seemed to change ever so slightly into something monster. though it only lasted for a moment or so before she contorted back into her normal self Did you think I was going to let you reap all of the benefits of your theft? I wasn't viewed as your savior Your lot viewed me as a monster and so that's what I became I let you live but I let you die as well because of it

That's what you deserve The knowledge that she was the direct source of my family my father's pain made it tempting to retrieve one of the broken shards of glass that it descended to the floor and strike her with it But as I watched her standing there, waiting for my answer, I came to the realization that she had the power I craved. Death, I thought through it another moment, then thought about my father, and finally turned back to her. How do I know you'll keep your word? She took another step towards me and gestured to my hand. Give me your palm. And I did.

I stretched my hand to her, and she took it in hers and lifted it to her. At first I thought she was about to kiss it, but to my shock and horror, I watched as she parted her lips, teeth coming into full view and bit down at my wrist. The sound of skin breaking and bone snapping echoed through my ear canals, but instead of screaming like I wanted to, I could only watch as she dug into my flesh like an animal starved as sustenance. Finally, she drew her mouth away from my hand, along with a generous chunk of my flesh, and swallowed the piecehole, licking her bloodstained lips like a child. wood with ice cream. Meanwhile, blood continues to gush out of my open wound, and I quickly snap my hand out of a grip and caressed it, try my best to prevent it from bleeding out.

I eventually managed to get the words out. What the hell? It'll heal, she waved her hand dismissively at the sight of my pain. Now our deal is complete. I'll see you soon, Nathan Avery. With that, she turned and started to walk towards the doors. Before she could leave, I shouted after her.

Wait, what about your part of the deal? She stopped walking and turned to look over her shoulder, and I'll never forget that devious smile. It was the same smile that I used to see when I died and came to the darkness. I've already done my part. Then she left, and I was left with a blood-cushing wound and an immeasurable amount of shock. I don't remember how long I stood there, but the sound of one of my co-workers shouting at me snapped me.

out of my paralyzed state. Avery, what the hell happened, man? I snapped around to see Jonathan, one of the more decent servers in the restaurant, looking at me with evident concern in his eyes. As I was about to concoct an excuse, his eyes trowled at the broken shards on the floor next to me. How the hell did you manage to break one of the glasses?

I... What? I looked at him, confused. I didn't break it. The woman did. What woman? What do you mean, what woman? She just left, didn't you see her?

Dude, there was no one there. You sure you're fine? Looks like you cut yourself real bad. I didn't know what to make of the situation anymore. For the rest of my shift, I wanted to convince myself that what I had seen wasn't real, but the bandage spot of my arms served as a constant reminder of what had happened. I knew it would heal in less than a day,

but for now it was a sign of the hellish exchange I just made. As soon as my shift was over, I hurriedly made my way home and called out for my dad already before I entered through the door. The house was dark, as per usual, due to some unpaid bills, and I had to never get my way through the darkness with a flashlight I kept in the drawer. I kept calling him over and over again, but he never answered once. I searched every room in the house without finding him, but when I opened the door to his bedroom, I found him.

Dead. He was lying on his back on top of his. of his bed, and although I initially expected him to simply be in a state of drunken stupor as usual, when I checked him, he was called to the touch. I shook him several times and searched for a pulse, but there was none to be found. He truly was dead, and a sense of both sadness and relief searched through me. The man who had raised me, who had been in such agony for all his life, was dead. I took him into my arms and looked down at his face.

His eyes were closed as if he was sleeping, but his mouth was spread into a content smile that resembled that of a child who had just been awoken from a nightmare. He was finally at peace. In death, he truly looked alive. The woman, or whatever she was, she had kept her end of the bargain.

Now I have to keep mine. I write this. as a letter of confession. That night, I learned the true purpose of my existence and the cause of my hereditary misery that had plagued my family for generations. The responsibility has fallen on my hands to see it through,

and I have to ensure that it continues if there's ever going to be hope for my descendants. For my future children and grandchildren. I'm sorry for what I've done, but it had to be done. I hope you'll understand and maybe forgive me, but I won't fault you if you don't. There's a lot of weird stuff on the dark web.

I guess that's true for the regular internet as well. And maybe all of it is just a microcosm of the overall strange reality of a sapient existence itself. That was my theory anyway. Early on in my education, I decided it'd be an interesting topic to write my thesis on internet subcultures and more specifically on how they arise and what makes them alluring to particular kinds of people.

I'm a psychology major, so I figured there was some interesting analytical data to be garnered from a better understanding of how these pockets of society operate. I think the most accurate depiction of who a person really is is what they choose to do in their free time. When the bills are paid and the constricting pressures of society are momentarily alleviated, who do you become? Are you a writer, a painter, a gamer, a Lego connoisseur, or maybe something else entirely? A simple hobby may not seem all that important in the grand scheme of things, but to me, it is everything. Whether society deems it okay or whether it presents any iota of eventual financial boost is irrelevant. We have hobbies, simply because of the fact that we enjoy them. Some people may be rolling their eyes at this already.

Like, oh great, another grandiose pseudo-intellectual who thinks it's going to deconstruct the human condition by reading porn stars erratica. I'll promise you this now, though. There is no stunning twist or revelation looming at the end of this to explain the meaning of life. I'm here for just one reason, and it is not what I originally anticipated. I found something, something which I think everyone needs to know about. A V-Tuber is an avatar controlled by motion capture software utilised by streamers. Usually these avatars are anime girls with various anthropomorphic qualities, but I'm sure others do exist.

I won't pretend to know the logistics of it, but they are the latest craze sweeping Twitch, YouTube and other streaming platforms. As you can guess from the title of this document, however, I found one in a much more interesting place. Thanks to a certain virus which will not be named, my classes have been cancelled until at least spring. Thankfully, these last few months of lockdown have allowed me ample time to research my thesis, and that was great because I was way behind on it. I spent some time with some of the more well-known service web communities and places like deviant art, 4chan, what bad, funny junk, and the remnants of Tumblr. I talked to a few interesting users, but nothing really piqued my interest in the way that I had hoped. Originally, I never anticipated going beyond the surface web, but as time went on, I began to realize the potential of the dark web. I realized that researching communities that everyone was already aware of was just rehashing old content.

old content. What I needed was something new, and the dark web was where I'd find it. I downloaded Tor and began the arduous process of sifting through the endless amount of content on there. I've had a lot of strange sites and pet projects of people. Some of them were cryptic and made to seem articulate and ominous, but again none really caught my interest, that is, until one random comment caught my eye. I can't even remember the URL I found it on now. But it was the first time I saw that name. Osyra. At first, I didn't think much of it, and the person who wrote the comment said something along the lines of,

Osyra would like to know your location. I wish I could remember the exact context for the comment, but I figured it was just some meme reference that I wasn't familiar with. As time went on, I saw that name pop up again and again in all manner of strange locations across the web. I googled the name, but didn't get in the game. but didn't get an exact match. I finally took the bait and managed to engage a user on a website known as Kitsune.

The user, who had the handle, Ryuka the Beast, had first commented, Osyra will bring vengeance, and it will be fun. I typed a message directed at them. Who is Osirah? Sorry, I'm a boomer I know.

I waited around for a few minutes, convinced they wouldn't respond, but was pleasantly surprised. She is love, she's life. A smile crossed my face and thoughts of Shrek and the infamous video began to circulate through my mind. I thought for sure the user was just trolling me and I didn't expect anything less. But then they wrote again, Join the game.

Another cryptic response and one that only further convinced me I was being trolled. Ketune is a simple public chat room and another user by the handle, Chaos Weaver, then replied. She gave me purpose, join us. They also left a link in the comment, which led to a separate URL. I hesitated before clicking, still unsure of what exactly I was in for. Up to this point, it just seemed like there was a reference to something I wasn't getting. But, after he shared that link, I knew there may be something more to it. Of course, I clicked it, and waited around for several minutes for the page to load.

I thought either I was about to be Rickrolled or flung into something truly unique and thankfully the latter soon proved to be the case When the page finally loaded I was met with a black background and white Algerian font There was a text box and a single question What do you seek? I tried a few different answers figuring here's some sort of riddle Truth, freedom, fun, enlightenment None of them worked I sat back and contemplated what it was the website wanted from me

I thought back to my interactions with the previous users who had led me there I remembered one of them saying something about purpose so I tried that I didn't think it would work but it did the website reloaded and after a minute or two it displayed another page with a similar setup and new riddle I am the essence of existence you fear me but cannot live without me Nothing would be anything were it not for me.

I am the spider to the fly, the tornado to the fields. What am I? I struggled with that riddle a bit longer than the first, and tried several different answers. Once again, the answer was found within my interaction with two users on Ketune. Chaos. The website reloaded his second time, and I sat back, giving myself a pat on the back.

The same text box popped up, But this time there was no riddle. There was a smattering of numbers all over the page with only a simple question. What is one of two? There was no context given for that question. I thought maybe the numbers were for a mathematical question. There were dozens of them listed all over the place with no indication of order or mathematic process. From top left to bottom right in order, this was the list of numbers.

55.0.13.5. 233, 1, 144, 21, 1, 3, 13, 89, 2. I don't really know why, but this was the moment I became truly engaged in the site. I think it was because of the sort of mystery I was facing. To me, these riddles seemed like a sort of gauntlet or rites of passage. Most websites, of course, wanted their interface to be as user-friendly as possible to allow the most amount of people to access them. This website, meanwhile, was the complete polar opposite.

If anything, they wanted to restrict entry as much as possible, which was made evident by their series of riddles. I agonized over the page for hours, scaring Google and all sorts of other websites detailing extremely complicated equations. I must have typed those numbers into dozens of websites to try and decipher the meaning behind them and summarize a guess to the question. I thought at first there were GPS coordinates, but I couldn't make them work. no matter what I tried. After a great deal of time, I realized the numbers listed correlated to what is known as the Fibonacci sequence.

I don't want to get too math-heavy, so for those unfamiliar with the concept, you can find better explanations on Google than I can give here. The numbers lined up with a sequence, but was scrambled and out of order. The whole concept of the Fibonacci is that it starts with binary, one and zero. You add the previous two numbers to achieve the third number in the sequence, so on and so forth to infinity, or until your calculator runs out of room. I entered what would have been the 14th number in the sequence, 377, but it didn't work. That really left me puzzled, but clearly it wouldn't be as easy as entering the next number. When thinking back to my interactions with the users who led me there, I realized there was an emphasis on chaos. On a hunch, I did more searching around and stumbled upon something known as the chaos algorithm.

From what I understand, it's a process of encryption using non-linear dynamics to achieve random numbers. Its resolution is highly dependent on the generating sequence used, and seeks to illustrate how small variations in pattern can yield colossal changes in outcome. I'm sure I absolutely budge at the explanation of that, and clearly I'm no mathematician. If anyone can provide a more succinct summary of the chaos algorithm, then please feel free to do so. Either way, this theory seemed half-part butterfly effect and half-part a way of deriving order from chaos. With that in mind, I loaded up a random number generator and converted the output to letters of the English alphabet. Since I didn't have the initial encryption method at hand, I realized decryption was a nearly insurmountable task. According to Google, there were 13,857-13-letter words in the English language.

Add that to the fact that I wasn't even certain the answer was in English, and you soon realize how truly outmatched I was. I must have clicked generate on that RNG program a thousand times, and succeeded in only spitting out gibberish 99% of the time. I did get two words eventually, Fortisilladee in Calcastabite, and yes, those both are actually words, and no, neither of them worked. I almost gave up at this point, and realised I can literally click-generate every second for the rest of my life, and I may still not ever find the answer.

I thought maybe I was just reading too much into all of this, and that I was just being successfully trolled. I realized then, that was the point. The numbers were a distraction, a way of interjecting chaos into the equation, and disguising it as order. I pondered the question again and thought maybe it was referring to the previous question. When I put my previous answer, I got a new question which suddenly narrowed things down quite a bit. What is the purpose of chaos?

The stars seemed to align then, and I hit generate one more time. Once again, I got gibberish, with the first letter being T. I skipped the T section on the list of 13-letter words and began scaring through them. I still don't even know why I did that, but all the encryption language made me wonder if something bigger was going on. Like maybe, there was something hidden between the lines. Then I found the answer. Transcendence The purpose of chaos is transcendence.

And, just like that, from chaos came order. The page finally accepted my answer, and I jumped at a sheer excitement of finally solving the riddle. By this point, I had no idea what I was in for. but, considering the test I had just passed, I thought it had to be something at least moderately interesting. The page took an inordinate amount of time to load then, and, when it finally did, I found myself greeted by an ocean of text.

I skimmed through it and found my curiosity growing. The paragraphs are nonsensical, but paradoxically verbose. Whoever wrote them was speaking what appeared to be nonsense, but in an oddly articulate manner. The mysterious author rambled about the state of the world. He or she lambasted the powers that be and how they're attempting to shred freedom

in their name of control, how they violated rights for the sake of order, and how they intended, above all else, to make the world incredibly boring. The author said the world

was headed for a bleak dystopia. They delved into multiple conspiracies involving all sorts of stuff. It was far too lengthy to reiterate it all, and, if I'm being honest, I soon lost interest in the tangent. The most interesting

was the last sentence at the bottom. Our only hope now is to let chaos rain. A cold chill slithered down my spine then, and I began to wonder whether I'd stumbled upon some sort of terrorist network. Below the lengthy diatribe was a series of videos. I was nervous to watch them, but couldn't pull myself away.

Thankfully, most were nothing too extreme, at least in regards of what you'd expect from the dark web. The first showed two guys with weird masks walking into a grocery store and start smashing milk cartons in the aisle before being chased out by security. The next showed several masked people releasing dozens of dogs from an animal shelter and filming the subsequent chaos that ensued as dozens of dogs escaped from the compound. Most were that way, equivalent to cruel pranks, but not inherently something I'd call evil. That was, until I found that video. Curb Your Abuse. was the title, and yet another meme reference.

The video began, and right away I knew it wasn't like the others. Several slides rolled through, showing a middle-aged man that had been charged with several vile crimes involving child abuse. The video then fizzled out, only to return a moment later with the sounds of whimpering. The video was dark, showing several dim buildings in the rundown block in an unspecified city. The whimpering got louder and slowly panned to a man lying in the gutter. mouth gagged, face bloody, and head lying on the curb. I suddenly got a very bad feeling where this was headed.

The camera then panned around, and the masked face of a man emerged on screen. The mask looked painted to resemble some sort of cartoon character, with large, cloverful eyes and a big, goofy smile. Blood for the mad goddess, he whispered like the hiss of a snake, a tone dripping with hatred. He then turned the camera on the bound man. strolled up to him, and I turned away. The gruesome noise of crunching bone and scorching flesh was enough to deduce his fate and turn my stomach.

What the hell had I stumbled into? I quickly scrolled down to erase the memory of the video, scrolling past dozens of other videos in the archive. I should have probably exited out, but before I could, something else seized my attention. A single screen in the center. playing videos, with a chat scrolling down the side in rapid succession. A live stream?

But that wasn't supposed to be possible. I know there are a lot of scary deep web stories out there where some unfortunate soul stumbles upon a live stream of torture and whatnot. But the simple truth is that it isn't supposed to be possible for tour. The bandwidth is far too low and any live stream hosted would be unbearably laggy. That discovery was one thing. But it was what was on screen. that was far more curious.

This finally brings us to the namesake of the story. Sorry for taking so long to reach it, but I thought it was important to emphasize the strange journey I had taken to reach it. On screen, staring back at me, it was an anime girl, with large, multicolour eyes of blue, green and purple, like some celestial sea of galactic dust and particles.

She had fanged teeth and obsidian hair with white streaks. On her throat was the symbol of chaos, an eight-pointed star painted with asymmetric arm lengths in black ink. Rithing at her back were a series of claws, wings and tentacles, like some mirrored angle of ethereal therian throbes. I watched with bated breath as a chat scrolled by on the right, and the girl made small movements on screen. Ooh, woo, your dedication is wonderful, gnarly biscuit. The voice was quite something, like a fusion of a young girl, demonic ended. and a wasp. We slightly mechanized

and almost buzzed in the most bizarre tone I'd ever heard. Something about the voice was deeply unsettling. Still, not certain what or how I was seeing this, I hovered my cursor to the right and tried clicking on the chat. It was then, I realised

I couldn't, and things started to make a bit more sense. The live stream wasn't live. It was just an archive video. The video gave no scrolling icon at the bottom, meaning no indication on how long the video was. I also could not skip forward or roll back the video,

meaning all I could really do was sit and watch. The stream continued for a while, with a host reading superchats and interacting with the chat. The platform she was using was one I'd never seen before. He looked familiar to the Twitch layout, but the features were different, more bare-boned and with a lack of finesse which led me to believe it was some bootlegged knock-off version.

It went on for several minutes. and I was beginning to sort of lose interest. At first, I thought I stumbled upon some hidden gem, but as time went on, I started getting bored. I figured she was just going to start playing some game or continue chatting and debated upon exiting. The haunting memories of the previous videos I'd seen on the site kept me around, though,

and I knew this wasn't an ordinary live stream. Eventually, a new video popped up on screen, showing a man walking towards a store. whoever was filming was doing a terrible job of it and I could barely make out what was happening the guy who was wearing some sort of mask painted like a cartoon character in what must have been reverence of the stream's host

I took a moment and read the comments as they scrolled past with impressive speed Osir be praised Blood for the Mad Goddess Pogers Chaos Five ever Make them believe Osir forever But by far the most egregious comment I read 2020 was a great year

There had to be dozens If not hundreds of people watching Just based upon how fast the chat was scrolling Another way of chills rolled through me As tried to snuff the memory of the video from earlier People always make edgy comments online But something about the setting was

Different I had no idea what I was in for And looking back There wasn't a thing in existence That could have prepared me For what was about to happen be warned these images are gruesome she wasn't kidding either

and i felt my breath catch my throat the video began to play unfurling in rapid speed with a dizzying torrent of horrific imagery images of the holocaust of the combonian killing fields the USSR starving Ukrainian citizens the Armenian genocide and countless others flashed on screen visions of war and torture of crimes against humanity Peace is death And order is the noose

The clip ended with those simple few words I thought this strange enclave Was about to rejoice in the violence But after I read that I realized this was something quite different I know chat Humans are disgusting She exited the sickening images

And replaced them with a thumbnail of the video Her avatar then grinned Which was the first discernible facial movement she'd made since it began. This is our purpose. Humanity has a natural tendency to strive for order and constrict rights and freedoms to achieve some imaginary utopia. And where has it gotten you?

Your cities are ruled by tyrants and demagogues. People that laugh in ivory towers as they poison your world and take more and more from you with each passing day. The girl paused and shook her head slightly. Chaos is your only salvation. I burst out laughing. after that. I just couldn't help it. Just the way she spoke about chaos was hilarious to me, like it was their Messiah waiting to make the world whole again. The whole thing had an oddly

religious tinge to it, and I couldn't tell if the viewers proliferating it were just in on the joke or whether they were serious. The comments they made were clearly fortunesque, but with tingeers of other ideologies that don't normally associate. Smartball alliance were the equal part anarchistic and megalomaniac ideals. Something weird happened then. The lights in my room suddenly flickered. For a moment, I thought I saw something on the monitor, something unsettling, which I don't even know how to describe.

A random electrical issue is what I convinced myself, but it didn't exactly bring me any comfort. The V-Tuber then brought up a new video, and I waited with eager anticipation. The video began with what appeared to be a dimly-lit house, The screen was shaking The person filming was breathing heavily They appeared to be crouched down

In the corner of the kitchen Clearly hiding and terrified of something There was a sudden loud bang Causing the person to wince The door down the hall slowly rolled open Revealing nothing on the other side The person filming took off Running through the house

And up the stairs as they began crying They reached the bedroom Seconds later and abruptly slammed the door behind them Slowly they backed away, keeping the camera's view train on the door. Things got eerily silent for several seconds until a faint thumping noise was heard. The thumps were rhythmic and became louder and louder until it became clear what they were. Footsteps.

They stopped on the other side of the closed door. By this point, the person filming was near hysterical and barely even able to keep the camera aloft. they began muttering, begging and pleading with whatever was with them to show mercy. It appears his calls fell on deaf ears because the light suddenly cut out. His frantic whispers filled the darkness and as he turned toward the window

something attacked. It happened so quick that all I saw was a silhouette with long hair. The man began screaming and the feed turned to a blur of shadows and lights. I couldn't make out what was happening but in the mere seconds the man was silent and the video ended. The chat went ballistic, searching faster than ever.

Most of the things said were congratulatory to some degree, like they had just witnessed something impressive. And I guess in a way they weren't wrong. I have no way of knowing whether that video was staged, but I haven't been able to find a copy of it anywhere. The host of the stream archives sat around basking in the comments for a moment. and the chat repeated many of the same phrases I saw before. A lot of them also made references to the coming storm and the greater taxia.

It was all just properly gloating, but I couldn't help but think that it was a warning. If there's one thing that was clearer by this congregation by then is that they were more than willing to follow their goddesses morbid decrees, a literal, simp army of degenerates and lunatics. Thank you for tuning in today, pupils. She then leaned closer to the screen, seeming to stare directly into my soul. It sounds stupid, I know. I mean, we're talking about a damn anime avatar after all.

But I'd be lying if I said it didn't send shivers down my spine. But gaze, it was more than human. This is why you are here, along with my entire apartment. Every light extinguished in an instant. I pulled at my cell phone, and it had died as well. and refused the power back on. I got really nervous then and carefully checked my apartment

about no sign of intruders nor any reason for the sudden blackout. Since it was after hours I couldn't contact the office to have someone inspect the electrical outage not that I could have gotten a hold of them anyway with my phone being dead. I ended up pacing around the hallway

for a few hours that night wondering whether I should leave and with a nagging feeling that I was being watched. I don't think it would have made a difference if I left, but somewhere or another, I eventually found myself in bed. Sleep came surprisingly easy, considering the circumstance, but I didn't get any actual rest. Next thing I know, my eyes opened, and I saw my dark room around me. The only light came from the moonlight outside, filtering in through my blinds.

It was then I realized I couldn't move. I tried willing to move my arms, but was unsuccessful. I knew it was sleep paralysis, but it was the first time I'd ever experienced it. Plus, I can't imagine that feeling is something you can never get used to. My heart was racing and breaths coming in rapid succession. No matter how hard I tried, my body refused to respond. My bedroom door then budged and slowly began to creak open. There was initially nothing on the other side, but then something took form.

A slender, shadowy silhouette crawled on hand and knees into my room. Its form mostly obscured by darkness. I saw dozens of appendages wriggling from its back, like a den of serpents ready to strike. It crawled forward and my heart began beating so fast I was certain who was about to burst. The wretched thing then reached the foot of my bed and clambered forward on elongated humanoid hands.

Once its head emerged soon after, it became clear that this thing was no human being. Celestial eyes, large and painted, with the tapestries of galaxies and cosmic entities. A wide mouth with jagged teeth curled in a distinctive, malicious grin. She rose high above my head, using both the main arms and slithering appendages to rise higher than any human could stand. Do not be afraid. Her voice was almost identical to the one I heard earlier on the live stream.

Her command was easier said than done, however. and I could not stop my heart beating so ferociously that it began to hurt. Her presence was horrific. Yet somehow soothing in a way, I don't know how to explain. A left arm then unfurled from a torso holding an apple and a right soon after holding a pair. Her otherworldly gaze then singed into my school and her eyes glowed bright in the dark.

The choice is yours. Both of the fruits then whizzled away. like sand eroding in the wind. Both the arms then retracted to her sight and she faded away like a shadow slowly erased by the light. I awoke in a panic, frantic breaths falling from my throat

and my head aching. I felt dizzy and disoriented and what felt like the worst hangover I've ever experienced. The room was dark once more and, after a few moments, the headache dissipated. The brain fog wore off

and my eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. That's when I saw what was sitting on my desk. A pear and an apple. I rose on wobbly legs and approached my desk. I stared down at both fruit, instinctually knowing what they both represented. I already knew the choice I'd make. I grabbed the apple, took a bite and collapsed once more. The dreams that struck me then were more vivid and horrific than anything I've ever experienced.

I saw cities burning and armies of civilians. billions clashing in the streets against police and soldiers. Men and women and children executed from point-blank guns shot to the head. Body stacked up to the mountains, with scavengers tearing the feast of corpses. Men dressed in suits wearing animistic masks and red shoes, standing around a pile of bodies. People restrained on hospital beds, flailing and snarling, as face of the staff tended to them. Tombstones covering hillsides that stretched as far as the eye could see. And, after all of it, came order in the worst of the worst.

way possible. Those who remained were little more than drones, doing their jobs, capitulating to rule and ceasing to exist in any way that could be described as human. I rose far above the carnage, as if hoisted by invisible tendrils into the sanguine skies. The world below me was torn asunder by a torrent of men and machines, a new, cruel world had dawned, and tyranny and oppression reigned supreme. And yet, despite the terrible visions, Hope remained. Not a hope in the calming of the storm, but a hope in joining it. I understood then how useless resistance was.

Our world is collapsing, empires crumbling and lives being determined by the powers that be. It won't get better. Not without her. The only hope now is chaos. Osir is not just some random V-tuber. She is a force of nature, a raw power which she is gracefully bestowed upon us. Perhaps she takes pity on humanity, or perhaps we are just part of her game. Either way, resistance is futile.

The world is on the brink of an eternal boring existence where everything is determined, everyone is the same, and nothing is left a chance. In a world where everything is equal, nothing can be allowed to be extraordinary. Utopia is dystopia, and to achieve it, they will. will strip you of everything that could possibly be considered human. I don't know if God exists or if he cares, but I do know, Osyra does. This is no longer just my thesis or some short story confession. This is an invitation.

You've heard her name and you too shall hear a call. The things we call dreams are her medium to speak to us. I cannot predict what she will tell. will show you. But, once you've heard a name, you can never forget. Before all this, I was nothing. A nobody who shambled his way through life one blunder at a time. The year that has been 2020 has flung a world into a dystopian nightmare,

and it'll only get worse. There is no sense running from reality anymore. And under Osiris's wing, we shall usher in a new world of chaos. And it? It will be beautiful. Think upon this, dear listener, and prepare yourself. But, in the meantime, I've got work to do.