CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 CHILLING Horror Stories to twist your nightmares tonight

Episode Date: May 4, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00​ "If you see this building, your timeline might be in danger" Creepypasta►8:31​ "I Met a Man With Hands of Stone" Creepypasta►27:04​ "I Perform Autopsies on Dead Astronauts" Creepypasta►41:08​ "The Children of Blackthorn Woods" Creepypasta►1:10:18​ "My roommate has been acting weird. I think she is a Japanese legendary creature" Creepypasta►1:24:53​"My Unborn Sibling spoke to Me" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...​iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...​SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...​►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...​►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...​►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...​FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta​►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/​►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta​►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt​ ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM​ ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

There was once a small business in New England by the name of Grovewood & Co. It existed for roughly seven months from April 27th to November 22nd in the year of 1913. At least, that's true for one timeline. I'll touch more on that later. Masquerading as a Cape Side souvenir shop, most of Grovewood & Co's customers were oblivious to the store's true nature. Only the rich elite were granted access to the secret arsenal. products. You see, during the brief period of time that they were operational, the company collected, tinkered with, branded, and sold various objects, each of which had other worldly

properties, giving their owner a unique power, supernatural in nature. How they acquired such artifacts, no one knows. On the 22nd of November, 1913, in its original timeline, the building vanished without a trace. Not only from sight, but from the memory of everyone who had ever interacted with it, like it never existed in the first place. It seems the building, and its inhabitants, fell victim to an object malfunction, more specifically, a temporal hiccup caused by a time-travel device as it was being sold. The origin of this anomaly is more likely a defense mechanism of the device itself. It would appear that some of these objects are sentient to some extent, and can flee when they detect a nearby threat.

That's all I'm at liberty to say about this particular event. So, where did Grovewood and Co. Unwillingly relocate to? That's a loaded question. The building, it seems, is constantly jumping from place to place, year to year, and timeline to timeline. It's a pain to track down, but with a little luck and a great deal of skill, I'm able to do job just fine. What is my job, you ask? Well, I'm responsible for keeping the building and its objects from destroying the multiverse as we know it. You know, the usual 9 to 5. In all honesty, I am a lowly obvious peon where I'm from. There are people getting paid a hell

of a lot more than I am doing much more important work. All I do is tap into the multiversal time grid and post messages in timelines where the building is likely to show up, in the hopes that some might believe me and heed my words of wisdom should they need them. But don't worry, there are greater precautionary measures in place. This is just a small, added measure of protection. Note so far, the building has been spotted in 432 locations. Exactly 26 timelines were discovered to be worthy candidates for the next jump. 25 of those are now considered safe.

Your world is number 26. Without further ado, here is my warning. Yes, some of it has been copied and pasted. Hello, I'm here to warn you. Your timeline has been deemed a likely landing zone for Grovewood and Co. Though we can't pinpoint the precise data location of the impending dispatch, we can tell you what to look out for and how to avoid total annihilation at the hands of an object. The building will take place of another building in your town.

won't remember the previous building, and you'll know Groverd & Co, as if it was always there, as will its workers. Upon entering, you might feel like something's not quite right. Though it exists in your memories, part of your brain may fight the narrative and make it feel increasingly unfamiliar. If you're lucky, you may even recall this post and some of his details. We can only hope. If you're able to gather your wits and swim against the current of your fabricated memories, then congratulations. You are stronger will than most, but this is no time to celebrate. The sudden appearance of Grovewood and Co. deems your timeline vulnerable, more vulnerable than it has ever been before. It's up to you, the only person wise to the charade to fix things, if only

temporarily. It's imperative that you relay this phrase verbatim to the shopkeeper. Might you be so kind as to direct me to your written wares, I'm in the market for a fictional tale or two. This is your ticket to the good stuff. The shopkeeper will bring you to a room housing nothing but a bookcase, filled with books published by the Moirai Initiative, another entity we are working to locate, behind which is a set of stairs that lead to the building's second floor. Once upstairs, you will find many objects, a mirror that can trap soles, a picture frame that can show you still images of the afterlife, and even a crystal ball that gives anyone who touches it the power of clairvoyance. None of them are worth your attention, save for one.

In the back left corner of the room, hanging next to some jewellery, you'll find a golden pocket watch. This is arguably the most powerful item in the shop, though most of his powers remain dormant until the anomaly took place. An object's power can change when use in conjunction with another object. This is the object you need to get to.

Remember what I said about sentience? Some of the objects will cause trouble if they sense danger. Walk around the room a few times, act casual. When you finally do call you. grab the pocket watch, show no signs of excitement or nervousness. On the front of the pocket watch is a large emphasis and. On either side are GW and Co, respectively, denoting the shop's branding. Clicking the button atop the watch will open its face and reveal to you a single dial

and a circle of letters A to Z. These letters are key to your world survival. The pocket watch works like a combination lock. Joining the button will move the dials to letters of your choosing. It's very important that you enter the following sequence. Right, O, left, V, right, A, left, I, right L, left, I. Though the pocket watch isn't the device that caused the temporal disturbance, that one is still MIA, it does have similar properties.

Entering this code will reactivate the anomaly and jumpstart transport. Grovewood and Co. will jump to the next timeline, and you will more than likely have no memory of the events that transpired. That's it? Really? Yes, that's it. Moving the building to its next destination is the greatest thing you can do. It allows us more time to perfect our endgame plan, currently in development. The multiverse is at its safest between jumps,

The longer the building sits in the timeline, the greater the chance there is of someone messing with a pocket watch or another object in the shop, and creating a chain of events that it inexplicably leads to the destruction of all that we know. Having said that, keep this in mind. If your finger slips or you fail to recall the combination properly, you are endangering everything. One wrong letter, one wrong turn of the watcher's dial. and all layers of physical reality and consciousness might intersect, creating a cataclysm that may very well end all of existence. Sending Ewan is a danger in and of itself, but doing nothing is far worse. Until the problem can be solved, this message is one of many small hopes that we have.

With any luck, we will find a better solution. Until then, the safety of the multiverse is in your hands. Don't screw it up. When I was in college, I worked in a local flower shop. The store was owned by an old man named Oliver, who had bought the place a few years earlier when he moved to town. He had no particular love of flowers, but he said that he needed a fresh start

and the business had been for sale, so he took it as a sign. Judging from my few months there, he was never going to get rich from owning this place, but we did enough business for him to pay, me more than most places would have offered a kid at my age. As you might imagine, our biggest business came from weddings and funerals, and, over time, I'd grown accustomed to dealing with the finicky fiancés and bleakly non-berieved

that so often came through our door or called in an order. It was rare that I remembered anyone past the parting jingle of the jostle bell above the door as they departed. But then again, I'd never encountered someone, like Mr. Dorman. I'd looked up when he first entered the shop, and when I did, I took a step back in surprise and fear. He was a wall of a man, nearly seven feet tall and twice the width of my narrow frame. The long black raincoat he wore hung off him awkwardly, as though the angles were wrong underneath. And his face was broad and hard, with pale skin so smooth, it almost looked artificial,

Pauless and disturbing in its symmetrical perfection and not just pauless but hairless as well The man wore a red-knit cap But I could see no sign of hair on his head Or his face Not even his eyebrows I began to wonder if he was a cancer patient or burn victim But was brought out of my thoughts

By the deep rumbling of the man's voice Is he here His eyes were flinty blue that seemed to almost glow in the shadows of his low, jutting brow. They landed on me only briefly as they canvass the store beyond the counter. I blinked. Ah, I'm sorry, sir. Is who here?

The man's gaze fell on me again, his mouth puckering slightly, as though he tasted something sour. Templeton or Taliver. He put his hands on the counter. between us with a muffled thump. I glanced down to see his hands were covered in leather gloves that creaked as he squeezed his fist. Is he here?

Swallowing, I shook him ahead. Um, no. Sorry, can I get your name or can I help you with something? The man's expression didn't change. My name is Mr. Dorman. And no, only he can give me what I want. He glanced around the store When will he return

Glancing at the clock I saw it was nearly four Tolliver usually took off from two until four-thirty Coming back to work until six or seven most nights But I didn't want to tell this guy that Mainly out of fear he decided to just wait half an hour I didn't want him hanging around And I wanted to warn Tolliver before the guy found him

I had no idea what this strange man wanted from him, but I didn't have a good feeling about it. So, looking back to Dorman, I lied, told him Tulliver would be on a trip until that Friday. The man did show slight emotion then, a small grimace followed by a nod. Very well, until then, I will wait. For a panicked moment, I was afraid he was going to try and wait there, as crazy as it was. But then he turned and headed for the door, surprisingly quiet as he made his way out into the afternoon light

before disappearing out of sight. The only sign had ever been there were the fading sounds of the bell on the door and the frantic thudding of my heart. I called Tolliver immediately. Normally a very calm and jovial man, he grew very quiet for several moments, and when he did speak, his tone was deadly serious.

John, I want you to close the store immediately, and it's going to stay closed, at least for a few days. I'll keep paying you for now, of course. None of this is your fault. If I find I can't reopen in the long term, I'll let you know in advance before I have to stop your pay. Thank you for warning me. I went to respond, but the line was already dead. I thought about calling back, but decided against it. It was none of my business.

Maybe Tolliver was into something shady Or owed money to a loan shark or something Either way, I didn't need to rock the boat If he was going to keep paying me For now, I should do exactly as he said And close up shop And that's exactly what I did But the next two weeks

I waited for word from Tolliver But none came I even went by the store a couple of times But it was closed up tight With no sign of my boss having been around. I knew he was still in town, or had been a few days earlier, because I got a month's pay mailed to me with a local postmark that Tuesday. And sure, I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I also was kind of worried about my boss. Tolliver was old and a little

weird, but he was also a really nice man. He was funny and patient, and it always treated me well. If I didn't owe him because of the money I felt like I at least owed something to him for being a good guy So one night after class I went to his house He was a small farmhouse on the edge of town And everything looked as I'd seen it Except for the lawn

Tolliver normally never let his grasp more than a week or two without cutting it But now there were weeds up past my knees frowning, I made more way up to the front door and knocked. It took a few tries, but he finally came to the door. He sounded relieved when he heard it was me, but he still seemed reluctant to open up. Wincing inwardly, I pushed the issue. I just wanted to check on him, I said. Talk to him for a minute. Make sure he was okay.

After a moment of silence, he opened the door and hurriedly beckoned me to come in. his eyes looking past me into the deepening gloom of night. The light in the front hall was dim, but enough for me to be shocked at Tolliver's appearance. Normally, a fastidiously neat and clean-shaven man, he was now sporting at least a couple of weeks of beard growth and looked as though he might not have bathed in nearly as long. He shut the door quickly behind me and through the deadbolt,

before turning to look at me with an expression that the man looked terrified. Boy, shaking. I blurted other questions I've been pondering for so long. What's wrong? What's going on, Mr. Tolliver? Who is that dormant fella? He was shaking his head, and I could tell he already regretted letting me in. It doesn't matter, my boy. It will be settled one way or another soon enough. I could smell a wash of alcohol flow over me at his words, and as he stood there in his dirty bathrobe, I realized he was unsteady on his feet.

He was drunk. A part of me, the scared, selfish, college boy part of me that didn't want to hassle or deal with anyone else's mess wanted to leave right then and there to extract myself from whatever drama this old man had going on and just go and find another job somewhere else. It would be easy and I could justify it by telling myself it wasn't my business and he didn't want my help anyway.

But, looking at him in that hallway, he looked so frail, so tired and used up, like a faded photograph of the man I'd known and grown to like and respect over just the past few months. Something was really wrong, I thought. Something he couldn't get out by himself. And maybe I couldn't help him either. But I knew I had to try. Mr. Tolliver, please, just tell me, okay? Do you owe Mr. Dorman money or something? Do we need to call the cops?

His eyes widened slightly, and at first I thought he was angry. But then he let out a wet laugh and waved his hand. No, no, that won't do any good. They'd never find him, never stop him if they did. He's coming for me, you see. To finish the path we set him on, Tolliver wiped at his face, and as he looked back up, I saw.

he was crying. I don't understand. I think we should just call the cops or... I can tell him to leave you alone if he comes around again. I let out a small yelp as Tolliver suddenly lunged forward and grinned to my shirt with surprising strength. No, no, John, you stay away from him, from this. He will break you if he's standing his way.

I put my hands on his arms gently. Please, tell me what's going on. Please. Tolliver didn't release my shirt, but instead fell into it, crying softly against my chest for several moments before he began to speak. Someone was killing the children. It was when I was young. I had a family, a little girl and a beautiful wife. We lived in a small town near Warsaw, and for three months a child had been taken every new moon.

Every time we found what was left of them three days later, hanging at a small town near Warsaw. across the limbs of a tree near the child's home. We had questioned everyone, searched out every stranger, patrol the streets at night. It didn't matter. When the sky was black a fourth time, our own little girl was taken. My wife found her on the third morning,

hanging from a maple tree we had planted the year we got married. It broke her, broke both of us. In my grief, my rage, I abandoned her to mourn alone. I poured all my energy into one thing. Revenge. There are ways, old ways known to me and some others. Ways of fashioning tools and giving them a kind of life. We needed such a tool to find whoever had done this to our children.

Something that was strong and ruthless, relentless and cunning, something to exact vengeance, justice, punishment. And so, we made a man out of stone and clay. It wasn't as difficult as you might think. There are methods and words that must be exact, but the most important part was the intention. We poured our grief and rage and guilt into that thing until it blazed with a manner of rough life,

a burning will so hot that our tears sizzled away on its stony skin, and, when its eyes opened, it rose and set off on its hunt without a single word or complaint. after it went out that first night, I returned home with a lighter heart. I would wait to tell my beloved Beatta what we had done once the person had been caught, but I vowed to myself that from that point onward, I would devote myself only to her. Any anger or accusation I felt towards her or towards myself would leave me once the killer had been expunged from this world. And when I lay down beside her that night, I slept well for the first time.

time in weeks. The man who'd killed those girls was found dead the next morning, though not by our creature's hand. A big farmer at the edge of town, he'd hung himself two days earlier and left a note describing his sins and his remorse. Bits of hair belonging to the girls, including my maria, were found among his belongings, and there was no sign that anyone else had helped him commit these horrors. It was suddenly all just... over. Or so we thought. We didn't know where the creature we created had gone to,

but as the days came and went, our group's consensus was that it had likely been released as soon as this work was done. Perhaps it had even found the man's body and then wandered out into his field before tumbling apart like so much rock and mud. These were the guesses and hopes of fools, myself included.

We hadn't understood the name, nature of what we had conjured, or the brutal calculus by which it operates, but it wasn't long before we began to learn both far too well. The parents of the first little boy that had been taken were found torn apart in their home. Two nights later, the mother of the second child, just an infant at the time of their murder, was found dismembered in a front yard. As with the first killings, someone or something had broken through a front door and chased her outside before plucking her limbs off like petals from a flower.

By this point, the few of us that remained had begun to understand what was happening, even if we didn't know why. After all these years, however, I think I do. It was what we put into it, you see. Not just our hatred and blame for the insane man who killed our babies, but our guilt and loathing for ourselves and our wives and husbands. When we knelt over that creature and gave it a measure of our life and our pain, we weren't just creating it. We were teaching it, moulding it with our hearts, just as we had with our hands, showing it the faces of everyone we blamed, even ourselves.

Oliver's lip quivered as he looked up at me. I tried to save Bietta, I did. We ran to this country, and for nearly ten years there was no sign of it. And then one night it came and... Boom, boom, boom! We both screamed as the front door first squealed and then shattered. Filling the void left behind was the man I'd seen in the flower shop weeks before. Though now he was stripped bare.

He stepped inside. His pale, perfect skin glowing in the soft light of the hall. He was completely hairless, but that wasn't all. He had no nipples, no gelatin, no belly button, no toenails. on the end of his white, misshapen toes. And then there was hands. His skin grew scaly at the wrist

before hardening into something that reminded me of concrete mixed with jagged rock. It seemed impossible. But that stone was alive, moving and flexing as he lunged forward and snatched Oliver away from me. My friend had the chance to scream,

but he didn't. Instead, he used his last moment to find my eyes and mouth a single word, run. I heard about his murder the next day, and though it sickened me, I pretended to be surprised.

The creature hadn't tried to stop me, and though I spent the next few nights terrified by every sound, I had the feeling that it wouldn't try to hurt me now that its work was done. Maybe, I thought, if Tolliver was the last life holding it together, it really had finally gone off into the woods to die. It was a nice thought, and it lasted until Tolliver's funeral.

I was one of only a dozen people there, and the thought of maybe being the closest thing the man had left to a friend or family only added to the sad loneliness of the whole thing. I felt guilty that I'd run, that I hadn't done more to save him. But what could I hope to do against something like that? It wasn't something I understood or could fight. So instead, I'd sit there. and feel sorry for him and myself because there was no one else to.

There was a man at the edge of the cemetery. Even at a distance, even wearing that long, mischaping coat, I was struck by the size of the man and the magnitude of his malign presence. Suppressing a shudder, I glanced away before forcing myself to look back. He was still there, still watching, and I felt like his hard blue eyes were burning into me. For a panicked moment, I almost got up and ran again, but then I thought better of it. No, it wasn't there for me.

I had nothing to do with this. This was about Tolliver, not me, and now it was done. As if, reading my thoughts, the thing turned slightly, and now I knew it was looking at me. Staring in horror, I saw its pale face split into a terrible smile as it raised an arm and gave me a little wave. The gloves were gone now, but there was no clay or jagged stone glittering in the afternoon sun. The hands were made of flesh, pink and baby fresh, and as he wiggled his fingers at me, my gorge began to rise. I did get up now, stumbling a few yards away to wretch against a headstone, before turning back to glance apologetically to the attendants and to gaze at the empty lawn beyond.

He was gone. severe burns, fourth degree we assume. The voice over the radio muttered. The truck engine rumbled and grey blooms of smoke emerged from inside of the exhaust pipe. I put my keys in my cup holder and grab my radio. The truck door opened with a click and I slowly got out, slamming the door on my way out. Rain dribbled onto the front of the white truck, erupting in small bursts that left little drops of my face. The concrete was wet, creating a glist.

glossy and frothy effect along the road. A brick corridor separated me and the gloomy morgue I'd worked out for years on end. I walked to the back of the truck and fidgeted with a lock. How was the burn caused? I asked the man.

Faulty equipment inside the ship, at least we assume. We haven't had any confirmation, but from what we assume, it had to have been mechanical mishaps. We couldn't find or recover any other bodies. They must have been pulled out to space when the interior was punctured.

Is the information about the accident classified? I questioned him once again. As for now, yes, government officials will notify us when necessary. The metal doors swung open and a terrible smell corrupted the fresh, misty air. It had the stench of rotten roadkill, searing in the sun. I cringed in horror, yet I smelled the same thing a million times, and somehow I hadn't gotten used to it. I grabbed the cold metal stretcher and pulled it out of the truck. The tarp over the body fluttered in the wind and it was as if the corpse was alive, grasping for another chance.

I faced forward, right in front of the grey concrete ramp. I pushed the glass doors away from me and rolled the stretcher inside. The morgue was barren, as usual. The small metal doors of the body refrigeration compartment opaquely reflected in my workspace. I placed the charred body onto the silver autopsy table in front of me. I began to under the tarp and a carcass. I reached into a small cardboard box besides the table and pulled out a latex glove and snapped it snug onto my hand. To begin the autopsy, I carefully chose a small surgical knife

and began a small incision on his upper abdomen, where the burns and blisters were located. The epidermis was black and flaky, like a burned steak left on the grill for hours on end. As I began cutting, the skin seemed to sizzling smoke the deeper I got into the corpse. My grip of the knife weakened. The burning sensation shot up the scalpel and onto my hand, nearly fusing the rubber glove to my fingers.

The blade flew out of my hand and I stumbled back, bumping into a small metal table and dropping my clean, putre-like tools. Help! I screamed in agony, writhing around. Trying to take in the pain. God damn it, somebody, please! I cried once more. I looked for my phone, looking around desperately, but I realized I had left it in the truck.

No one came to help. It's ironic. There were dozens of people around me, and they were all dead. It was almost as if they were mocking me. Newly formed blisters appeared in my fingers, and they started to move around and bubble. I ran frantically to the sink,

grasping my wrist my hand searing managed to turn the faucet on and a cold stream of water blanketed around my blistered appendage my fingers flaked up like the body I was operating I turned the water off after about a minute to examine my hand and it seemed like it was slowly spreading as it spread up my hand it started to burn my flesh like reaching into an open flame I grabbed a paper towel off of the roller and tore it off I rinse the towel in water squeezed it out and wiped my hand off trying to remove it

my hand was just a bloody irritated stump my fingers were unrecognizable as a thick coat of bullers covered them they filled with a white green pus expanding and popping I didn't know what to do next I was trying to understand what was happening to my arm

bloody paper towels lit to the floor from the wound and I scrambled to my feet running to the glass doors I pushed the doors, tripping down the stairs, each step sending a sharp pain in my side. I cried out, holding my wound as the rain pelted my horrific stump. The water was like molten lava to me. Each droplet burned into my arm, making the blood splurt under the rough, moist concrete, enrhythmical fashion, spewing white pus all over.

After minutes of little drops of rain falling on my body, my nerves were so damaged, I couldn't feel a thing. The bubble blisters were dull, and the blood and pus made my head light. I thought about what to do next. If I could just get my phone out of my truck. I got up, determined to call 911 and get help. Adrenaline fled through my veins,

and I managed to get up onto my feet and dart out to the front glass doors. I busted out, lost my footing and tripped down the stairs, gliding with cold, solid concrete, busting my chin on the wet concrete. Rain pelted on my sizzling wounds as I tried to regain my breath. My legs were weak and bruised.

When my bloody stump of her hand bashed with a grey cement, it split into three terrible segments of long, crimson skin. I expected to pass out from the pain, but my nerves were completely gone from that limb. When I managed to tolerate all of this pain, I tried to get back on my feet, but I sent something squirming in my arm. The terrible mess of a hand squelched and twisted.

The three long skin chunks that remained in my left arm fused together and writhed. I felt it. I knew that something was inside of me. A living, moving, breathing thing. At this point, I gave up. Life just wasn't worth living. I knew screaming wouldn't do any good. I was excluded from most of society, and the fact that the area was gated didn't make it any better.

I accepted my hellish fate. I took one look inside of the morgue. I saw something shiny, glimmering in the fluorescent light, reflecting brightly onto my eyes. It was my only choice. The scalpel, I thought to myself, it was the only way. I stumbled to my feet and crawled under the floor. four brick steps that led to the comforting light of my workspace. I had assurance and confidence that I would survive.

I fumbled at the steps. My vision was blurry, and I pushed forward on the black iron bars in front of the glossy doors. As soon as I entered, I fell to my knees, wiping the blood from both of my forearms of my shirt. I inch forward, crawling on my aching knees and elbows. I reached for the knife and grabbed it as tightly as I could. The metal was ice cold, but my body was stiff and hot. It felt like hundreds of pins pushed into me all at once. Anxiety swept over me.

The pain was surprisingly timid, and I just kept scraping and scraping. Chunks of blood and flesh fell onto the tile floor. I carved deeper and deeper. My nerves were completely sizzled, making me unable to feel anything from the elbow down. As I was shredding my hand. I saw something moving from my elbow to my neck. I smirked as I moved the scalpel upward and stabbed into my shoulder, with a moving bulge was.

My nerves was still working there, and it sent a stinging sensation along my neck. Trickles of blood was sliding down my forearm, and I reached in to grab the creature inside of me. I pulled it out with a terrible spurt of blood following. It was a nasty little fella. its skin was brownish red and had human-like bulging eyes. The limbs on this abomination were twisted and it struggled to escape my grasp.

My head felt light and I struggled to breathe. The bottled blood on the tile floor had been growing by the second. I closed my eyes and everything went dark. I woke up in a pool of my own blood. My clothes were crusted brown for my wounds and my mouth had a disgusting metallic tail. I spat on the floor and looked around. The corpse that was previously on the table had vanished, and the disgusting little creting from earlier had disappeared as well.

The fluorescent lights flickered, and I took off my jacket to cover my wounds. I tied it around my neck to cover the massive gash over my shoulder. The only sounds were the buzzing from the flickering bulbs, and something that sounded like tapping on the floor. after all that happened I needed something to defend myself with I scanned the floor and saw the scarlet soaked scalpel on the ground

I slowly leaned down and grabbed it blood touched the tips of my fingers as I fished the knife out of the red, viscous liquid I wiped the scalpel on my dirty, gore-covered shirt and paste around the morgue very carefully every time the light flickered I felt as if something was near me

walking around the small corridors. Maybe it was closer than I thought. I stumbled into a corner where I stayed for what seemed like an eternity. I held the knife up, shaking and trembling. If I had lost any more blood, I'd say I'd probably be dead right now. The adrenaline rushed through my body, and I was ready to attack at any second. I thought something would jump at me or pounce from the ceiling,

but those expectations changed when I saw a slight silhouette in the dark hallway parallel from me. I blinked and tried to make out what it was. It looked bulky. It slowly shifted around and every once in a while it let out a quiet, wet snarl.

I held my breath and tried not to draw any sudden attention to me. The thing made its way towards me. Each step led out a terrible, wet, sludgy air. echo that resonated in the morgue. Dread filled every inch of my body, and terror had fled through my veins. As I focused on the thing, I noticed something. It had an ashy, burnt up a body with a crippled torso and mutilated face.

Its lower body was twisted and wet. What is this thing? What is it? It was the corpse. I was getting killed here. ironic, huh, dying in a morgue. I bet my friends would have a good laugh about that. I didn't think twice about fighting.

At this point, the creature was at reaching distance. After all this fighting, I just wanted to close my eyes and sleep. I woke up with a terrible headache. Sirens pierced my ears and blew in red lights flashed like thunder. I was in an ambulance. I could feel the rumble balloon. me crunched beneath the speeding wheels. I was so tired.

My memory was fuzzy at the time. I didn't know what was happening. The air masks ran in my mouth, filled my lungs, with a slightly sweet tasting gas. My limbs were numb, and I couldn't move. Bandages were wrapped around nearly all my appendages. The ride was kind of soothing, and when I arrived at the hospital,

I felt a huge relief of hope, a sort of safe space, between me and that disgusting beast. I zoned out for a bit, but I could feel fresh sheets and blankets surrounding me, like a warm hug. Dozens of pill bottles littered my nightstand, and I was forced to chug this despicable medicine every day.

Ives were littered around my body in various places, and I was tucked into paper-like blankets. In some way, I felt dead, like I was supposed to die. I should have died. Why am I still here? I have no purpose anymore. I wanted to get out of there and end everything already.

As the days went on, I could notice my skin getting noticeably more dark and irritated. Dark veins shot through my body, and doctors came into my room regularly to check in on me. Every time they come in, they seem more terrified than last time. I want to know what's going on, but every time I ask a doctor, they don't answer. All they do is stare hopelessly into my eyes and apologize to me. Why are they apologising? I want to know what's going on. I don't have any answers.

The only reason I'm telling you this is because I don't think I have a lot more time left. There's something squirming in my left arm, like some sort of electricity. I have withheld a secret. A secret so terrible That it cannot possibly be confided In any other living being on this earth A secret that has gnawed at me

For the past seven months That continues the suck of life out of me With the passing of each day And now it is consumed my soul entirely Dreams of that cursed place Have certainly played a part And I find that not even sleep Can serve as an escape from the horror

That makes its presence known in the back of my mind I have learned that some of my mind I have learned that some secrets don't stay buried and they will wait with endless, deadly patience until they get what they desire. I write this in a state of hopelessness and defeat, but also with acceptance of my fate and whatever fate has in store for me beyond that.

I cannot avoid these forces that refuse to rest forever. I brought this upon myself. I must accept responsibility for my horrifying actions. I write this because I simply cannot let this secret eat me from the inside out any longer, and I realize that it is time to open the cursed gates of my soul and let whatever dark poison that dwells within spill out onto this page. Ink has never been so black. I might as well quit dancing around the details and finally shed light on what truly exists among the crooked trees of blackthorn woods. This nameless evil does not stem from ancient tales of ancient entities passed down to the darkest trees.

passed down to the aeons, neither is it facts twisted into unbelievable fiction like certain tales. What now dwells within the cursed woods is all too real, and is a direct product of my unforgivable actions. I suppose I should begin by addressing the innocent person who incited the chain of horrors that eventually led to the demise of both us in the long run. If Jonathan Gedney had never stepped foot into Blackthorn, then I could guarantee. his longevity, but I cannot guarantee my own either way. Jonathan Gedney was a college student studying journalism from Gridlock University and had wished to do an article on the history of Blackthorn. Since I am the chief of the pitiful police force of this town,

he assumed I would be the best choice to draw information from. The ghost stories that are woven throughout the town's past aren't exactly unknown by the surrounding towns, but attempts have been made to hush them up enough to where clear details are often hazy and sometimes vacant altogether. These hidden pieces of information are what fuels the curiosity of people like Jonathan Gedney and therefore they are what brought him to my front doorstep. When he first introduced himself to me, he made clear that he wanted as much information as possible. His goal must have been to write a piece that would contain secrets that no other inquiring outsider had ever been able to attain.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that no method of prying would achieve anything better than the fools before him. Hollow dreams of feign and recognition is what he sought ultimately. But no ordinary man could crack open the tomb of secrets that have been carefully preserved by the town itself for centuries. These stories began in the late 1600s

when the fear of witches was rampant and where many women were executed without mercy, Salem suffered a very similar ordeal, but Blackthorn didn't ever make it to the history books, due to how the isolated nature of the town made it difficult for information to escape. One particular witch stood out among the others, killing more men and children than any other of a kind, and evading capture eight times. When she was finally bound and shackled and brought to the gallows in front of the leering townspeople, she screamed a ton of curses upon the town that was supposedly heard in the next time.

town over. This period was certainly the darkest stain in Blackthorn's history, and many people refused to acknowledge it altogether. However, there was an odd event that occurred centuries later in the early 1800s that stirred up whispers about certain dark forces that appeared to have the town gripped in their claws. Mayor John Lackley had just been voted into office, defeating his opponent James Frye. Lackley was a man who indulged in fashion, and his choice clothing often served as a strategy to direct attention towards himself. He could often be seen wearing a blue suit that accomplished this without difficulty. Lackleys boasts about his achievements were often unchecked, so when he went missing soon after the election, many people suspected

that he was murdered. James Fry took office soon afterwards, but many people noticed his increased anxiety and paranoia. His mental state only got worse from there, and supposedly he He had complained to a few colleagues about strange reoccurring nightmares that wouldn't release their hold on him. A week later, he was last seen walking quietly towards the woods. And it was also strange to the townspeople, and he never once stopped to acknowledge anyone who sent a greeting in his direction. He was never seen again. These old tales could have peaked to get in his interest, yet there was a specific story he specifically asked for. At the mention of it, I immediately became overwhelmed with raw fear, twisted with panic to form a shapeless mass of emotion that pulsed within my heart.

He asked with such innocence, not knowing the full weight of his words on my fragile shoulders. Tell me the story everyone wants to know, he said. Tell me about the children of Blackthorn Woods. Somehow I kept my composure, and I was quite proud that I was able to answer him without a trace of. of nervous quivering my voice. I politely refused, attributing my unhelpfulness to a lack of knowledge in the subject, even though I knew the story better than anyone in the town. He persisted and even went so far as to request my presence as a guide for a trip into this haunted wood itself. He explained his intentions as wanting to be able to, quote, experience

the atmosphere, so he could better describe it in his peace. At this, I declined. a bit more forcefully. The thought of those woods alone gave me chills to the bone, but to step foot in them was a new level of horror altogether. I swore seven months ago that I would never grace those evil woods with my presence ever again. However, Jonathan Gedney was not easily dissuaded. He pleaded with me, almost, saying that it wouldn't take long,

that we would be in and out before I knew it. I think he sensed my fear of that dreaded place, even if he didn't fully understand where the fear stemmed from. I am not proud to say that I complied sooner than what I would have wanted. Already, I was viewing Jonathan Gedney as a personal curse, sent from the maniacal gods of fate that were laughing hysterically at my expense. I tried to convince myself that maybe this arrogant youth was right, and maybe nothing bad would come from this trip into the woods.

Witnesses later said that they saw us approaching the woods and half past six, the sun casting its blood-red glow over the silent town as it began its slow descent. As we walked toward the looming tree line of Blackthorn Woods that waited silently for us, I began to fill Jonathan in on the series of horrors that shook the town to its core seven months ago. I began by explaining what the woods served as for the majority of the children who grew up in the quiet town of Blackthorn. The children would attend their classes at a small secondary school during day, anxiously waiting until dismissal. Then the rest of the evening was spent in the woods, where most of the children would congregate and play games together in the dying white of the sun until the street lamps flickered on, effectively calling them home. Parents trusted them and trusted that they would be safe.

They had no reason to think otherwise. What exactly happened? nobody truly knows. Afterwards, most people assumed it was an accident that it was a wild rabies-crazed animal because no other evidence could be found except for a blood-soaked tatter of clothing. As for the children themselves,

the only eyewitnesses to the horror that occurred within the woods no information could be pried from their lips. This was what drove my own curiosity to new depths and it is what made me question the true cause of what happened. If it was merely an accident, why were the children so damn quiet? What was preventing them from spilling the details of a killing they had nothing to do with? I had no proof of any other explanation, but I could not let this case close completely. I was driven by a need for justice for the victim, and I would do anything to attain it.

for the victim was my very own son. His body was never found, contributing to the theory of a wild animal attack. I suspected that one of those evil children had killed him, and one certain child came to mind. Vincent Bradford, an ever-present shadow upon all the other children's lives, ruled the schoolyard out of fear. He was a bully, simply put, and the full extent of darkness within his soul was unknown. He was unpredictable and some of his teachers had expressed concerns about his mental health. I believed that he could be capable of murder, even if it wasn't intentional. A sharp stake in the ground, a shove and a twisted root sticking out to the ground could be enough for a recipe for disaster.

But, as I have stated before, I have no proof, and therefore my theories fell upon deaf ears, and I was forced into silence. The parents of the children were soon reassured by a sweeping of the woods for wild animals, which revealed that whatever fanged monstrosity had dared to approach the children on that horrible day had vanished, and the children were hesitantly allowed to return to the woods once again. A second tragedy struck the town immediately after, which proved my earlier theories invalid. Despite the search for any traces of wild animals within Blackthorn woods, a second child disappeared the same way as the first. This child was Vincent Bradley, and upon learning the name of the victim, I was forced to disregard the possibility of him being behind the murder of my son.

This time, the children were less restrained when it came to the details of the event, as if something that had previously compelled them to withhold information had lifted its hold on them and therefore loosen their tongues. Although this was a good sign, their statements soon proved to be just as useful as when they had refused to say anything at all. The most common shred of information that we could derive from their absurd descriptions was that they'd all witnessed, quote, a tall man and a boy with black eyes. Take Vincent in some violent manner that was too terrible for them to put into words. Afterwards, the children were sit in silence with wide eyes, refusing to say another word. It was clear that whatever they had truly seen it had scared them on a level deep enough for the experience to be traumatic.

But the horrors had not yet relinquished their hold on the town and the horrible climax transpired in silence. The children returned to the woods once more but that would forever be known as a fatal mistake. For all of the children vanished without a trace this time, leaving the town reeling. This time there was doubt that a wild animal was responsible. The possibility of children getting lost was also deemed unrealistic by the town,

as the chances of the entire group getting lost at once was near impossible, which raised a burning question that has never left the minds of all the grieving parents since that day. Who, or what, could be responsible. By the time I'd finished telling Gedney about the horrors intertwined with Blackthorns past, we'd entered the haunted woods themselves, which seemed to be the heart of every tale this town had to offer. The woods were a chilling place for anyone, I realised, as I watched getting his uneasiness increased by the minute. The woods were a scene from a nightmare.

The ground was littered with broken and with the toys from the lost children. The only witnesses to the terrible events that had occurred in those woods. The picture was one of quiet abandonment. Dirt's much teddy bears with their eyes or limbs missing. Cracked wooden soldiers lying forgotten. on the cursed battlefield among the overgrown weeds, and old toy cars that had no one left to push them along the cursed soil. Gedney was oddly silent throughout my retelling of the stories,

and he captured photographs with a manner of urgency, as if now that he was finally in the woods, he wanted to be out as soon as possible. I, too, was nervous, but for reasons he couldn't have known. Bringing up the topic of those children had also brought back all of the fear that had been overwhelming my mind

ever since it had happened. I had been trying to force the thought of those children out of my head for a long time and now that I was facing it head on, I became aware of the nervous tremors that were making themselves known along my spine. Gedney eventually broke the silence

by asking a few questions which was expected considering he was there to write an article about the town in the first place. He inquired about if there were any new leads, to which I answered in the negative. I was visibly tense at this point, and my level of nervousness was only climbing higher, which contributed to the horrifying scene that unfolded next.

I come now to a point where it is hard for me to recall the events that followed, not because they have slipped from my memory, but because they have been deliberately bricked up in the vaults of my mind to prevent me from going mad. Even now, I wonder if what I saw was a delusion, triggered by the extreme act that I committed. I certainly hope so. But as I now review the horrible sight that I beheld, I can't help but to realize how the pieces fit together in a way

to suggest horrors beyond my comprehension. If what I saw and assume from it is true, then Blackthorn Woods must be an entity of evil in itself and should be avoided at all costs. In my defence, my mental state was not at its best, due to the chilling atmosphere of that cursed place. My paranoia was at dangerous levels, and it is what ultimately caused the death of an innocent man within Blackthorn Woods.

Jonathan Gedney had been asking me a series of questions that made sense for the article he was aspiring to write, and his last inquiry was one of innocence as well. He simply wondered out loud if the children could have possibly been murdered. What we both didn't expect? Was my response? My paranoia, anxiety and fear all swelled to a point that proved to be too much for my sanity. The next few moments were a blur.

Yet, as I remember every detail that followed, I remember his wide eyes staring into mine, his expression of shock mirroring my own, his hand clawed feebly at his throat. and then I realized that he was trying to pry my hands away without success I was strangling him

horrified that I was doing so yet I couldn't stop he knew somehow he knew and I couldn't let him escape those woods he would tell I knew he would because he knew I killed

those children seven months ago their blood is on my hands and no matter how many times I washed them, it never fades. I killed them, but I never meant to. All I wanted was to identify whoever committed those cursed acts of murder within those shadowed woods. I knew it was no animal that took my son away from me. Anger overwhelmed me that day when I silently ventured into the woods and confront those children all at once. Anger is what killed us children, not I. Anger at the silence of their secretiveness.

They knew what happened, and they refused to tell me. How is any man expected to withhold his agony of being unable to find his son's killer? Of mercy. Mercy cannot be given to those who do not give answers to a grieving father. Mercy will not be given to a man who might know a murderous secret. I am not certain how long I stood over getting his limp body in the silent woods, my sanity struggling to knit itself back together. Twilight had settled over the time.

and my eyes struggled to see my surroundings clearly. Perhaps it was an illusion that occurred next, for my state of mind was not at its best. But even if it was so, it doesn't explain the persistent dreams that halt my mind in the dead of night. The first hint that I was not alone any longer came in the form of rustling in the undergrowth to my left.

I started rather violently, so deep into my twisting thoughts and emotions that I had quite forgotten where I was. The rustling slowly became more prominent, and I soon realized that it was also coming from the opposite direction as well. Before long, it seemed as if the entire area was alive with movement in the undergrowth. I waited, anxiously, with bated breath, to glimpse whatever was emerging, oddly curious rather than afraid.

It appeared suddenly, sniffling and grunting, as it blindly groped his way out of the undergrowth. Its movements was slow and jerky, like it wasn't quite familiar with its own form. My first perception of it was an animal of sorts, judging from the way it walked in all fours. Its pale skin was stretched tight over its bones, and, as my eyes viewed its face,

I had the strange sensation that I was dreaming all of a sudden. My impression that it was somehow blind was evidently correct, for two black sockets stared at me from where the eye should have been. When my horrified gaze shifted to the lower half of its face, however, my sanity fully departed once again, and the rest of the events are hard for me to determine whether they were real or not. I have mentioned already that I believe that this episode could have been a delusion, and those who read this after I disappeared will most likely determine that it was nothing more.

This is understandable. Because to try and accept that these events are real is to accept the onslaught of madness itself. I often think that I am mad. And if I am, I shall also state that madness is bliss, compared to facing the horrors that dwell within Blackthorn Woods. The mouth, if one could call that appendage such a thing, was a protruding mass of flesh and gums, with yellow teeth bursting cautiously from the opening.

The opening of the jaws were positioned vertically, possessing a haunting similarity to a grotesque version of an insect's mandibles. They open and shut with a wet sounding snap, strings of drool dangling from the opening. But the most terrifying aspect of the creature was the way, it somehow appeared human. I must slow down now and choose my words carefully. The most human-like quality about them

that brought upon a fresh wave of horror was the fact that the creature was wearing clothing. An incredibly non-animistic attribute. But what sent my mind spiraling into confusion and panic was the clothing itself. It was wearing ripped, dirt-stained Georgian's apparel, like something that a young student might wear. The thing crawled slowly across the soil, sniffing curiously at Jonathan Kent in his body. But a moment of confusion swept over me as I noticed that the undergrowth around me was still rustling. Even then, the true horror came, and I was unable to contain the scream of fear that burst unforeseen from my

lips. The woods were alive around me with movement, and soon I was able to see why. Where the first thing it had emerged from the undergrowth, more were now following suit. They scurried like overgrown rats, a writhing mass of pale bodies dressed in children's clothing. The wet snaps and clicks of their jaws I shall never forget, and it is a little bit of the that sound in my endless nightmares that causes me to awaken in a mausrum of terror in the dead of night.

I stood among them, paralyzed with fear. None of them fully took notice of me, for which I'm grateful. Instead, they seem to be focused on curiously exploring the body of Jonathan Gedney, which I'd forgotten was there

in the light of the other events which had taken place. One thing that sparked my curiosity, was that one of the creatures was the same in appearance, yet it was considerably larger, and it were a faded blue outfit that might have once been called a suit. Shock caused through my veins as, all of a sudden, they began to feed. Their mandibles clamped tightly on getting his arms and legs,

tearing strips of flesh from his body with horrifying voraciousness. But the true shock came a moment later, when a long groan split the air, and I watched as Jonathan Gedney's eyes flashed open to behold a nightmare. I realised then, with yet another wave of unspeakable horror, that my attempts of strangling him must have only succeeded into sinking him into unconsciousness. I think Gedney would have screamed then, if it had not been for the large portion of his throat being torn out

by one of those hellish demons of that moment. This time, I watched as his life drained from his body in a torrent of red. He reached out for me in those last moments with a tense hand, his tendons straining against the taut skin. His eyes pleaded with me, his attacker, to save him. He wanted me to save him. How could I save him? And I couldn't even do the same for my soul.

Oddly, the human-eyed creatures didn't seem to have the slightest interest in me at that moment. They were entirely focused on their prey. And even when they sometimes turned to stare at me with a hollow, Sockets, they were cast in shadow, their gaze seemed cast with curiosity rather than hostility. Nonetheless, I felt a creeping chill along my spine whenever they looked at me, which came with the overwhelming urge to flee. Yet, I could not move. I was frozen, watching the horror unfold with my disbelieving eyes.

One of the children stood up suddenly, and it was horrifying to see the creature behave. so human-like. It stared at me with the same interest as the others, but its gaze lingered much longer. Its mandibles clicked, as if it was attempting to speak. The guitaral sound that came forth from that hideous appendage broke the spell that had been rooting me in place, and I scrambled out of those forbidden woods in a blind panic.

I don't remember much after that, but I think I made it back to my home safely, because the next morning I awoke in bed, as if the entire episode had been nothing but a terrible dream. But I soon recall the syllables uttered by that childlike being in the woods the night before, and I abruptly sank into a fit of delirium that did not release his hole to my exhausted mind for several hours. I swear upon Jonathan Kedney's body that the word I heard produced from those horrible mandibles of that childlike monstrosity was, Daddy?

That night will forever be engraved in my memory and the conclusions that I drew from the things I witnessed still threatened to overwhelm me in madness. I cannot explain what Blackthorn is or how this creature's came to be but I can guess at what dwells within. I must only hint at what I believe the terrible truth is for your sake.

You must know the truth so that no other soul becomes lost those cursed woods. Burn them, if you must, but never go within to face the horrors that reside there. Blackthorn woods, a parasite that is buried its roots deep within Blackthorn's soil, feeds on those who are far too gone. It hunts the souls who have destroyed themselves with guilt, and it feeds on whoever else meets an untimely end within those woods. It is always waiting, like a spider in its web, for a soul to wander along unsusperienced. and fall into the tangle of horrors that soon prove inescapable by mortal means.

There is a space, one might call it a net of sorts between life and the afterlife, and this space is called Blackthorn Woods. Weak souls are taken advantage of, and trapped forever in a state of constant restlessness and hunger for vengeance. I have now become entwined with the black magic of that cursed place at the edge of town, and I accept the fact that I will sacrifice my soul to the inevitable fate of Blackthorn Woods. I now wonder if those woods grow stronger with each feeding, because, ever since I left Jonathan Gedney to the mercy of those creatures, my reoccurring nightmares have grown unbearable.

I see those children that I murdered all those months ago, and sometimes their faces blur between their mortal features and the twisted black-eye mask that Blackthorn Woods has given them. My son stands with them, and I have even glimpsed kidney among their numbers. And the blue man lingers in the background, his hollow sockets, leaving no excuse for the centuries his witness come to pass. The gridlock police are questioning me. They wonder where their missing college student has gone. They do not suspect me yet, but they will eventually.

I know it. I have no happy endings, no matter what path I take. they wait What is any mortal man to do in my place Under such compelling forces That continue to render humanity defenseless To its curse I go to them today

I cannot take another night of the dreams I am on the wrong side of this curse As James Fry was all those centuries ago I have confessed And still the dreams do not relent Which must mean that my fate is unavoidable I must go today and when I do

I shall face those cursed children that hunger for my soul my son shall be there and I believe that Jonathan Gedney now waits for me as well who knows where a killer's soul goes but there is no time to speculate I can hear them now

calling my name in a dreadful whisper calling me to their final domain the moment has come and as I write my final words upon this page, I realize that I was never to go further than this. My fate was predetermined. There is no other explanation. I've always belonged there.

I belong to the children. Of Blackthorn Woods. As I write this today, it is in the hope that my experience will help someone. I must admit that my story is unusual, and I know most of you won't believe it. But at least I will be able to look at myself in the mirror, knowing I did everything in my power to save innocent people. To make sense, I guess I should start from the beginning. The moment I first met Emiko, the first time I met her was outside my front door.

A few days before, I had posted an ad on Craig's list to find a roommate. I didn't enjoy sharing my living space, but I'm a student and my family can't afford to to help pay for my tuition or rent. So, I had to be creative to make and save money. I needed someone to pay half the rent. My apartment was situated in Paris, had two bedrooms, I was close to the transportation in several shops. Not long after I posted the ad,

my inbox was almost full of all the emails I received. To be honest, I was not intending to open them all. I did not want to spend hours or even days going through each message. So, to start with, I opted for a first-come-first-serve approach, which was not effective. I don't know if people were lazy, or because the offer was so interesting, but all the emails I opened were the same. Hey, I just saw you read on Craigslist, and I'm interested. Looking forward to hearing from you. I quickly got bored, reading almost the same thing over and over. So, I went to the kitchen to grab some snacks and coffee to help me get through this boring task.

When I sat back in front of my laptop, I noticed that an email had just arrived, and the address directly caught my attention. Emiko.shabata and Ashenet and Asi Annette.jit.jit.jep. It was not an address I'd seen before, but the name of the person let me know that the sender was a Japanese woman. It made me even more eager to open the email. You see, since my childhood, I was obsessed. with everything that had to do with Japan. Japanese history, culture and gastronomy were always a passion of mine, so much so that I was slowly learning the language,

intending to travel to Japan in the future and finally visit the country that I loved dearly without even setting foot in it. I quickly clicked on the email, hoping to not be disappointed by its contents. I was not. The email in front of me was long, but well written. And, reading it, I learned a lot about Emiko. Emiko. She was 24, just a bit older than me. She came to Paris so she could go to art school in the country that, for her, represented art the best. That made me smile to know she was interested

in my country as I was in hers. And to top it all, she had added some pictures of her that she took during several trips in different regions of Japan. I was astonished by a beauty. She was tall, her eyes and smile were beautiful, and she seemed genuinely. really nice. But what caught my attention was her hair. It was breathtaking. It was dark, thick, and fell down to her upper thighs. In one picture, she was in the middle of a forest, the rust color of the trees and the leaves flying around her left no doubt about the season. And her hair flowed in a way that seemed to have a mind of its own. When I was done reading her email and looking at the pictures over and over. I just wanted to know more about her, and who knew, become good friends who share

common interests. I replied with the time and date for her to come and visit my apartment, and to my great pleasure, she agreed to it. The day finally arrived, and when I opened my door, I was surprised to see that she was even more beautiful than in the pictures, and she seemed even nicer. I greeted her with a big smile and we started the chat as if we had known each other for years. She spoke French almost fluently and her accent only added to a charm. After that I gave her a tour of the apartment.

She loved it and that's how Emiko and I became roommates. It's been a year since then and just as I suspected our friendship only grew during that time. Emiko was easygoing and a delight to live with. She did her share of the chores. She was discreet, and the cherry on the cake was that she didn't mind spending hours talking about Japan

and the little village she came from in the region of Nagano. But what I enjoyed the most were all the delicious meal she cooked for us every day. She loved to cook, but strangely she ate like a bird. I often teased her about it, saying that her appetite was as small as a mouth, and having a great sense of humour she always laughed before saying that by my logic my big mouth was in no doubt the reason

I ate that much I guess that by now you were wondering what I've just told you as to do with the warning I said I was going to give you well once you hear the rest everything will fall into place

because as great as Emiko was there was always something that felt weird to me She was incapable of keeping a relationship. Every few weeks she brought her a new guy, and what was even weirder was that she seemed happy with them, and they seemed completely mesmerized by her. I could not understand why she broke up with each guy so quickly and so suddenly. At first, every time she broke up, I would ask her why.

She always gave me the same answer, that thing simply did not work out. Each time she seemed so uncomfortable that I just stopped asking. And while afterward, I discovered exactly why none of her relationships lasted. Everything happened during summer break. As usual, I decided to go back to my hometown and spend the holidays with my family. I talked to Emiko about my plan, and she seemed sad to see me go. But she quickly shot a joke about how it would allow her to paint half naked while in the living room

while listening to loud classical music. I left and had a wonderful time with my family, but during my stay, I felt guilty leaving Emiko all by herself, as if I knew I was her only friend. So, I decided to surprise her and go back to our place on the afternoon of December 31st, just in time for New Year's Eve.

When I arrived home, I called her name, but she wasn't there. I assumed she'd gone shocked, I would spend the evening to cook one of a lovely meals. As I entered the living room, I saw that Emiko kept a word. Her paintings were drying, and they were all paintings of her exes. At first, I found that strange, but we all have ways of getting over our exes, right? After contemplating a beautiful work, I went to my room to unpack while I waited for her to come back,

and as I was finishing, I heard the elevator stopping at our floor. Without thinking twice, I ran to Emiko's bedroom and hid under a bed so I could scare her and make the surprise even more memorable. I heard her enter the apartment and closed the door behind her. I knew she always took her for shoes before going to a room to put a jacket inside a wardrobe, and it would be the perfect moment for me to suddenly jump out of my hiding place. As I was getting ready to jump out, I saw Emiko in the reflection of the standing mirror next to a bed

enter the room with a guy, kissing him passionately. It was Eric, the guy Emiko was dating before I left. I completely froze when I saw them. I did not know what to do. If I just popped from under the bed, they'd think I was crazy. But if I waited and got caught, after they started to do God knows what, they'd think I was a freak. As a million scenarios went through my head, I kept looking from time to time in the mirror,

trying to find a way to get out of here without being seen. But unfortunately, there was none. I had to be brave and take responsibility for my childish attempt to scare Emiko. Even if it meant I would look like a complete fool in front of her and her boyfriend. As I was gathering the courage to move, I checked the mirror one last time. but something strange caught my attention. Emiko and Eric were still kissing. Eric had his hands on her hips,

and Emiko had hers around his neck, with her back to the mirror. But strangely, her hair was moving, as if someone was coming through it. I could not wrap my mind around it. Was it possible? They were both already busy holding each other. I kept looking at the mirror,

squinting, and I nearly yelled when I understood what was going on with her hair. It was moving on its own, and as it parted on either side, over her shoulders, it unveiled a mouth on a scalp. A huge mouth filled with sharp, crooked teeth and a thin, pointed tongue. Petrified by what I was witnessing, I did not move when a hair wrapped itself around Eric's neck and his wrists before tightening around it. The poor guy did not even have time to do anything. I'd even scream as Emiko's hair strangled him. He faced the mirror, and I saw his scared, confused face

before the last glimmer of life completely disappeared from his eyes. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep my cries inside, to avoid being seen. But what I saw next was so chilling, I doubt that I would have been able to make any sound. Emiko's hair just lifted Eric's body in the air and her second mouth opened so wide it looked like someone had struck on the back of the head

with a hatchet, splitting it in two. Her hair started to put Eric's head inside the mouth as it chewed away with a disgusting wet sound. It fed him in, bit by bit, until Eric's corpse disappeared completely. After that, the mouth simply closed and Amigo's hair fell back into place, leaving no trace of the horror it hid.

I stayed. motionless, shocked, but also petrified that I could meet the same end if I was discovered. As my body shook still, Emiko turned around, tears running down her cheeks

before she left the room and closed the door behind her. Still hidden, I stayed under the bed, praying she wouldn't go to my room and discover that I came back early from my trip. Minutes fell like hours, and my heart thudded as my mind replayed Eric's death,

time and again. I heard the front door open and close. Emiko was not in the apartment anymore. I left a bedroom as quickly as I could and went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I knew she could come back at any minute and I'd have to act as if nothing happened. After I could breathe normally again, I went to the living room and waited for her to come back. What I really wanted though was to get out of there and never come back. When she did come back, she seemed genuinely happy to see me, but she asked me several times how long I've been home.

Of course, I lied. I don't know how I did it, but I managed to see the New Year in with her before telling her I was tired and was going to my room. I spent the entire night searching the internet, looking for someone with the same experience as mine. After all the research, I think I know what Emigo is. I think she's a Futukuchiana, according to one of those websites I visited. A Futukigiana is a beautiful woman who has a tiny mouth and an appetite just as small.

But at the back of her head, she has a huge second mouth hidden under her hair. Although she appears to eat little to no food, the mouth on the back of her head is always hungry. It is said that the second mouth also has a mind of its own and whispers horrible things to the woman. It threatens her, harasses her and demands food frequently. It can screech and cause the poor woman afflicted with this curse an unbearable amount of pain until it is fed. The mouth can also control her hair and make it wrap around the food before shoveling it inside its mouth. The mouth helps itself to its desired meal and eats an astronomical amount of food. After reading that, I remembered that Emiko was crying after a second mouth ate Eric.

Everything was clear. Emiko had to find food for the monstrosity she had at the back of her head if she did not want to be persecuted and tortured by it. Now I understood. I felt pity, not fear for Emiko. I knew why she was always so kind and joyful. She was trying to compensate for the horrible thing she had to do for the monster that was using her body.

And I could not decently abandon her to a misery. I was her only friend. If she really wanted to hurt me, she would have done it by now. Anyway, it is not me I'm worried about. But you? Because Emiko is planning a trip to visit several countries around the world

during the summer vacation. So, be careful. If you see a young, beautiful Japanese woman with locious long hair and a small appetite, do not engage with her. Because, as nice and thoughtful as she is, you won't know what she truly is. Before, it's too late. I was an only child up to the age of six, and, truth be told, I don't remember much of the time I spent being the only recipient of attention from my family. I remember that my parents liked to do it on me, almost to an excruciating day.

agree, and my grandparents did no less of the sorts. If anything, they did it even more, providing me with more sugary treats, toys and gifts any kid could only dream to get. It was entertaining in the beginning. Soon enough, however, I realized that it would be fun to have a sibling, someone to share the glory of being the son or daughter of this family. I didn't know it at the time, but my parents had trouble conceiving children. Having me was a risk and a hassle enough as it was.

So, having another one seemed unlikely. Yet, it seemed that my prayers were answered, because, not long after I turned six, my mother announced that there would be another baby in the family. There was a grand celebration, and every family member in the vicinity, my aunt and uncle with my cousin Benedict, my grandparents, some of the relatives I didn't know about,

attended the gathering and gave their congratulations to my parents. There was cake and balloons and gifts to help prepare for the upcoming arrival of my sibling. I was ecstatic as well, and I could see the tears in my mother's eyes as everything unfolded around them. At first, I expected them to be tears of pure joy. She was a very emotional person. However, the longer I looked at her as she tried to dry the tears away, my six-year-old mind could already deduce that it wasn't look of joy. It was pain that filled a gaze.

The months went by in the blink of an eye, and while my father and I were counting down the days before my sibling finally arrived, my mother seemed to grow gaunter and wearier with each day that went by. I thought she would be happy having another child. My father and I certainly were. But why did her happiness seem to with her? I wasn't the only one who seemed to notice this. My father did, and I hid behind the door when he confronted her about this.

He even went as far as the suggest therapy, to what he referred to as postpartum depression, which I didn't know what it was at the time, and my mother lashed out at him, and a huge fight erupted between them. Why are you so against this, Liz? This is what we both wanted. My father yelled at her. I didn't want this. You did. My mother snapped back. I never agreed to this. I thought you were going to be happy. We were trying for so long, and all we got was Ellie. Ellie. Ellie was enough, James, for you, for both of us.

I went to my room after that, not wanting to hear anything else as I hid under my covers, trying to muffle the sounds of their argument with my head shoved under the pillow. I hoped that this would be the only time I ever heard them argue so vehemently. Ordinarily, they were loving and affectionate towards one another, but after that, things only escalated from there. My mother became more depressed and refused to eat as much as she was. she normally would. My father became more violent, not physically, but he would yell and break me for everything and nothing at the same time. My mother wasn't excluded from this sort of treatment,

and if anything, she received the worst of it. My father was only one inch from hitting her at one point, and he most likely would have had I not stepped in and intervened. I didn't like this change in our family dynamic. just wanted it to all go back to how it always was. I didn't resent my unborn sibling for what happened, because I knew the fault did not lie with them. There was something else that had changed, but it was something my six-year-old brain could not quite comprehend. Sometime later, when my mother was six months along, she was sleeping on the living room couch, and I was watching her. That's when I noticed that her stomach seemed to...

The baby was kicking, and I'd never seen it do that before. I didn't wake my mother up, so after carefully making my way to the couch, I sat down next to her and watched the activity my baby's belly as close as I could without disturbing her peace. I can't wait until you're out, I whispered, followed by a small giggle. We can ride bikes and play how I didn't seek and tag, and we can play with my dolls, but I don't know if you're a boy or girl yet, so we'll have to wait and see if you even like doll. Then, as if out of nowhere, a voice spoke back to me. I wouldn't mind playing dolls with you.

It was a child's voice, a boy, but it didn't sound... Right. There was something crawling under his tone, something I couldn't put a name on. I don't know what it was, and when I looked around the room for anyone else, I found none. I turned back to the belly. Can you talk? I can. I didn't learn to talk until Lois 3.

Can babies talk before they're out? No, but I can. How's that? I don't know, but I don't like it in here. He continued, muffled by the barriers of my mother's womb. I want to get out. I think you all soon, I replied, trying to brighten his mood a little. I'm sure Mommy and Daddy.

will be happy as soon as you're here with us. Then he said something that made my childish fantasy come to an end. They won't be. Why is that? He didn't speak after that. And when I tried to ask and pry him for more information, I woke up my mother, who chastised me for waking her up and sent me to my room so she could get some more rest. My father came home shortly after that, and I could hear them argue from the comfort of my room.

Sometime after that, I spoke to my unborn brother again after my mother had lay down to take a routinely nap. So, you're going to become my brother? Yes, I decided that the male gender would provide me more opportunities. Can babies decide if they want to become a boy or girl? No, but I can. How's that? You are a very curious child. My grandma says too.

It's very tenacious. What's that mean? It's a big word. Never mind, he said. You protected us, and for that, I owe you a debt. What's a debt? He was quiet for a couple of seconds, before he spoke again. Once I'm out of this flesh prison I've been confined in, we can talk like normal people.

But I like how we're talking now. It's just fine, I argued, not seeing the floor in my logic. You didn't believe I'd stay in here forever, did you? No, but will you still talk when you're out of mommy's belly? It will... Take me some time to adjust, but I'll talk eventually. So I'll have to wait before we can talk again. Naturally, he said flatly.

So, how come you're able to talk now before you even out? That doesn't make any sense. A few things make sense, child. least of all me. You don't make any sense. How so? Because I'm not like you. Of course not.

You're a boy, I exclaimed, reclining when I noticed my mother stirring in asleep. I didn't want to wake her up because that meant my conversation with my sibling would have to continue on another note. That's not what I implied, he said, evidently grown tired of my lack of understanding,

I'm not like you. I blinked in confusion. But mommy and daddy made you, so you have to be. Your mother did not procreate me with your father. He is a barren one. You have to stop using so many big words, I shouted, frustrated, which ultimately woke my mother up. Thus, our conversation was ended. I didn't have another talk with it.

him up until he was born. I remember being at the hospital after my mother had given birth, with my baby brother locked inside some kind of glass box. He was cute, and I stared at him with a smile on my face as I watched my baby brother sleep peacefully there. My mother, on the other hand, was far from peaceful. I overheard the nurses saying that she refused to look at the infant, much less hold him after he was born.

She was in hysterics, crying and yelling at my father as we visited after the delivery. The doctors had a sedate her in an effort to keep her from moving from the bed, as she was already in a fragile state as it was. Before we returned home, a couple of days later, I was allowed to hold the baby. He was heavy, but that was a given since I was just six years old. He was also quiet and didn't talk at all, but I didn't really mind it I was fine with just looking at him

When are you going to talk? I asked as I cradled him in my arms When can we talk again? I miss talking to you He didn't answer But his eyes were on me for the entire time He had such silvery bright eyes I didn't think much of it at the time But I later learned what was so strange about it

My eyes were blue, and my mothers were green, and my father's eyes were brown. I initially thought that after the baby was born, things would go back to normal in our family. My mother and father would become the loving parents that they always were, and we could play together and have fun like we used to. No, things became much, much worse from there. My mother never recovered from the birth, and she and my father would get into these constant fights that ended with broken furniture and shattered glass on the floor.

By then I was used to the fights, but not exactly these kinds of fights. Whenever they argued, I would just hold my brother in my arms and sing him a lullaby, trying to muffle out the sound of the commotion outside our room. I hoped he would talk to me again, but he never did.

Then one night, everything changed. I woke up to the sound of cries coming from my brother's room, and I quickly got up and went to investigate. And what I saw there would forever traumatise me. Blood. There was so much blood. My father laid in up all of it. A gaping wound on his neck that could have only been created by a sharp but askew object.

He was twisting slightly where he laid, but even I, a child just barely passed first grade, knew that it was too late to do anything about it. I turned up to my brother's cradle where I saw my mother standing with her back to me, a blooded piece of glass in her hand. She didn't seem to notice me, or she simply didn't care. My brother cried and screamed in the cradle,

and I was about to jump and grab him when I saw my mother slowly raise the bloodstained shard in a hand above my brother's head. I lunged at her faster than lightning, and wrapped my arms around my mother's waist, pulling her back with all my might. I was hardly a strong child, but the knowledge that my brother's life was in danger

was enough to motivate my muscles to make some effort, and I succeeded. I managed to pull my mother back from the cradle by a few steps, but it wasn't much in the long run. Still, it was enough to hinder her for a short time. My mother fell to the floor on her back, dropping the shard and sending it away to the furthest corner of the room.

Without a moment to lose, I picked my brother from the cradle and made a beeline for the door, but fell to the floor as my mother grabbed my ankle. I softened the fall, and while my brother continued to wail, he was otherwise uninjured. I didn't get very far, inspecting him for further damage when my mother slowly crawled over me, her blooded hands searching frantically for the baby. Her eyes were wide and deranged. She was a woman I no longer remembered. as the sweet and nurturing mother I had what felt like so long ago.

Give it to me, she shouted, trying desperately to reach the baby I held out of a reach. Give it to me, Ellie. Leave us alone, I yelled back, tears streaming down my eyes as my mind processed what a child should not have to understand. Don't hurt my brother. It is an abomination, she snarled so saliva spilled out of her mouth. It wasn't supposed to be born. It doesn't belong in this world. Now, give it to me.

but I wouldn't let her have it. In one final effort to get free, I kicked her as hard as I could into a stomach. It sent a falling back off of us, and so I called back to my feet with a baby still in my arms and ran out of the house, screaming for help from anyone who would hear me. My neighbours heard my cries and let me inside.

They called the police and CPS and investigated the house. I didn't know what happened, as all I cared about was having my brother saving my arms, saved from the world that wished to harm him. I later learned that they found my mother in the house, hanging from a noose fashioned from a curtain in my brother's room. After that, we were sent to live with our grandparents, and always as well as it could have been considering.

I had from then on learned to grow up and care for myself and my brother, while our grandparents were there to support us through everything, I felt like I had a responsibility as my brother's older sister to step up to the plate. So I learned to cook, clean and take care of him. I learned it all before I was 16 and he was 10 years old. He could talk well by then, exceeding the vocabulary of a boy his age. He was gifted too and knew much that no one had ever even heard of.

I was proud of him and for. a time, I forgot about the conversations we even had before he was even born. One day, however, I came across a letter hidden in my grandparents' study, addressed to me by my mom. The memories came back to me, and not even ours with a therapist could ever hope to erase them completely from my brain. Judging by the fact that there were bloodstains on it, I assumed that my mother had written it the very same day she tried to kill us.

My grandparents must have found it and kept it hidden from me all these years And I don't blame them Still I read the letter Dear Ellie I'm sorry for what I've done to you But I need you to understand something

I love you I always have Your father and I tried for so long to have children But I later learned that he could never Hope to father a child It was something I kept hidden from him all this time He was a good man. I needed to remember that. Remember the father you grew up with and don't fault him for what happened. I did some things I'm not proud of and I let him believe that he was your biological father.

It was selfish of me, but I tried to maintain the hope that he would love you as his own. And he did. You both loved you and we always will. But your brother, the thing you claim is your brother is not like us. It is different And I don't know the whereabouts of his creator That thing was not made for this world It does not belong here It is a mistake and abomination

For a time I try to go along with it But the whispers God the whispers would never stop It could talk And the things it would say Were horrible I know you love it And I've given you no reason to believe me

but you must kill it. I woke up with your father's blood of my hands because of it. Please, for the love of God, kill it. Your mother, by the end of the letter, my hands were trembling. Ellie? I snapped around and looked at my brother, standing there in the doorway. His face, innocent of any fault. I didn't believe a single ounce of the letter.

Not at all. But when I saw my brother standing. there with a dead bird in his hands. I heard my doubts. What are you? I finally asked, I've not receiving my answer. My brother merely shrugged. I'm just not like you, he said.