CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 5 SCARY REDDIT HORROR STORIES (Including horror story animation)

Episode Date: May 25, 2020

Here's the latest creepypasta compilation. A little shorter because it was my birthday, but there's the included horror story animation special. CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Greta" Creepypasta Animation (Horror Story Animated)►17:38 "The Stragview Prison Curse" Creepypasta►42:00 "I’m a PhD Student Researching Urban Legends" Creepypasta►56:07 "I woke up in a bathtub full of ice" Creepypasta►1:28:36 "The Glowing Tunnel" 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...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY- norbface: ►https://www.deviantart.com/norbface/a...►https://www.artstation.com/norbface►https://www.instagram.com/norbface/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/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA 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-

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Drowing? Goar for. Find what you need of on Amazon.com. com. Every community has an urban legend. The ominous law surrounding a strange house at the top of a hill, a ghostly covered bridge, or a dark wood at the edge of the city limits.

Even the small, secluded farm town I spent the first 18 years of my life in had its own legend. Ars centered around the eccentric Strauss family and their even stranger daughter, Greta. I find myself unique compared to most. This, unfortunately, is because I am a first-hand witness of what so many generations whispered off behind closed doors around the campfire and at night to scare children.

And one fateful evening, I found myself in the Strauss family home I can say with brutal honesty that the horror I experienced on that night led to countless therapy sessions, bottles of white pills and a new life in a large city with the nearest farm being 100 miles away. I found it best to begin the retelling of my story by passing along the original legend the same way it was told to me by my peers. The Strauss family moved to the United States from Germany in the early 1900s, and settled on a large pot of land in central Illinois. People aren't sure why they chose to leave Germany

or why they decided to buy 300 acres in the middle of nowhere. We did, however, know a few things about them. They were very wealthy, self-sustaining and refused to leave the family farm. All of their food was either harvested, fished or slaughtered. The children are homeschooled and the deceased were laid to rest in the family cemetery. Their property was littered with ominous signs written in both German and English, expressing how they very much wish to be left alone. There are more than a couple of rumours from townsfolk, witnessing door-to-door salesmen walking onto the property, but never off of it. Rose Lane was the only row that rang along the Strauss's property line.

It served as a looking glass for the rest of the community, allowing an opportunity of 10 or so seconds to catch a road. a glimpse of the massive, eerie home. Over the years, the Strausses became more and more reclusive. Months would pass without seeing a single family member. Once in a blue moon, someone would spot one of the Strausses wondering the property or staring at cars as they sped along Rose Lane, and it was like winning the social lottery. The most common sightings were of the mother and or father, whom we simply referred to as Mr and Mrs Strauss. People would gather around a lucky individual and eagerly interrogate them as to whom they saw

and what odd thing they were seen doing. The most famous Strauss of course was Greta. Everyone knew her name thanks to our town's gossipy postman. Greta earned the coveted title as The Strangers Strauss due to a morbid choice of clothing and frightening appearance. Greta sightings were seldom, but always similar in the retellings.

She dressed in black, and only black. Regardless of the season or time of day, Greta would be draped from head to toe in an ink-colored gown. Even stranger, her head was always hidden beneath a dark veil. No one in town had ever seen a face, not even a glimpse. Many years ago, as the story is told, Greta was working in the stables. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, she began to dance and play about as most children do. In a split second of wave of attention, she startled the young colt, who was swiftly kicked in the jaw. To teach her a lesson, the elders of the Strauss family kept Greta from receiving the medical attention she so desperately needed,

which in turn left her face a mangled mess of broken bones and cartilage. Growing up, my friends and I would scare one another with stories of Greta. Whenever her dead animal was found on our property, we'd say it was Greta sending a warning. Whenever we were lying in bed at night and heard the Foreboards Creek, we would whisper that it was Greta lurking in the shadows. Personally, I'd never seen Greta, despite the countless trips I'd made down Rose Lane.

I had only heard the stories. As the years passed, the Strauss sightings went from seldom to nonexistent. The grass on their land grew long and the lights inside their home ceased to glow in the night. Eventually we assumed that the Strausses had packed up and moved without notice. The bank couldn't sell the house, claiming a relative in Germany still had ownership of the property and was wiring full legal payments. simply put the Strauss family farm out of mind. Until the night, we decided to break in. John Kerry and myself were 18 at the time. We had just finished high school and we'll be

attending different colleges in the fall. Like most guys our age, we spent the days and nights hanging out, drinking and saving up what little money we could. The summer and our time together were flying by in tandem. nearly at an end. So he decided to make one last memory. The three of us were sitting on John's porch, watching the sun go down and throwing back some beers we'd paid Carrie's older brother way too much money to buy for us. John ignited the conversation that would change our lives forever and he still hasn't forgiven himself for it. He talked about how he was driving down Rose Lane earlier that morning and thought he had seen someone in the third

story window of the Strauss home. Carrie and I told him he was full of crap. We conversed and shared our theories about what we thought the inside of the house looked like. Carrie suggested that he was full of forgotten German treasure and that we could be rich if we broke in. No one would ever know since the Strauss family had been gone for so many years. We smiled greedily at one another before we knew what hit us. The alcohol and excitement had us on our feet and walking towards the Strauss farm in the twilight. As we strolled through the woods, we talked about all the things we would buy with our soon-to-be wealth.

The sun had finally set as we reached the edge of the property, and it looked as though the monstrous house was glaring down upon us. We stopped for a moment as we finished the last few drops from our cans of liquid courage and debated for a few minutes as to how we should enter the home. Eventually, we concluded that the door in the back was the best option since it would not be seen from the road. The three of us shuffled as quietly as we could down the gravel path and onto the wooden porch.

My heart pounded in my chest as we got closer, but my feet continued to move towards the house. We pointed our flashlight to the dirt-stained glass on the back door, Carrie and John. silently decided that I was in charge as they prided me forward. I grabbed the old iron doornob, turned it, and looked back in disbelief. It was unlocked.

As I pulled the creaking door open, a wave of musty air from within the house flew past us with a wine. Looking back at that moment, I wish we would have turned and ran back to Johns. Instead, we crept inside the darkness of the Strauss home and shut the door behind us. We stepped into the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers. Apart from a few broken dishes, some dusty utensils and a couple of ancient appliances, the kitchen was virtually empty.

The Strauss home wasn't living up to the horrific reputation we had collectively built for it over the years. It was indeed old, massive and a bit eerie, but nothing more than what you would expect from any other abandoned home. Everything seemed to be undisturbed. It was as if the Strausses had simply stopped their daily routine, packed up a few belongings and left the home forever. The three of us searched through the rooms, opening drawers, moving furniture and scouring

through cabinets. Our respective alcohol buzzes and hopes of finding treasure began to fade. But as it did, an uncomfortable feeling of dread and paranoia washed over us. We decided that this whole idea was a waste of time, and that going back to Johns the smokes and weed would be the perfect end of the evening. We backtracked through the home and into the kitchen towards the back door. as we were about to step outside into the freedom of the night. Carrie's voice broke the silence.

Guys, look at this. John and I turned and pointed our flashlights back towards Carrie. He was standing against the kitchen wall. He was running his hands along the edges. We looked at him curiously and asked him what he wanted. Just then, he pulled on one of them mounted. wooden shelves and it swung open. A new entrance had appeared before us, one that we instantly knew was constructed to be a secret. We adjusted our flashlights and stared at the staircase that

descended into the dark depths below. The three of us knew that if there was anything of value left behind, it would be at the bottom of these stairs. Once again, John and Kerry nudged me forward as we crept down the stone staircase. The temperature dropped significantly as we reached the stone floor of the cellar. It was damp, dark, and I could hear the faint sounds of dripping water and scurrying rodents. We started our search, exploring the outer walls. grasping with excitement as our dreams of wealth were back in full swing as our flashlights illuminated glimmering metal and stones. Jewelry, vases, paintings, swords and coins filled numerous tables and cabinets within the cavernous room.

We frantically filled our pockets and rambled on about how we would come back in the morning with our trucks for the rest of the loot. as we made our way to the far corner of the cellar, we noticed something we very much did not expect to see. A large wooden door. As to why it was barred from the outside with a metal rod, we had no idea. But in the moment, we didn't care. If the cellar was full of valuables,

then whatever lay beyond the door would have to be even better. John lifted the iron rod and set it on the ground. We pulled the door open and my stomach turned. The air was pungent with a sour smell of decay. We illuminated the room with our lights and my brain attempted to comprehend the scene before me. Mutilated animal remains were scattered across the floor. A pile of old newspapers and rags formed a wadded nest in the corner.

Against the far wall was a mattress covered in torn, stained sheets. They were covering a large lump. I looked at my friends as I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt, turning my back to the room. I said something about leaving. Just before I saw the horror in Carrie's eyes as he pointed behind me. I jolted back and pointed my flashlight towards the bed. The lump, beneath the torn sheets on the bed, sat up and turned towards us. Initially, my body refused to move.

The figure rose from the bed with awkward, twitching movements. I heard his bones creak and wet skin smack against the stone floor. After what seemed like an eternity, I was able to move again. I stumbled backwards, falling into John and Carrie. We ran to the stairs like animals, thrashing about and knocking over everything in our path. John was the first to reach the base, and I was a few feet behind him. Carrie had fallen behind.

John and I raced up the stairs towards the hidden entrance. I grabbed his shirt tail and yelled that we couldn't leave Carrie behind. We heard his panicked voice. He was close. We turned our flashlights downward and could see Carrie at the base of the stairs. And for a brief moment, I felt relief. My moment of content was ripped from me. As I witnessed the figure behind Carrie.

A skeletal hand sunk its sharp fingers into his face as he screamed. The beam of our flashlights highlighted the horrific scene. scene like a spotlight on a stage. Greta's mangled, decomposing face stared at me between the torn shreds of her dark veil. Her dislocated jaw hung from a few strands of flesh. Her nose and eye sockets were crushed and her head was cocked to the side as if her neck had been broken. Even with her deformities, Greta seemed to smile at me as she pulled my screaming friend into the

dark abyss of the cellar and tore into his flesh. The next few days were a blur of police investigations, search parties and devastated parents. The Strauss property was turned into a crime scene and ripped apart. The police discovered the hidden cellar John and I had described. They found the evidence of torture and human neglect in the barred room. The only problem, however, was the lack of bodies. Carrie was never seen again. The only evidence found were his flashlight and the remains of his clothes. They had been ripped into hundreds of pieces.

I have a theory that Greta had always been a monster. And over time, she became uncontrollable. The Strausses attempted to do what they could with her before abandoning their home. Eventually, they resorted to locking her away in a makeshift dungeon to rot. That's the problem with the worst kind of monsters. One very important thing the Strauss family neglected to consider is that some creatures, the ones urban legends are written about. Refuse to die.

They tell you not to get too friendly with the inmates at the academy. They tell you again during orientation. Statistically, 45% of correctional officers will have an unwise encounter with an inmate. What this translates to is anyone's guess, but in my case, it was a little worse than most. I'm sitting behind bars now, trapped in the very prison I once worked at, and all because I talked a little too much with an inmate. All because I talked too much with Jameson Howard. Morning, Sarge.

That was inmate Howard's usual greeting. He had been in the maximum security part of the confinement for as long as I could remember. He had been sentenced to life in prison for a string of murders he'd committed against women. He had gotten himself in a cell in maximum security because he had killed his last three roommates. Now he was all alone, got his meals in a styrofoam tray, and only got recreation once a week, and only under the closest of scrutiny. If ever there was a bad guy in prison, this was him. That being said, I'd never had any trouble out of him.

He was always polite. He never sat at the door and ogled nurses when they came to pass meds, never kicked the door but through his waist at us, and was generally well behaved as far as inmates went. He read a lot, never really talked to anyone, and mostly kept to himself. He didn't even really speak to all the COs except for me. I was the only one that had more to say to him than, shut up.

His conversation started off light. How was this football team or that football team doing as I passed out mail? What sorts of movies were in the theatres while I handed out lunches? How was I, or the health of my family, while I pushed around the laundry cart? Standard stuff, conversation starters, pretty typical of inmates who were locked in their cells 23 hours a day. I kept my responses casual at first one or two word answers

But after a while You start getting used to people Inmates are criminals They're bad guys But after a while You see them as often as you see your friends I was never friends with them That's never a good idea

But you become relaxed And you let your guard down You start to discuss last night's football game with them you talk about how the New Judge Dread movies are so much better than the old ones. You ask them about their families and you tell them a little about yours. You start to look at them like animals in the zoo. The animals are behind bars and thus no threat to you. You get relaxed, you get comfortable, looking and stepping a little closer to the bars than you usually would.

You forget that the animals still have claws and horns and teeth. You forget that the animals. are still animals. I was sitting on his cell one afternoon, sorting mail, and passing a word when he suddenly told me something that made me look up from the mail stack. I had gotten comfortable talking with him and made a habit of it almost every afternoon.

I never spent long out there, just a few minutes of conversation, and we usually talked about the sort of things he could learn about if he took the time. We had just finished talking about the cowboys, a team we both liked, and their miserable loss last weekend when he suddenly asked me

if I believed in God. I rolled my eyes expecting a jailhouse sermon. My God, Howard, don't tell me you found Jesus in this hellish place. Nope, not sure he even exists. Don't know how he could if you'd give a man like me this condition.

Your condition came from murdering all those women, Howard. I don't think Jesus had much to do with that. No, not my God. current condition, he paused, looking around conspiratorly. Sarge, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone? I perked my ears up. It wasn't uncommon to get a cell-side confession from some of these guys. They were hard up to a point, but eventually their crimes begin to weigh on them at night.

So they tell some guard, so he can tell some captain, so they can tell some warden, so he can tell the families of the victims, and the inmate can get some closure. I didn't know if that's what this was, but I was curious nonetheless. I promise. He leaned against the glass and whispered into the little ventilator grate. I can't die. I laughed. I couldn't help it.

Yeah? Good thing they gave you life then. Not being able to die could put a real damper on a death sentence. He looked at me through the glass and I could tell he was absolutely serious. I gave him a hard look. There is no way. Get the hell out of here. No one. No one is immune to death, Howard. Howard stepped back into his cell and seemed to ignore me. He sat at his bunk and stared at the floor and I kept on passing my mail. There was no way. This was a classic inmate game of see if you can get the CEO to believe something weird. Once I bought into it,

He'd laugh and tell the quad how he'd got me, and they'd all laugh too. When I finished this quad, I looked back up at his cell, and he was at the glass again. Howard was wearing the same determined look that I'd seen earlier, and for a moment I wanted to talk to him and clear this whole thing up. If he hurt himself because of this, I could get in some serious trouble. I put it out of my mind and went about my routine. It was almost time to leave, and I wanted to be out the door when six o'clock rolled around. Howard didn't bring it up again until the next day. I came around with his lunch tray and noticed that he was standing in the back of his cell.

He was naked from the waist up, his chest had tapestry of scars and mostly healed burns, and he was pressing a shank to the spot where his heart should be. I scrambled for my keys and fumbled for my gas, intending to springing to spring. before he could hurt himself. Before I could get the flap open, he had already plunged the knife in. He backed into the wall, his knees giving way, and as his blood punt out of his chest, I felt my numb fingers reaching for the radio to call for help. I had just drawn it to my mouth when he hit the door, the hole already closing, and drug the wet knife across the glass. Believe me now, he said, his voice completely even.

The radio buzzed to life. Whoever was in the booth must have noticed me out on the floor and thought something was going on. I keyed up the radio and told him that everything was okay as I watched the knife slide out from under the cell door and bump my foot. Howard stepped back, hands raised, a big grin on his face. I still insisted he'd go to medical. When the captain saw how much blood was in his cell, he agreed. I told them he had told me about a bad nosebleed.

The captain believed me, but with the amount of blood, he agreed that someone needed to check him out. I agreed to sit with him in medical, and that's where he told me the whole story. When I was six, my dad came out drunk and broke my neck during a beating. I thought I was dead, lying on the floor while my mom screamed between punches. But when I didn't die, I realized that my neck wasn't broken. My mother cried over me, tears streaming out of a raccoon eyes,

and that was when I realized that I was different. When I was 16, a cop shot me three times in the chest during a robbery. I spent three years in duty, but was also deemed a medical miracle. I've been stabbed, burned, shot, thrown out of and offer things, and I always come back just fine. I listened to his story, not sure I would believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. That's why I wanted to tell you about it, Sarge. When my dad broke my neck, it was 1901.

Dad was a coal miner, mom was a homemaker, and I have seen the rise and fall of a century. I have looked 30 since I was 20, and I'm tired of living. It's a curse to live this long, especially here, and if I want to die, there's only one way to do it. He leaned in close, his chains clinking as they kept him strapped to the bed. I have to give it to someone else. I leaned away from him. His breath reeked of unbrushed teeth. And you want to give it to me?

I said, dubiously. He nodded. You've always been one of the good ones, Saj. You treat us fairly, like people, and that means something to us. I want you to have this curse. Maybe you can do more with it than I could. It would be a lie if I said the idea of living forever didn't appeal to me. Having unlimited time to pursue the things I loved,

not having to worry about time getting in the way, and being able to enjoy life until I was ready for it to end. The word curse kept rattling around in my brain. But I honestly was having trouble seeing it as a curse. As I lay next to my wife that night, I imagined outliving her and our son. Maybe that was the curse. Maybe Howard and watched the people he loved I over the years, and that was the terrible part. I mulled it over for a week before I gave him my answer.

We were taking them out for cell clean up, and as Howard stood there, ankle chains and hands cuffed behind his back. I moved next to him and asked my question. So, say I wanted to take this power. How do we do it? He smiled, knowingly. Been thinking about it for a while, huh? I shrugged.

Well, yeah, you have to admit that it's a tempting offer. He nodded, but said nothing. So, how does it work? I asked impatiently. We shake hands and you say, I take this burden unto myself. That's it, I asked incredulously. That's it, he said.

He turned to look at me then, and the look in his eyes should have told me all I needed to know. His face was calm, but his eyes were hungry to be rid of the curse. His eyes burned with a secret desire, a desire unknown to anyone who hadn't been trapped in a cage as he had. His whole body seemed to vibrate as he extended his hand.

And if I hadn't been so eager, no, greedy is a better word. If I hadn't been so greedy, I would have seen the lock and never came close enough to touch him ever again. I reached out and shook his hand without a second thought, saying the words exactly as he had said them. I take this burden unto myself That's when the most intense feeling of vertigo I had ever felt hit me My vision doubled

Tripled and swam like pools of turbulent water For a minute Locked in eternity I could feel my very being As it was siphoned from me And spit back by a giant's lungs I was turned into a torpedo bottled in a jar

And poured over a volcano I cannot adequately describe what happened, but when I returned to myself, everything changed. I was slumped against the railing, head spinning, and vomit dripping between the grating of the catwalk. My hands hurt and my legs seemed sluggish. I could hear voices asking if I was okay, but when I tried to respond, my tongue didn't want to work properly. As my vision cleared, I was again struck by an odd sense of vertigo as I saw myself coming up from my knees. I stood up and shook my head, testing my hands and locking over at myself as I leaned against the railing.

I tried to reach out when my hands were stuck behind me. I took a step towards myself, but my legs came up short and I fell on my face on the metal grating. As my nose broke, I was aware of the second. second, most excruciating pain of my life. I rolled over, spitting blood, and I could see myself standing over me. When I smiled, I felt a cold horror spread over me. Howard's smile was spread across my face. What happened?

One of the other, Seo asked, coming out to the cell and looking at Howard as he stood over me. This roommate lunged at me, had to put him down before he hurt himself. himself, Howard said, never taking his eyes off me. That's so, the CEO asked. I think his name is Taylor, but who remembers? Want me to call the captain down here so we can start some paperwork? Nah, Howard said, I think he's had enough.

Help me get him back in the cell. They moved me back into Howard's cell, grabbing me under the arms, and once the leg restraints came off, they walked out and closed the door. I struggled to my feet and ran to the little window. but Howard was already leaving the quad. Officer Taylor told him to put my hands through the flap so he could have the cuffs. I tried to explain it to him.

I tried to tell him how I was not inmate Howard and how Howard had put my mind in his body. But the things I was saying were a hard sell at best. Taylor stared at me through the glass, blankly listening to what I was saying in the same way that I had for a thousand inmates. He heard my words, crazy as they sounded.

but he let them wash over him before he again told me to give up the cuffs before he had to call the captain down there to get them. I put my hands out and he took him off. I tried to tell him what happened again but he closed the flap and moved on leaving me in an 8 by 10 cell

with nothing but my own confused emotions. That first night was the worst night of my life. I paced the cell, eating and drinking nothing as my mind ran around my head like a rat in a trap. I hadn't seen Howard for the rest of the day, and

it didn't do any good to try and talk to any of the other officers. They just thought I was talking crazy to get sent to the psych doctor and ignored me as I raged against a glass. I didn't sleep that night. After the lights went out, I walked and screamed

and yelled my frustration out among the screams of the other prisoners to shut my mouth. If you've never been inside one of those cells with the door closed, you can't imagine how small it feels. Knowing that you have no escape from that hell is pure madness. Knowing that no one will come if something should happen to you is pure hell. I understood after that night why so many inmates go insane. I worried about my wife and son the most. What if Howard found his way to my home? wearing my face, my wife would greet him

and let him inside without question. What would he do to them? Would he hurt them? Thinking like that made me scream all over again, and by morning I feared my vocal cords had been damaged. The juice they gave me with breakfast helped my raw throat, but he did little for my mental anguish. After the first night,

I found a numb little hole in my mind to crawl into. That's where I lived for the next week. If someone came to give me food, I ate it. If someone came to take me to the shower, I went. If they tried to take me to wreck, I ignored them. I slept in a fetal ball on my mat and let time slip by. Time ceased to matter anymore.

Sometimes I would sleep for whole days, lost in my misery and coldness. The world shrank to an 8 by 10 concrete box, and the things outside it mattered very little. I could hear whispers on the quad, but, I ignored them. My name often came up. My old name that Howard now wore. No one had seen me in a while, and there was talk that something had happened.

I had done something, something bad, that was likely not coming back. I tried to block it out. I held my hands against my ears and refused to listen. But as the details came out, my worst fears were realised.

I... I had murdered my family. I had shot and killed my wife and son. There was evidence of assault of my wife. Neighbors had heard her begging for a life and heard my son screaming as he killed them. He had left afterward and killed five more people. They had caught him in the act and taken him alive.

His trial was scheduled for later this month. He was likely to get the death penalty. This information trickled in over the course of weeks. I was privy to it, but did not actively participate. I stopped eating, my eyes constantly running at the thought of my family's suffering. My wife, my son, they were both lost to me forever. They had died believing that I was their killer. My greed had led to their suffering, and as I lay there, I realized,

I could not take such pain. I tried to kill myself the next night. The officers on duty found me hanging from a bed sheet and cut me down, rushing me to medical. It was needless. I had suffered no ill effects. I'd never even lost consciousness. Howard had been right.

My body refused to die. I could have cut myself, stabbed myself, or throw myself off the bunk, and never even suffered the baby. bit of ill. I had gained the power I wanted, and now I saw it for the curse it was. I spent a week in medical under observation. I sat in a 12 by 12 concrete room with a big glass window so they could monitor me. I was dressed in a big green smock with Velcro fastenings and

given a rip-resistant mattress to sleep on. They gave me pills for the pain, pills for the psychosis, or the depression I was likely suffering from. I didn't take them. I spit them out the second they weren't looking and wallowed in my pain. After a week, they let me go back to my old cell. As they led me back onto the quad, I noticed a new face staring at me from behind a door. It was a little thinner, the hair a little longer,

but the smile was still the same. He smiled his knowing smile at me from behind the glass, and I felt my stomach drop. I was looking at myself. As the doors closed behind the officers, I heard him at the back window, trying to get my attention. I'd seen inmates do this when I was an officer, talking to each other through the back window great. But I lay in the floor and tried to ignore him as he called to me. He tried to goad me, telling me how he'd screwed my wife, how my son had cried as he'd beaten him,

how they'd both suffered greatly before the end. but I just lay there and ignored him. He told me about the gas station. He turned into an abattoir after that, using my own shotgun to kill three customers and the clerk. But I ignored him. He told me how he'd killed a cop before they had apprehended him, how the cops had wanted to kill him so badly,

told me how the trial judge had said that life was too good for someone like him, but I went right on ignoring him. I've been sentenced to death. I have no attorney, no appeals to file, no chance for a retrial. I doubt it'll last more than a year on death row before they execute me. It looks like I finally get to die. I ignored him.

He tried to get my attention at every available moment. He told me of the murders again and again. He told me how his life story had been a lie. He told me how he too had been a guard once. He told me how he had taken the same deal and been trapped here for years and years as his sanity eroded away You'll sit here too

In Stragview No one seems to care about an eternal prisoner I ignored him Until the day they took him off the block And led him down to the death house That's what the officers called it The little building where they put inmates to death I was there on the night they executed him

I did not watch for my window I lay on the floor of my cell in a fetal ball and did not moan the passing of my old life I was still there when the sun came up I don't know how long ago that was Time had no meaning there Time has no meaning to those trapped in hell I ate when I had to

I showered when such was offered And I went to wreck when it came to be my turn The faces of my wife and son Soon faded from my mind and for that I was grateful Their memories Are a fiery brand

Against my soul And I know now I will be able to answer for them Someday I'm writing this From a library terminal In a city I never bothered to learn the name of

I live on the streets In much the same way I lived in prison I eat when food comes my way I sleep when I can find a place to sleep I shower when such things come to pass Unlike prison However, I find myself at wreck a lot more often.

You must realise by now, that if I'm out, then someone made the same deal I did. I, however, did look back before I left him in that hell forever. His confusion was familiar, but I never looked back again. I kept running, kept moving,

and now I feel my sanity beginning to return. It's easy to be. forget what hell was like once you're out. So, if you work in Stragview and an inmate offers you immortality, do yourself a favour. Tell him to shut the hell up and keep walking. I'm a doctoral student in a major university in New England. To keep the experiences I'll soon disclose separate from my public academic persona. I won't say exactly where. I study cultural anthropology. which is the study of the ideas, beliefs, traditions and practices which shape human societies.

The specific focus of my research is contemporary folklore, commonly known as urban legends. When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the stories that my schoolmates relayed in whispers on the playground or at sleepovers, flashlights held low to illuminate their faces. These stories captivated me with their appeals to the supernatural, horror and mystery, promising knowledge of forbidden secrets lurking under society's facades. Unlike some classic folk tales, which are obviously fiction, urban legends are presented as truth. If you've ever heard an urban legend, you know the deal. This story really happened to so-and-so's friend's cousin's girlfriend.

That beguiling promise of truth, that if I look closely enough, I'd find some of these tall tales aren't so tall after all. Maybe why I took an academic interest in urban legends. And, if they are only stories, what is it that entrenches them in our collective consciousnesses, kept alive from one generation to the next by word and mouth alone? That's the question I seek to answer in my upcoming dissertation. My research process consists of both review and academic literature

and actual fieldwork. In the field, I conduct archival research, personal interviews and surveys of locations relevant to various urban legends. This research often explains the phenomena associated with certain stories. Take for instance Gravity Hills. Many American towns contain roads where local legends say that if you put your car in neutral, the spirit of children killed in hit and run accidents will push your car uphill to prevent you from suffering a similar fate. However, research of public records usually proves that no children would be able to be able to be able to prevent you from suffering a similar fate.

However, research of public records usually proves that no children were fatally struck by automobiles in those locations. Review of scientific literature explains these roads as optical illusions, where an absurd horizon makes a downhill slope look like an uphill slope. Location surveys also come in handy. One example is my survey of New Jersey's Heartbeat Road. Folks in the town of Montville say that back in the day, an axe-wielding maniac attacked a teenage couple on a wooded road and killed the girl. For years afterwards, teenagers would park in the road and listen quietly to the sound of the girl's ghostly heartbeat.

Inspecting the site myself, I found a defunct water pump house off the road. Back when the pump house was in operation, it would have emitted a noise that sounded like a loud heartbeat. A simple explanation. But some urban legends defy explanation. In rare instances, investigation only strengthens their claims. That brings me to one of the most terrifying experiences I've ever had in the field. My visit to Devil's Tower.

I'd been on an extended research trip visiting sites connected to several legends, including Heartbeat Road. After wrapping up in Montville, I began to drive back north to New England. After a few stops planned along the way, the next was the Devil's Tower, less than an hour northeast. Devil's Tower is an old stone structure that looms above Rio Vista, an extravagantly wealthy neighbourhood in Alpine, New Jersey. Before Rio Vista was a residential neighbourhood. It was part of an estate constructed by Sugar Baron Manuel Rionda. The Rionda estate was sprawling, over 200 acres. and beautiful nestled on the cliffs overlooking the Hudson River.

According to local legend, Rionda built the tower in the early 20th century to give his wife, Harriet, a view of New York City's vast skyline. But the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan weren't the only thing she could see. One night, Harriet was looking out from the tower when she noticed her husband with another woman. Filled with despair, Harriet leapt to a death from the tower. Sometime later, rumours of supernatural occurrences surrounding the tower began. Despite the eventual dissolution of the Rihanda estate and later development of Rio Vista, the stories persist to this day. The most significant rumor concerns what happens when you drive in circles around the Devil's

Tower, which serves as a roundabout at the end of a long road. There are a few versions of the story, but most agree that if you drive around Devil's Tower three times at night, Harriet Ronda's ghost will appear and cause your car to crash. Opinions are split and whether one must drive forwards or backwards to properly complete the ritual. Many legends I research involve small rituals like this one. Performing these rituals provides valuable insight, but my supervising professor doesn't always condone it.

Sometimes they require trespassing, or rather not so legal activity. They also aren't always safe. Putting your car in neutral on a busy road to see if it rolls uphill isn't the smartest idea. I almost always perform the rituals anyway. The night I travelled the Devil's Tower, my goal was simple. Test both versions of the ritual by driving around the tower three times backwards and three forwards. As I turned onto Rio Vista's long entry road, I was awestruck. A populent chateau-style homes lined the road, set back behind massive lawns and thickets of manicured pine trees.

The homes were protected by the type of walls you'd expect to find securing a medieval fortress. But these magnificent homes were side shows to the true spectacle, the imposing Gothic tower at the end of the road. I drove closer, marvelling at its grandeur. Made of large grey stones, it must have been a hundred feet tall. I parked at the edge of the roundabout and stepped out to take a closer look. A series of glassless windows stretched up the tower, culminating in a row of three near the top. Long ago they'd been filled with real stained glass. Now there was only an empty frame exposing the tower's dark interior, where legend said Harriet Ronda could still be seen.

At the tower's base was a giant archway through which I could see the other side of the roundabout. The archway was gated, a sign warning against vandalism hanging on its iron bars. I had read that the tower had been sealed off long ago to discourage mischievous teenagers and there was no longer access to its peak. If I saw something up there, it wouldn't be a living human being. I chose to circle the tower backwards first and a hunch that it was the real version of the ritual. Driving forwards was too simple. For a supposed supernatural ritual to survive as an urban legend for decades, it has to be a hassle.

If it's too easy, everyone will do it, and the legend will lose its mystique and be forgotten. I was starting the car back up when I noticed another vehicle in my rearview. It had turned off a side street that snaked off the long road leading to the tower. The car was a few hundred feet behind me, advancing slowly, expecting it to turn into one of the drive-wise. along the road before I'd ever got close to me, and I didn't hesitate. I pulled into the center of the roundabout, a line with the archway at the base of the tower. I planned to use the archway as a marker. After passing it three times, I would know I completed three full circles.

As I put my car in reverse, I realized that the vehicle behind me hadn't stopped. It was so close now that he could see exactly what it was. A white hatchback, security emblazoned on its side. I should have expected such a luxurious neighbourhood to have private security, but I come too far to turn back now. I began driving in reverse, the security guard, who was no doubt tasked with deterring pests and came to see the tower, pulled into the roundabout to follow me. I was not dissuaded. Earlier in the day, I'd practiced driving loops in reverse in an empty parking lot,

I was confident I could do it safely. The security guard, a portly man in a more cups uniform, trailed me as I drove in reverse. We were face to face, gliding in unison like synchronized skaters. It must have looked like something out of one of those fast and furious movies. The archway appeared beside me, one circle. The security guard laid on his horn, trying fruitlessly to get me to stop. I kept going and saw the archway again. Two circles

As I crossed the halfway point Of the final loop The security guard flicked on the red and blue Emergency lights atop his vehicle I ignored it for just a few more seconds As we passed the archway once more Three circles The security vehicle was facing me

Almost bumper to bumper blocking my path forward I couldn't put the car in drive And do the ritual in the other direction as I planned I decided to pull over and talk to the security guard, explain to him I wasn't just some punk making trouble, but a scientific researcher, and maybe he wouldn't report me to the police.

Maybe he'd even let me drive back around the tower and leave. I pulled out of the middle of the roundabout back into the long roadway. I started to pull over, watching the security vehicle drive towards me, and then it happened. The moment that still torments me in my nightmares. The security vehicle swerved wildly, accelerating until it escaped my rearview mirrors field of view. Out of sight, I heard the sickening sound of metal crunching. I ran out of my car towards the security vehicle.

Edd crashed headfirst into one of the pine trees lining the road. The front of the car was totaled. The hood mangled like crumbled tinfoil. When I reached the driver's side window, the security guard was slumped over the steering wheel. Its leather soaked in wet blood. Something dawned on me. When the security guard chased me as I circled the tower backwards, he'd completed three circles forwards.

Standing in the centre window at the top of Devil's Tower, shrouded in the darkness of that decrepit chamber, which had long been sealed shut, was a woman in an early 20th century dress. Harriet Runder looked down at the mayhem below and smiled. I'd been wrong about which variants of the ritual was correct. Driving around the tower backwards was a perversion of the real ritual, driving forwards. This ritual stuck around for decades despite its simplicity because it actually worked.

I called 911 and explained the events leading up to the crash truthfully to the responding officers. They conferred before one returned to talk to me. He was dead on impact, the officer said. It looks like, after you led him driving around in circles, he became dizzy, vertigo, that's what he's called. He lost control of the car. We're not going to charge you with anything. Just get on out of here. I was shocked.

If the police thought I'd caused the accident driving in an admittedly reckless manner, why wasn't I given so much as a ticket, much less arrested? Get out of here, son, the officer repeated. For your own good, I understood then that he knew the truth. I was responsible for the accident, just not in the way he'd said. Who knows how many times this small town cop had had the misfortune of responding to an accident at the tower. I got in my car and drove away, out of the shadow that a vulnerable tower cast over Rio Vista.

Please understand that I will regret that disastrous night a devil's tower until the end of my days. I never anticipated that I would unleash the deadly wrath of an angry spirit and another human being. But that is exactly what happened, and it will always haunt me. After that night, I cancelled the remaining stops on my trip and returned to New England. I took a break from fieldwork and worked on my dissertation, but I struggled. how to write about the tower. Eventually, I settled on addressing his dangers in a scientific manner

acceptable to academics and a dissertation committee. I choose to reveal devil's tower's true nature, only to a more open-minded audience. You. She was charming and confident throughout the whole meal,

regularly reaching across to touch my arm while making consistent, engaging eye contact. She laughed openly and sincerely, rolled her eyes when I was self-deprecating and spoke openly about her own vulnerabilities. Over the course of dinner, I started to feel more comfortable and less anxious, and without fully understanding why. I noticed a strange warmth in my chest and stomach that I had never felt before. She had brown eyes and chocolate-covered hair that fell around her bare shoulders in harmonious locks.

She looked like a woman straight out of a noir film, and she exuded a self-confidence that was. was not only attractive, but to many men would have been downright intimidating. And yet, by the end of the date, when she held my hand, I did not find myself filled with doubts about why she wanted me, or what she saw in me. I trusted her affections in a way I never could with any other woman. Her charisma was infectious, and when we stepped out into the cold city air, I truly, genuinely felt like I stepped into a fairy tale. That was the last thing I remembered before waking up in a bathtub full of ice.

The shock was so sudden there was a moment where I felt I'd been plunged into a lucid nightmare. For the first few seconds, I thought of nothing, save the agony, vaguely located along my left side and the stinging ice burns across my bare body. Everything hurt. It felt like I'd been in a car crash. My vision was blurry, as if my eyelids were gummed together. each blink felt like rubbing sand into my eyes and every breath out felt like approaching suffocation. My limbs were weak, but I pushed myself out of the ice and into a sitting position,

letting out short, sharp, shocked, exhalations as ice-coupes fell down my bare stomach and shoulders. I was covered in a sickly condensation and, I ran my hands over my body, shocked, to find that I could barely feel anything. Desperate to escape, I started to heave myself over the edge of the bath, but, without feeling in my legs, I couldn't just step out. It was like climbing a ten-foot fence. About halfway across, gravity took over, and I slipped over the edge and fell like a piece of meat. Hitting the concrete with a wet thud, my chin struck hard and drove my bottom teeth upwards into my lip

with an audible clack as they cut straight through to the other side. I cried out in pain and anger as I lay there, dribbling bloody spittle onto the dusty floor until my legs began to warm up and my eyes began to clear. I was in a warehouse, barely able to see more than a few feet in any direction. But I finally managed to collect enough thoughts to wonder where the hell I was, and what the hell had happened? I tried to pull myself forward, although I was too numb and sore to get very far. but the mere active movement helped gather more strength and I found that bit by bit feeling returned to my legs fingers and arms but clarity brought its downsides

there had been a constant dull pressure in my side since I'd first awoken but as the cold receded it felt like someone had stuffed hot coal into an open wound in terrible pain I sat upright and leaned back against the freezing cold porcelain of the tub I twisted carefully until I caught a glimpse of my sides The mere sight Distressed and enraged me There was a fat

Swollen scar cut across the Soft fat on my flank The ridges as thick as a finger The skin molten and jagged The tear pink and bloody Stitches as wide as shoelaces pierced the skin and bound the walls of the scar tightly together

I got the sense that if I put any real pressure against the phoeia my finger would push right through and I would feel my innards squishing around inside What the hell? I cried My words slurred and pathetic

What the hell? What the hell? What the hell? What happened? I don't know. I just need you to come get me. James, I don't get it. I haven't heard from you and over...

Annie, please. Just come get me. Something happened. I don't know what, but please, just come get me. I sent you a pin on Google Maps. Just come get me. I've never heard you so

Just come and get me I screamed and then hung up I was shaking standing in the rain as my stomach churned and my head throbbed I had limped a mile and a half along a desolate road

where I got reception I had been crying on and off for hours and had genuinely wondered if it would have hurt less to die the warehouse I had woken up in was abandoned there were no signs of life

except for gory surgical instruments and a terrifying dentist's chair, modified with restraints and straps. Fresh spatters of blood coat to the floor, newer stains layered over all the burgundy-coloured ones, and a quick look at my wrists confirmed they were bruised and marked from being tied down. On a nearby table were the clothes I've been wearing from the date, and while my wallet and keys were missing, my phone was neatly placed on top of the folded jeans and jacket. They'd even been laundered, along with my socks and underwear, There were even a pair of walking shoes in my size, but which were not mine, placed carefully

besides the clothes. I took them, having little choice and quickly escaped, only to find myself abandoned in the middle of a huge forest with nothing but a dirt road to follow. It took hours to get decent phone reception, and then another six before my sister finally found me. She was winding the window down to ask an endless series of questions when something caught her eye. What?

She stammered, and a quick look at my side revealed that my jacket was coated in a pinkish pus that leaked from my side. I went to explain, but found my strength suddenly leached from me. I collapsed on the spot. How does no one know this woman, Gary? Annie was pacing in the background of my vision. I watched her as if she was a TV show where the volume was being slowly turned up. She assaulted my brother.

I need to know who the hell she is. How could you not know who this woman is? She was grown angrier by the minute. It had been like this for days, maybe longer. She'd been the one to set me up on the blind date, and it was clear that she felt guilty. She had knelt beside me often as I lay on her sofa and promised me all kinds of things.

If she knew, she would never have arranged the date. This woman wasn't a total stranger. People vouched for her. They worked at the same company for years. She'd seen her dozens of times taking the lift. It had even all gone out for Kaz's hen party. It had transpired early on that the woman who appeared was not the woman my sister worked with,

but I was still confused and struggled to care. Days had come and gone. I knew I was pumped full of drugs and they were messing with my head. I had only fleeting memories of a hospital stay, but Annie later told me that I was in there for two weeks before being discharged. As time went on, all I wanted was for a sense of normality to return.

I wanted to see the world with lucid eyes, clean from the fog and confusion caused by illness and drugs. But when it finally happened, it felt like being hit by a truck. Screw you, Gary! You're being unprofessional.

Something about a voice woke me up in the moment. It wasn't just a fluttering of my eyes. I surfaced from the confused shadows of semi-consciousness and emerged into my own mind with a thousand questions. I was already pulling myself up right before my sister had time to hang up the phone. My hands roamed freely, touching and grobing the couch. Then the blankets, my chest, and finally head and face. I couldn't balance the myriad of voices and thoughts that popped into my head and it took a few seconds before I finally groaned the words.

My cactus, I groaned. Water. My sister had been momentarily frozen from shock, but something about the absurdity of it all caused her to laugh, then cry, then run over and hugged me. I blinked my eyes clear and tried to speak again. I'm sorry about your sofa. I groaned, picking my hand up from where it had been propping me up. Something had soaked through the fabric and stank of sickly sweet infection, and I realized with disgust that it was coming from me. Don't be silly, she sobbed, I'll get a new one. Gingerly, I sniffed my palm.

Can we burn this one? An hour later, and I was wrapped head to toe in a blanket, shivering from fever, but lucid for the first time in weeks. My sister had made me a cup of tea, and as I sipped it, I savoured the feeling of warmth in my belly. "'Do you remember anything else about her?' she asked. "'No,' I said. "'The police told me they're trying to find her, but—'

"'I don't know. What with your history? "'I wonder if they'll even look that hard.' "'She didn't even take anything,' I said. "'She cut you open, and we still don't know why,' Annie cried with great incredulity. "'We don't know if there are a gang of them, or if she's just some lunatic or what. "'James, this—' What happened to you is serious. This, all of this.

She waved her hands in my direction. It's very serious. I just want to get back to normal, I said, pulling the blanket close around me. She reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me it had all go back to normal any day now. But she closed the mouth without saying another word, and I realized it was a promise she couldn't keep. The scar was huge.

It was easily eight inches end to end and crossed my left side at a diagonal turn. It was just below my ribs where it bellowed, aching agony into my abdomen. It was a throbbing, pulsing mess of sharp and blunt pains that hurt no matter what I did, pinging away at the edges of my awareness like a discordant rhythm. Over time, the broken skin had swollen so much that the thick stitches strained against their respective holes, warping them into distendium. oval shapes that looked close to tearing. The stitches, for some reason, were unspeakably sensitive.

Not only did it hurt to pull out or pluck them, as you might expect, but even brushing them sent lancing waves up through my ribs and into my jaw where the pain settled like a toothache. The gentlest prod was felt by them, and it made little sense to me as to how I could so clearly feel something that was not part of my body. Poking the wound hurt like hell. But I found myself able to give it a more thorough examination that I had in the previous weeks and, most unusually, I found the surrounding flesh to be hard and ungiving.

It felt to me as if something were buried in the wound, almost as if I was feeling a piece of wood beneath some fabric. And, desperate to know more, I pushed harder and harder, until my finger slipped between the folds of skin and sank a quarter inch into the cut. It hurt less than I imagined it would, and I could feel something strange, embedded in the flesh. It had in a regular surface like a stick, but it was hard like a rock.

It was jagged, starting wide at the base and tapering into a serrated edge buried in the other side of the flesh. Carefully, I ran my finger sideways along the cut and found smaller pieces of hardened material lined up in rows. Tracing their outline made a zigzag shape that followed the cut like a zipper on a jitter. jacket, and when I finally managed to get a small glimpse at what it was beneath the skin,

I saw something, the coloured of nicotine-stained fingers. My skin crawled with disgust. The violation was rank. I couldn't contain myself, and I became overcome with a kind of panic, a strong repulsion towards my own skin. Something's in there, I thought, and I have to get it out. I became desperate and tried to leverage it open with both hands, pushing fingers from both hands in deeper and deeper,

even as the pain overcame me. Over-eager, my hand slipped, and my finger caught a sharp edge along the way. Damn it, I cried and snatched my hand away. It barely hurt, but something in my stomach began to wake. It hurt like I hadn't eaten for days, lurching as if I was in a roller coaster, going over an enormous drop.

It grew from a mild sensation to an overwhelming nausea in less than a second, and the pain became a kind of dynamic sensation I couldn't possibly hope to describe. Stumbling over, I had to prop myself against the mirror where I managed to get

one last look at my side. What I saw struck me as some kind of mad hallucination. The scar was moving. The flesh of either side undulated as a small drop of blood rolled along the edges. Not only did the skin start to curl back, revealing a long row of jagged teeth and inch or two

in the length, but the stitches plugged themselves from their nested pockets and writhed in the empty air like the cilia of a jellyfish. Even without my intervention, the wound continued to open, slowly spreading apart to a few inches wide. By the time I registered the gullet leading sideways into my body. I passed out. Got your appetite back? Annie proclaimed happily, and she stepped through the door. I looked guiltily at the six or seven plates piled up on the kitchen table, filled with bones and scraps of inedible waste. When you called me up asking for food, I didn't realize you're going to clear out the whole damn fridge. Sorry, I'm meed. Don't be, she smiled. You lost so much weight I didn't even recognize you. It's good

you're eating again. Without thinking, one of my hands strayed down to my left side. I ran it over my t-shirt and pelt something unusual beneath the fabric, something that was neither part of my body nor the wound. When my sister turned away, I pulled up the t-shirt and saw a half-eaten fry stuck between the teeth. Almost as if in reaction to the light and sound, the scar's lips started to churn away, trying to dislodge the piece of potato. Gingerly, I snapped the chip away from between the jaws and went to throw it away, but was stopped without realizing why. My sister turned, and I dropped my shirt as quickly as I could. She looked at me for a moment, puzzling over my sitting there with a half-fri in one hand and a look of unrelenting

terror on the other. You don't have to be ashamed if you've been lying there eating like a pig, she laughed. I tried to ask her to take the piece of food away from me, but I couldn't make the words leave my mouth. I stared at it and felt a growing pang of hunger ringing outward from my chest, as if my belly was an enormous, empty brass bell being struck from within. My mouth was filling with saliva so quickly it was like a continuous flow of milkshake, and in the end I gave in and threw the chip in my mouth and swallowed it whole like a dry pill. My sister burst out into laughter. Just like when we were kids

fighting over food, eh? She chuckled. Like that time we found a snickers under the sofa? Mm-hmm, I agreed. My lips pressed tightly shut. She turned and began packing away the shopping.

Subconsciously, my hand returned to my side and I felt something unusual once more. Pulling the shirt up, I stared down at the same half a fry sticking out of the side and, like the first peal of thunder before a terrible storm, my stomach lets out a nauseating growl of hunger.

Can you pick up some more meat? I said. Yeah, sure, she chirped over the phone. The doctor said you might have an iron deficiency. God knows how much blood you lost when those wackos. Well, look, anything you need, I'll get, okay? Thank you, I said. I'm going to lie down now. Okay, I'll see you when I get back tonight. I hung up the phone and opened the door to the fridge. All around me lay open packets of steak I'd stuffed hungrily into my face all throughout the morning.

Without thinking, I itch my nose and my fingertips came away bloody. When I checked a mirror, I looked like a Halloween decoration. My mouth and nose covered in fresh blood. I peeled my lips back and stared at my teeth, repulsed by the brown clotted plaque that stained my gums. With the regularity of clodagh, My side began to wake, and I pulled my t-shirt up in time to see the wound's lips writhing

and moving like a mouth of a toothless old man sucking on hard candy. A second later, it spat out the first bone, and then another, and then another. Over the course of 15 minutes, it carefully spat out hundreds of bones. Most from a whole uncooked chicken I'd eaten just before calling my sister. By the time the wound was done expelling bones, I felt myself close to to collapsing, but I pull myself back to the kitchen where I grabbed my phone and called Annie once more. Hey, I said, breathlessly.

Can you only get boneless stuff? Of course, she said. What about chips or anything like that? Bit of bread? I could cook up some burgers real easy using the grill. The thought of bread nearly made me pass out on the spot. No, I replied. Maybe it's the gluten or something.

I don't know. But please, no bread, no fruit, no veg. Okay, she said. And for the first time, I detected a curious tone in a voice, something approaching concern. Only meat. Again. I awoke to a sound, a bit like a violin.

I was lying down when it came from a nearby window, and I looked up to see a silver cat staring at me with indignity. My sister had told me about the neighbour's cat, She warmly suggested that if it visited, I let it in and feed it, much like she does when she's feeling down. With bigger problems in my mind, I first tried to ignore it, but it was patient and wouldn't let up. Perhaps it was the sight of all the meat and bones that lay half eaten across the kitchen island, but the cat was determined to get in. All right, I grumbled, standing up as the cat began to loudly pour at the glass.

All right, all right, all right, I'm glad to. coming. As soon as the window raised, the cat burst into the room like lightning before quickly settling down on one of the countertops where it purred and started chewing on some bones. I shuffled back to the sofa and sat down, and lay down, and then, without quite remembering when, I fell asleep. It felt like barely a few minutes had passed when I later awoke, finding the cat nearby, purring and mewing at my face. Confused, I sat up and it jumped gracefully between the coffee table and the sofa, landing silently to my left.

For a brief moment I scratched this head and enjoyed its company, right up until it nuzzled, against my side. I'm still not sure what happened in what order. Everything came so quickly and those first few seconds blinded me with pain. I could barely think or see. It felt like my entire nervous system was being pulled. hump full of electricity. I briefly registered a tearing wet sound,

and when I looked, I saw my t-shirt was sopping wet with blood. The cat was wailing, and everything was a confused spatter of blood, fur, and the mustard-yellow cotton of my t-shirt. Quickly, the initial burst of energy died down.

The cat's cries became less manic and more pathetic, turning into long, drawn-out cries of the slowly dying. I soon realized that something had torn a hole in my clothes, and the cat was half buried within it. Its front paws still feebly scratching at my soft skin. Meanwhile, the back legs twitched and jerked,

and I became uncomfortably aware of the crunching sound. Somehow, I could feel the mouth and its movement. The spasms along the scars opening felt very much like a part of me, but distant, like when you get an injection at the dentist, and you spent hours afterwards running your tongue along your cheek. Quietly, trying to hold back tears, I got up and walked to the bathroom where I could use a full-length mirror. I had to thread the remainder of the cat's body through the gaping hole in my shirt before

I could pull it up. But when I did, I saw that strange mouth had grown more pronounced, jutting out to my side like a rising hill. Caught between the powerful lips and the bony teeth was half a cat, and slowly the mouth wormed and chewed away at the now dead animal. It reminded me of someone slurping up spaghetti and stopping to chew on a mouthful. I could feel it. I could feel its death rose inside me.

The urge to vomit rose up quickly at the realisation, and I ran over to the toilet and began to wretch. However, something was wrong. I wasn't being sick out of disgust. Something else was happening. I started to gag, and my heaving was. painfully violent as I crouched hanging over the toilet with heavy rivulets of of spit dripping into the bowl I started to feel something hard and strange

rise up out of my throat it took nearly half an hour of suffocation I screwed shut as I tried to be somewhere else to endure the pain before something plopped out of my mouth and clinked against the porcelain I wiped away the tears in my eyes and fished it out it was the cat's collar. You haven't seen her at all? No, I said, as she forced a bag of chicken nuggets into an overstuffed freezer drawer. Now, are you sure you don't want him to cook any of these up? She asked, turning to look over a shoulder at me. I'm not hungry, I answered, and for once, I genuinely wasn't. It's just apparently, Ella said she let her out last night,

and she almost always comes straight down here. She's a little silver. thing with a small red tag on a collar that shaped like a wax seal. Are you sure you haven't seen her? I guiltily thumbed at the exact same name tag in my pocket. Nope, I said.

Why would I lie? Annie didn't respond. She just kept packing away food. Have you been cleaning in there? She asked suddenly. It smells of bleach. No, I shook my head. Haven't done anything of the sort.

I lay down and pretended to sleep, desperately hoping she wouldn't ask any more questions. It was a small black eye of a mollusk, a pearly obsidian orb embedded just above my lower rib. All around the edges was a line of faint hairs that left me breathless when I touched them. There were no lids to blink, but the hair moved eerily in the air, almost as if floating in the slow current of a river. When I tapped it with a pen, the ice sank back into the skin and disappeared, only to return like a soap bubble several seconds later. Below it, the mouth continued to writhe and grunt away. The bone protrusions of its jaws haven't since grown to jut out of my profile by a good four or five inches. Gently, I prided the mouth, but it did nothing.

I could feel the pen. I could feel the hard plastic against skin that I swore wasn't mine anymore. It felt like a part of me, so I put the pen down and poked it with my hand, snatching my finger away in anticipation of a lethal snap. But nothing happened. It continued chewing the air absent-mindedly. To get a better look at the discoloration, I turned back to the mirror and lifted my arm above my head,

noting how the pink and yellow skin of the mouth strained against the bony underlying carapace. As I watched, another small black blackish. orb floated to the surface of my skin, then another. I raised my arm higher, and several more popped up audibly amongst the soft knock of my armpit. It bubbled out so quickly I wasn't quite sure if it would stop, but once the growth subsided, I was left with a fifth-sized lump of black featureless orbs buried in my armpit like a blackberry.

Around the central mass, new hairs grew, as did a bony crater. with similar ridges to the mouth below. Gently, I tried to lower my arm, but, past a certain point, the ops became too sensitive. I tried a few times, going as far as the try to force my arm down. But, before my elbow was in line with my jaw,

the pain became unbearable, shooting across my collarbone and straight down into my stomach where it'd settle like a punch to the gut. Behind the locked bathroom door, I could hear my sister entered the apartment. I had no idea how this was going to work, but, thinking quickly, I grabbed a large towel and stuffed it under my arm. When I entered the living room, I looked like I was trying to haul a log, and my sister wordlessly turned ahead in confusion.

Are you okay? Yeah, I answered a bit too quickly. How's? She gestured to her side. Fine, I replied, breaking eye contact to walk over to the sofa. her. I'm just not feeling well. You don't look like you have much of a fever. Is it healing okay? It's not infected again, is it? She stepped forward, and for some reason I found the sight of her coming towards me utterly terrifying. I was filled with a peculiar, almost primal desire to flee somewhere dark. For some bizarre reason, I saw the sun being eclipsed by a large object swimming towards me.

In a split second, the image flashed in and out of my mind and left me dazed, leaving plenty of time for Annie to reach out and lift my shirt up. Before she got any further, I lashed out and slapped her arm away. Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you? She cried, more upset than angry. The tone in her voice caught me off guard, and when she reached out once more, even faster this time, I was too slow. Before I could react, the wound did.

My body lunged out to meet her, pulled as if by invisible strings. Bone cracked. She gave a short, sharp cry of pain, followed by another longer scream that rose and pitched like a violin concerto. She never stopped. She just kept screaming at the sight of what remained of her hand. I looked down at my side and saw the t-shirt torn apart and the fat, bony mouth chewing clumsily at three-fing fingers and a chunk of palm. Someone was saying no over and over, and I realized it was the sound of my own voice filled with regret and horror. I reached out and grabbed a hand.

I don't even know what I was going to do. Stem of blood, maybe. But her screaming intensified and she fell over trying to get away. I was crying now, salty tears streaming down my cheeks, and stepped forward in another vain attempt to help. She cried out and savagely batted away my hand, scrambling backwards in a desperate crab walk until her back thudded against the wall. Get away! She sobbed. Get away, get away, get away, get away!

The words broke my heart, and I felt a knot in my throat. I tried to take a step backwards to walk away and go God knows where. But something stopped me. The pain in my side flared up. It felt like something was wrenching sideways against my rib cage. No, I mewed and felt it lunge once more. This time it pulled me a few feet towards Annie, who was screaming a feverish, non-stop pitch.

No, no, no, please, no! I cried. And this time it pulled me so hard it didn't stop. I flailed across the room, trying desperately to gain purchase on anything around me, dragging plastic bags full of food to the floor as I was yanked closer and closer to my sister. That thing was grumbling so loudly it filled the room, growling with an inane, stupid hunger. I couldn't look, not even as it latched onto her head with a soft crunch. She kept screaming, kept crying into the darkness that ate her face, stripping away the soft skin, the muscle, the cartilage, and then finally the bone.

Something hideous had punched out of the thing's mouth. I couldn't see it, I could feel it, and knew instinctively it was a propitices. It writhed through a skull, grinding and boring through anything in its way, popping eyes and draining the fluid before gouging deeper and deeper towards a brain. It drained it in minute, and when a screaming finally died down, the only sound of the apartment was the breathy gurgling of a spine, being slurped up by the tuberous growth. Satisfied, the mouth let go and belched,

then nestled back into my side with the affectionate wiggle of a sleeping cat. I knew what I was going to see when I faced my sister, and my fear was soon confirmed. There was nothing but a skull, surrounded by a ragged hood of skin and hair. Even in the silence, I could still hear.

Hear her scream. My brother and I worked for a cleaning company in my hometown. We're both still in high school. He's a junior and I'm a senior. So it was either this or fast food. The owner is a friend of Dad's and we'll call him Chuck to protect the innocent. Chuck is a nice enough guy. My brother and I have known him since we were young, but as a businessman he leaves a lot

to be desired. Please don't misunderstand. guy makes money, but he seemed to think that employee safety gives after profit. My brother and I had been working like dogs for him all summer, cleaning out people's yards and moving boxes out of abandoned buildings when Chuck got a call from another of his old friends, Philip Odair. If Chuck is a little underhanded in his business practices, then Philip is a goddamn pirate. He's the town's number one real estate agent, and I mean everything when I say he's

sells everything. He owns a pawn shop, broke brokers, with his younger brother, and when he wasn't selling houses, he was looking for homes to buy. The homes he picks up are rough most of the time, and if he was selling them as fixed roppers, that would be okay. The problem is that after he picks up these houses for next to nothing, he does shoddy, band-aid repairs on them and sells them for top prices. My current situation is thanks in part to Philip's underhanded renovation and Chuck's less than stellar business sense. The Foskey place, I asked. I didn't even know Mr. Foskey was dead.

Chuck looked up from his not his gray hair making him look like a cloud with glasses. He's not. Foskey's son sent him to Golden View and sold his house to O'Dare real estate. That made me a little sad. Mr. Foske had been my English teacher when I was in middle school and he'd also taught Dad

when he was an eighth grader. My brother had not been what you would call advanced English compatible, so he didn't get him. But Dad and I both agreed that Mr. Foski was the best. He always had such cool lesson plans and exciting books in his class library. He challenged his advanced students to be more than a title and wanted us to be more than just A plus students. I was sad to hear that he was fired two years ago. He had started to go a little senile in his old age. everyone said so

and his taste in books has always been a little esoteric after he'd been fired he'd become a hermit he only came out at night and the word around town was that he had taken to going through people's garbage

what he sought was anyone's guess but people who came to visit him said that his house was full of junk now he was gone after the mental hospital in the next town and we were left to clean up his house Phil says to save anything that looks valuable

Apparently the guy had a ton of old books that were probably worth money Foskey's son sold Philip the house and everything in it So don't bother saving anything sentimental Couple weeks in the puzzle factory And the old man probably won't remember his own name I left before I could say anything stupid The thought of a brilliant man like Mr Foske Losing his mind in a place like Golden View

Made me sick at the time Now I think it might be exactly what he deserves. We arrived at the house at 6am. Philip was waiting for us, a cell phone against his ear and a latte in his other hand. He was dressed in his usual blue suit

and I imagine we looked pretty shabby next to him in our jeans and black t-shirts with a company name on them. My brother had rolled the sleeves on his up, his motorcycle boots peeking from beneath the cuff on the jeans. He was going through some kind of James Dean phase,

but it really just made him look like an extra in Greece. We waited for Philip to finish, and when he did, he looked at us like we were in his way. Well, what are you waiting for? A breakdown on exactly what we're doing, I said a little hotly. He scoffed. I thought you boys were smart. Clean the dam house and save what can be sold.

Old bugger bought the house five years ago, and it's a one bed, one bath, and I have a client who wants to see it by Wednesday. So if you could not take all week about it, that would be great. We'll take a look and let you know by the end of the day, okay? Philip scoffed, clearly saving all that charm for his clients. Just have it done. I'll pay you double if you can do it by Wednesday. You, not your boss.

That was a tantalizing offer. Chuck was great, but he tended to be a little light with the checks. We were being paid under the table, so we couldn't really argue, but some extra cash would be sweet. I shook Philip's hand and said we would have it done by Wednesday. He nodded and left, the sound of his teabird cutting up the road as he went. I immediately regretted my words when I saw the inside of the house. The house had a strange floor plan. There was a living room and a dining room with a bar that overlooked them from the kitchen.

Off the kitchen was a bathroom and a back door to get out back where he could sit in a small backyard. Off the living room was another door that I guessed was a bedroom. The house had a strange sort of feel to it when I came inside, and I could believe that such a place would draw Mr. Foskey to it. It was eccentric in a utilitarian way, a way that he would understand. The living room slash dining room was full of trash and furniture, stuffed floor to sea, I could see a little walkways from the living room to the kitchen. The kitchen spared the worst of it, but it was still covered in garbage.

The floor had a solid foot of garbage on it. The cabinets were covered in old food wrappers, and the refrigerator seemed clean, but the door wouldn't open due to the junk. The cabinets were stuffed with garbage, and I sighed as I thought about the job at hand. This looked like a good week's worth of work, between the little, living room and the kitchen alone. I'll take the kitchen, you take the living room. Whoever finishes first will help the other.

My brother scoffed. Where do you get the kitchen? I rob my eyes. I see a lot of furniture in there, football star. You got dad's build, so you do the heavy lifting. He scoffed. And you got mom's build, so I guess you get your girly ass in the kitchen, he said with a laugh.

We put on our respirators, rubber boots and thick gloves. We hadn't seen anything that would make us break out the hazmat suits yet, but I like to be safe. We were definitely working with some old refuse, possibly refuse that had been outside, and that meant that rodents were a danger, as were insects. We'd cleaned out a shed like this not even a month ago and ran upon a secret hornet's nest. That had made us wary about attacking big mounds of trash, so as I started in the kitchen, I was careful to look at it. look where I was putting my hands.

I got lucky. The trash was mostly dry and clean, and it was easily bagged. I heard my brother straining and grunting in the living room, and looked out to seem wrestling with some sizeable pieces of furniture. He was dragging them out under the lawn. Philip had a mobile storage unit waiting out front, and then loaded them into the unit. I watched them groan as he tried to lift an antique dining room table, which had been the linchpin of a large pile of garbage before going to help him.

The pile fell over as we freed the table, and I helped him lug it into the yard. This is how we spent our day until mid-afternoon. By four, I had all the garbage out of the kitchen. My brother had gotten most of the furniture out of the living room and was wiping sweat from his brow as he stuffed papers into a bag. Doesn't this guy have an AC? He asked, out of breath. I haven't seen a thermostat.

Maybe it's in his bedroom. My brother stood up and walked to the door coming off the living room. As he opened it up, I heard him whistle and came over to see what he'd found. Inside the bedroom was a tunnel of solid gunk. It snaked to the left, getting dim inside, and the tunnel looked as though someone had cut it out of this solid junk amalgamation. You sure you want to go in there? I asked.

He just rolled his eyes and took a pin light out of his pocket. It shouldn't take long, he said, and trumped into the room. I stood for a few seconds, making sure the whole pile wouldn't just fall over and went back to work in the kitchen.

I should have gone with him, maybe being a little more attentive, but I was in a hurry and really wanted to have a look at the bathroom before quitting time. I got all the garbage out of the cabinet stuffing six bags with nothing but trash. I unearthed the sink and the microwave

and it started cleaning the countertops. And I noticed something wasn't right. The trash was still in the same place my brother had left it and the door to the bedroom still hung open. Was he still in there? There was no way it had taken him an hour

to navigate the bedroom to find the thermostat. I called his name into the bedroom The name almost seemed to echo down the trash hall, but I got no answer. He was starting to get close to sunset, and I really wanted to be out of here before dark. Thinking maybe he had fallen or gotten hurt in there, I grabbed a headlamp out of the car and headed into the trash maze. I turned the corner and was bombarded by the claustrophobia of the trash tunnel. The tunnel was a solid mass of trash that seemed almost skis. It was like someone had built a wall out of mortar and trash and then cut a tunnel out of it.

There was a soft light coming from the trash wall and when I turned off the headlight, I found that I could see. The dim light seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the wall, but even with the headlight on, I couldn't tell what it was. It made navigating the strangely winding maze a little easier, but as I moved, the size still started to unsettle me. The bedroom was supposed to be 12 by 12, but this maze seemed to be winding farther on than the whole house. I had been taking turns for several minutes when I came upon my first strange sight. Coming around a bend, I came face to face with a small library.

A small grotto held four bookshelves stuffed with old-looking butts. of them had covers covered in mould, and as I got closer, I could see bugs moving across them. I backed away and kept walking, not sure how deep this rabbit hole went, but wanting to be out more and more with every step. I kept looking down periodically, seeing if I could find a print from my brother's big rubber boots in the dust. I was looking for any sign that he had passed this way, but so far, I had come up with nothing. Then I came upon the old man. I turned a corner and found myself in a ten-by-ten park with honest-to-god grass,

a lamp post that was on and a park bench. An old man sat on it, feeding real pigeons. And as I approached, he patted the bench as though he wanted me to sit. One look at the old guy told me I did not want to sit there. He was dressed in a long coat that looked patched and frayed, and a fuzzy cap obscured his face. He patted the seat again as I approached, but I had already decided that I was not stopping.

The whole situation was a little creepy and I intended to just walk on by and continue on. When his hand shot out and grabbed me, I nearly jumped a foot. His hand was covered in thick green mould, and when he looked up, I could see the same mould growing on his face. He grinned his gap-tooth smile at me, and for a moment I thought it was Mr. Foskey.

His grip was firm but moist, and when I pulled away, his hand slipped off, and he sat there, grinning at me. Something clamped down on my ankle then, and I looked down to see that he was feeding rats. These were wolf rats, too, not cute pet-chop mice, and as they tried to scuttle up my rubber boots, I kicked them out and turned to run. The old man was standing then, a creaky moan coming from his dusty throat. But I was out of the park and into the tunnel again.

I ran, I ran flat out, and as I ran, I imagined I could see the lights in the wall reaching out for me. Their brightness came reaching out towards me, and I ducked and dodged away from them as I came. The tunnel seemed to be like meriously claustophobic as I ran, and I began to take. taken turns at random. I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I only knew that I wanted

to be out. I prayed that this tunnel would end and that I would flop onto the carpet of the dirty living room and that my brother would be waiting for me. He would wonder where I'd been and what had taken me so long and we would leave and never come back to this place again. Screw O'Dare and screw his money. As I stopped, panting and and clutching a stitch in my side, I just wanted to be out. That's when I heard the footsteps. They echoed strangely up the tunnel, and they filled me with a deep sense of dread. Was it the old man coming after me?

Some new horror. I didn't know, but the steps are heavy and ominous, and I knew that I did not want them to find me. I head around the corner in a little trash alcove and shone. and shuddered in my cowardice. The steps grew closer. I was shaking all over. The footsteps were slow and knowing.

I just knew it was some kind of new monster that wanted me. It was some mold monster that was trying to invade me, like it had invaded the old man. It was the old man who wanted to breathe spores into me and infect me. I didn't know what it was, and I didn't care. At that moment, I just wanted to leave. And I was willing to kill to get out of here. Clomp, clump, clump.

I saw a rock on the ground. Clump, clump, clump. It looked like a jagged, broken paving stone. Clump, clump, clump. I picked it up and held it against my chest. Clump, clump, clump, clump. I closed my eyes and staled myself for what I was about to do. Clomp, clump, clump, clump.

I rounded the corner and swung the stone, and it connected with something that immediately staggered back, bellowing. I swung again, but it hit me around the waist and drove me to the ground. I dropped the rock in the skirmish, and as it rolled away, I felt hands close around my throat. It was choking me, choking my life out of me, and as I groped around, I could see little black swirls at the corner of my vision. I swung my fist at it, but without oxygen, it was a weak swing at best.

I went back to groping, trying to find something, and finally my hands settle on something hard and jagged. I grabbed the rock and swung out, filling my lungs with air as the hands loosened and the shape fell over. I lifted the rock and swing it down at the shape, hitting it in the head. I straddled it, swinging again and again and again, until it finally stopped moving. I was panting then, out of breath and covered in sweat. But when I flipped on the headlamp, I felt my breath escape in a sudden whoosh.

I was choking air. I could not find any air. I was straddling a human being. His face mostly caved in, but the rolled-up shirt sleeves were a dead giveaway. He was wearing our shirt. The shirt were the two happy moving men on the front. And as I threw the rock away, the tears began to flow. I jumped off him and ran, leaving him in the tunnel to God only knew what. I ran in a blind panic.

I ran until I couldn't anymore and kept running. I ran until my legs burned and my lungs heaved. I bumped into walls and saw them crumble around me. As they fell, I felt the trash enveloped me, and I embraced the entoming refuse as my fate. I had killed my brother. I deserved to be encased in garbage for all eternity. I deserved it.

I... I... I could see flashing lights and was aware of being carried. I opened my eyes to see two paramedics rolling me into an ambulance and a panicked chuck following close behind. Philip was there too, but he looked more aggravated than worried. As we drove away in the ambulance, I looked around, and they seemed to become aware that I wasn't unconscious.

Happened, I asked, and the two of them filled me in. Philip had come after dark to check on our progress. After finding the house mostly still cluttered, he'd called Chuck and told him to get down here. The house was still a disaster, and his workers were nowhere to be found. When Chuck arrived They found me Passed out in the living room Under a pile of garbage

They called the paramedics Fearing I'd broke my neck And had them come check me out Para said you're lucky to be alive Honestly Said Chuck And Philip elbowed him Wanting him to shut up

Why? I asked hoarsely He said the place was crawling With black mould It was around the crown of the ceiling In baseboard Hell, the whole place was set up. It's a good thing your brother left early, eh?

I told Chuck I didn't remember him leaving. I told him about the bedroom, about the tunnel, and the strange things I'd seen down there. I don't think Chuck believed me, but they did go back to the house to look for him. They came to see me in the hospital later that night and told me they hadn't seen hide nor hair of him. He wasn't at home.

They called Dad in his truck. was still at Chuck's shop. They don't know where he is, but they were sure he would turn up. I didn't answer them. A week later they let me go, and I was back to the house. The guys Philip got to clean it

aren't as diligent as my brother and me, but they are great at leaving doors unlocked. I stood before the bedroom door like I expected it to open up on its own and suck me in. It didn't. And when I finally opened it, I found, not a tunnel, but a cluttered bedroom on the other side.

Just the bedroom. No tunnel, no monsters. Just a bedroom. It's been two weeks, and no one has seen my brother. He's lying dead in some weird trash tunnel with his head caved in. A part of me knows this, but a part of me knows this. but a part of me also knows that there is no trash tunnel behind that door. I don't know what to do.

Dad is getting worried. The police have no leads and I can't find the tunnel. I killed him. It's my fault. But if I tell people the story, they're going to lock me in Golden View right along with Mr. Foskey. I went to visit him a few days ago. No one monitors who's visiting the residence of Golden View. When I asked him about the trash.

tunnel and the golden mould. He just stared at me, blankly. I begged him to tell me, screamed at him to help me find my brother. But whatever light was in Mr. Foskey when I was in his English class, he is gone. Now he just sits in the dayroom and watches soap operas with the rest of them. I don't know what to do. How do I get him back? What's going to happen the Next time, whatever poor sap who buys that house opens the bedroom door, will they see their familiar bedroom? I'll be the next victim of the glowing tunnel.