Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep197: Episode 197: Bizarre Horror Stories

Episode Date: December 3, 2024

Today’s first terrifying tale of the macabre is ‘The Tavern on the Borderlands,’ an original story by Catcid, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta website and narrated here with the express permission of the author:   http://www.creepypasta.com/the-tavern-on-the-borderlands/ Our second terrifying tale of terror is ’80 Acres,’ an original story by Mmm Brainss:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/54swd2/fiction_80_acres/  Our third fantastic offering is ‘A Favor for a Favor,’ an original story by Vincent Vena Cava, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta website and narrated here with the express permission of the author:  http://www.creepypasta.com/a-favor-for-a-favor/  Today’s penultimate tale of terror is ‘The Carpathian Carver,’ an original story by LJ, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta website and narrated here with the express permission of the author: http://www.creepypasta.com/the-carpathian-carver/  Our final macabre story this evening is ‘There’s Something Going through my Garbage,’ an original story by Nathan James, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta website and narrated here with the express permission of the author:   http://www.creepypasta.com/there-is-something-going-through-my-garbage/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's Dungeon. Bizarre things scare us because they defy our understanding of the world, challenging the boundaries of logic and reason. When something appears grotesque, out of place, or inexplicably strange, it triggers a primal fear rooted in our survival instincts, unease born from the unknown and the unpredictable. This fear taps into our imagination,

forcing us to confront possibilities that are unsettling precisely because they feel both alien and eerily possible. The bizarre leaves us questioning reality, and it's that uncertainty that grips us the most, as we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. Our first tale this evening is the tavern on the borderlands, like Cat Kid.

Cage didn't know if Richie was serious, but then again he thought it didn't matter. They'd been running down this thin country road for nearly one and a half hour, pushing 60 ever since the state line was out of sight. With a speed like that, there wouldn't even be jelly left if they crashed. But Cage didn't really think that mattered either. He almost welcomed the thought, just get me out of this nightmare he thought just get me the fuck out of this hell fuck you think about cage richy asked him throwing him a scant smile and a naked look of contempt a cigarette

dangled from the corner of his mouth popping up and down with the irregularities of the road the stink of tobacco and tar was almost unbearable But none of the others seemed to mind. Just shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the road, Cage said. His head felt as if he was splitting in half. The side where that cop had socked him was sticky with dry blood. He was in a bad mood.

In his lap he had a bottle of whiskey concealed in a brown paper bag. Old school bump style. He took a gulp and felt the carousel in his head slowed down a bit. He then passed it to Richie, the driver, who took a large swig himself before passing it to the back seat. Jimmy Katz, at least that's what everyone called him, took his arms off one of the girls he was groping to grab the paper bag. He took a swill and coughed before he passed it to Anne, the redhead to his left. They were all high on something, but Cage didn't know what. Jenna looked like she was seconds away from passing out, all as if she already had.

Her head rested on Jimmy's shoulder, and her lips were parted in a rather unattractive way. It was how retards looked just before they started drooling. Where the fuck are we even going? Cage exclaimed, making no attempt to conceal his frustration. Jimmy cackled and passed him the bottle. The women grinning at him from whatever drug haze they currently inhabited. Who the fuck cares, man? He said, and Cage could see his pupils were as large as industrial plates.

Yeah, Jenna agreed as she flung her arms around Jimmy's neck. Who the fuck cares, right? Cage gave her a short look of disgust before he peered back out the window. The woods flung by as the car sped forth. Its headlights illuminated the tree, briefly before giving way to the dark and the effect created a soothing optical illusion.

Cage felt his eyes lull shut and as his mind started to drift onto the oceans of sleep, he remembered the cop. He remembered her stopping them just a few miles from the Texas state line. She'd seen the booze and ordered Ritchie to step out of the car. They had all followed. even the girls and before anyone even knew what was happening they'd been beating her half to death cage had been socked once with a black heavy-duty flashlight the kind that cops wore when they wanted to feel important no one else had been hurt and after Cage took revenge with a crowbar they got back in the truck and raced off leaving the hillbilly Hicks state behind with the

trooper dying in the dirt. Cage thought of her face, how it had somehow caved in as he beat down on it with the iron. He'd been in a lot of fights. They all had, but he most of all. The first man he'd fought was his father, who'd been rather keen on fighting as well, but only five to ten-year-old boys. When Cage turned 15, he'd broken the old fucker's arms in three places and had him running out of the house like a squealing pig. After that, the fighting just sort of came naturally. He beat people up for everything. He didn't get the right amount of change at the local diner, a sock on the jaw. A stranger bumped him on the street, a kick in the ass, one in the face too if he was stupid enough to protest. He fought anyone for everything. Didn't matter how big or tough they were.

You just didn't fuck with Cage Reynolds. Despite this, however, he'd never killed anyone before. Sure, the cop was breathing when they left, but with a head injury like that, not for long. Yeah, she was dead all right. The thought formed a thick lump of dread in his chest, dread that he was responsible for the death of, well, someone, anyone. Most likely she was just a deadbeat bitch with two fatherless kids and too much of a taste for the booze.

But so what? She was just doing her job. A bribe could have done the trick, maybe, unless she was one of those naive. The law is everything. Well, it was too late to be sorry anyway. It had happened and... A sudden sound. Like an explosion.

And the car span out of control. The wheel shrieked as Ritchie stood on the brakes, the car turning sideways across the road and coming to halt, just moments before it would have turned over. Cage hit his sore head and the pain was immeasurable. it no longer felt as if he was splitting in two but as if it already had he felt as if in the next second

he would be sitting with two halves of his brain resting in his lap holy shit richie exclaimed and Cage was furious to hear a giggle just underneath his words what the fuck did that stupid prick have to laugh about what the fuck happened

he asked and the pain was so bad he couldn't even bring himself to shout. Flat tire, Ritchie said. We had a nail or something, I don't know. He opened the door and got out. Cage followed on trembling legs, feeling as if he'd stepped out of the car and into the sea. Nausea set in as soon as his maiden steps were over,

and the wretched stink of burnt rubber didn't precisely liven up the day. He struggled to reach the dead. ditch, but it was already too late. He bent over and left the steaming remains of his lunch on the worn road, adding another glorious smell to bless the area. What the fuck, man? Richie yelled, and, as in queue, there was another retching of sick bowels from behind them. Jenna was on her knees on the other side of the car, pale like bleak moonlight, and in the process of spewing scrambled with eggs and coffee on the road. Jesus fucking Christ,

Richie said. And the tired exasperation in his voice was thick enough to win awards. Guys, I don't feel too good. Jenna moaned, falling on her side next to her mess and curling up into a shivering ball. Cage didn't have time for them.

As soon as his leg stopped trembling, he went around to the back of the car. He flung the trunk. truck open, removed the hatch to the spare wheel compartment, and blinked at what he saw. There was a white plastic bag splotched with blood. The crowbar was inside, the chosen murder weapon used to escape a charge of drunk driving. There was nothing else, however. He slammed the trunk shut and turned his ever-rising fury on Richie. How the fuck can you drive around without a spare. Now we're stuck here in the ass end of nowhere, you piece of shit.

His face had flushed with a bright red, and Spittle was flying from his lips as he yelled. He wanted to take it all out on Richie, blame him for the cop and for his entire fucking nightmare. Yet he knew he couldn't. It really wasn't Richie's fault. Even the spare tire wasn't his fault. How could he have known they were going to get a flight? flat out here. His reasoning didn't catch up to him just yet, however. He was half a second away from using his fists to relieve all of that shit clogging up his brain pipes. When Jimmy said, "'Sh, shut up a moment!' He'd gone out of the car and was still holding Anne. You guys hear that? Cage was just about to tell him off, but then he too heard it. There was something moving around

in the woods. Leaves were scuffled by heavy feet. Branches snapped and bushes were rattled. It sounded like a very large man, who didn't mind announcing himself, was tumbling around in the underbrush. Who goes there? Richie yelled, and even the rebounding echo carried his trembling anxiety back with it. The darkness was too thick to reveal anything, and if it wasn't for the glaring headlights of the car. They would have been engulfed by the unsettling blackness. It's just a fucking animal or something, Cage said. The explanation more for his own sake than theirs. The relief in his voice was palpable, but then Richie shot off the newest, lovely idea. What if it's a bear or something? he asked. And if Cage didn't know better,

he bet the guy was close to tears. He was just about to open his mouth and tell him to get his fucking act together when a shrill shriek echoed between the trees. It sounded like the voice of a young woman, screaming to the point where a throat was just about to burst. Cage fell his heart grow tired of its original place and moved somewhere up his throat. The blood drained from his face and he actually thought

he'd pissed himself a bit. Get in the fucking car! Jimmy screamed, abandoning Anne to force himself into the back seat. The others came after, Cage throwing himself in the passenger seat and Richie putting the pedal to the metal.

The car screeched as it turned, leaning heavily on the flat tire and making a thunderous rumbling sound as it went. No one cared. Richie stood on the gas, barely having the time to switch gears which sent the engine into a roar of disapproval. After a while, maybe after five minutes of rushing down the narrow road, Richie calmed down.

He brought the car down to a slow roll and eventually stopped entirely. They just sat there in silence, and eventually Cage started laughing. Richie stared at him as if struck by thunder. Then he first smiled and was soon laughing as well. A moment later they were all cackling like loons. They didn't stop until their eyes were teary red. Their chest numb and hysteria leaked dry. That fucking animal scared the shit out of me, Cage said, still smiling.

And Richie answered it. You're preaching to the choir, son, he said, and leaned back in his seat, panting. That's when Cage spotted the sign on the left side of the road. The text was faded and tested by hard weather, but still possible to make out. Crawford Home, bed and breakfast, Cage read out loud, his eyes squinted to make out the text. There was nothing odd about the sign, but, as he was a little bit of the sign. but as he read it they all shared a brief chill of superstitious dread. They may have a spare tire to sell or give away.

If anything, they'll have a phone, Richie said, trying to sound nonchalant without fooling anybody. His voice quaked with unsettled nerves. Neglecting the opportunity of civilization was a stupid decision, but Cage had no wish to go there. As a matter of fact, his entire being told him to get out of the car and run for his goddamn life. Inhaling, shakily and not knowing why, he said.

Yeah, let's go. Ritchie nodded and put his foot on the gas. The car moved unevenly and seemed to rock rather than roll. but they made progress. During all of this no one saw the six shadowy shapes, staring at them from the woods. The house itself was a convincing sight. It was a cozy, deep wood version of a cape cod, complete with an outdoor garage and country-style porch. A white wooden fence surrounded the building and a faint, oily light shone inside its door. tall windows. There were no other cars in the gravel driveway, and Cage figured the Crawfords

must keep their car in the garage. The alien feeling of wrongness had subsided, but it still lingered in the background. Cage brought it down to nothing. Cage put it down to nothing but the rather fast-paced events of the last few hours. His memory flashed the cop dying in the road. a pale grey eyes staring up at him with a sort of accusing bewilderment. What happened? Did you strike me? If so, why would you do that? He shook the thought and opened the passenger side door. He was immediately struck by the rather misplaced smell of newly cut grass.

It was a grotesque mix of childhood harmony invading on a sinister sense of danger, making him almost light-headed. Behind him he heard the other doors open, then the crusty protest of feet on the gravel. Jimmy came up to him and put an arm around his shoulders, smiling at him scantily with that pompadour, greaseball haircut ruffled by the cool breeze. Something about that wind unsettled cage fervor. It was like a breath of something large, cruel, and dead. "'Fuck you smiling about,' he said, and shrugged him off.

"'I'm not one of your whores.' Jimmy rolled his eyes and shot back. "'You're on your period or something, prick.' Cage ignored him and started walking towards the house, the others following closely behind. He wondered who built the place like this, surrounded by forest on both sides and situated deep in the middle of nowhere,

even the road, which was likely the closest thing this place ever got to a highway, was likely to go on forever into the uncharted wilds of nowhere land. He was glad to have found this place, though, already forgetting about his earlier sense of foreboding. He strode up to the door and knocked like a fool before he noticed the doorbell. He rang it, and the chime from inside was also somehow strange. It rang with the metallic wine of something which was old and had stood unused for decades, like striking the key of an old piano. There was no answer, and after some time Cage rang it again.

The sleepy chime returned, wrapping them in a thick atmosphere of cold unease. I don't like this, Anne said, and no one missed the feeling. fear in her voice. There's nothing to be fucking afraid of, Cage said, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. After a while, he beat the door in frustration. Not very hard, but it swung open on whining hinges. Cage took a cautious step inside, even though his heart pounded in his chest. It was a narrow hallway with a staircase on the left. What looked like a century-old lamp stood on a dresser just inside the door, emitting the oily light they'd seen from outside.

Hello? Cage said, taking another step inside. The floorboards creaked underneath his feet, and Jimmy said, well, engage. They didn't hear the doorbell, but they'll most likely hear your whispers. Shut the fuck up. Don't call me, Gage. You know I hate it. Cage roared in. His cheeks flushed with anger.

Jimmy threw up his hands in a I give up gesture and didn't say anything more. Cage took another step inside and looked around. Haunted now by a fresh bout of misgiving anxiety. Hello?

He yelled. And this time there was no doubt that if no one heard, the place was either empty or all the residents were dead. There was no answer. Cage forced the chills away and said determinedly, All right, the place is dead. Let's spend the night. Tomorrow we can look through the garage for something to use. No one spoke up but Jenna.

who held Anne's hand tightly in hers, and seemed to sway on her feet somewhat. Can't we just go? Her eyes pleaded to the group, but Cage knew the decision was up to him. Whether he or anyone else liked it didn't matter. He was the leader. It was one of those things that just sort of happened.

He was a take charge and run personality, which made the others, just fall in line. He ignored Jenna and stepped deeper into the narrow hallway. There was a musty smell about it, something which reminisced of old timber and dusty attics. Still, the place looked fresh. The floorboards were of a dark oak, elegantly veined and looking pleasantly antique. Them and the vintage appearance of the furniture made him sure this was the home of an elderly couple. Made sense, he supposed. Old people living out here in the bushes must lack for company. So why not find it in strangers and get paid while you're at it? While Cage, Jimmy and Ritchie went

upstairs, Anne took Jenna by the hand and led her to a door on the far end of the hallway. It opened up onto a medium-sized living room, complete with the fireplace and old leather couches. The gramophone stood on a desk in the left corner along with a great collection of old photos. Jenna stepped inside first, looking like a girl in a dream. She moved slowly, as if sleepwalking, her fingers coming up to trail along the pictures on the walls, humming softly to herself, and wondered just how much X she'd been doing. For the moment, neglecting to remember, she'd been pretty shit-faced herself. She strode cautiously across the room, reaching the fireplace and

taking up one of the photos placed on the mantelpiece. Mom and Benny, the picture said, and it showed a black and white photograph of a young woman in her 30s, petting a large black dog. The picture looked as if it had been taken sometimes in the late 40s or the early 50s, and, to an surprise, she noticed there was a rather thick sheen of dust covering the display. Jan, I don't think anyone's been here for some time, she said thoughtfully. But when she spun around, she was alone in the room. Opposite to the hallway and next to the desk with the gramophone, a door stood ajar. She couldn't make out what was inside. The darkness was just too thick. but the sight of that wall of blackness

made her more than just uneasy it did a panicked flame of cold dread somewhere inside her chest and she felt a longing for the bleak light in the hallway she swallowed trying to gather her courage by thinking she might just be a little too old to be afraid of the dark then again she didn't feel like it was something that simple

It was not unlike being haunted by that anxious notion that someone or something may be waiting beyond the borders of what you could see. This was the heart-curdling terror you felt when you were walking around the woods and saw a bear approaching in the distance. It was the sheer and simple instinct of preservation, telling her to put her fucking legs on her back and get the fuck away. Just away, wherever and never come back. Of course, like in most such instances, two natural forces collided, thought, and one prevailed. In this case it was human curiosity, mixed with the simple pattern of taught knowledge that the darkness couldn't hurt

you and proceeded forward the open door loomed in front of her silent and ominous like the gaping mouth of a hungry beast as she came closer to the door she became aware of a rank smell wasn't unbearable but it was not very pleasant either it reminded her of when she'd been a child those golden days in her hometown where she and the other kids on the block used to catch bugs and place them in little jars. Like all kids, as soon as the game was over, they dropped the jar somewhere and forgot about it. One time she'd found one of those jars, almost covered in dirt and concealed behind the shed in the backyard. At the bottom of the jar, magnitudes of dead insects had gathered in some sort of goo, a yellow liquid of some stuff she didn't want to think about, not even when she was six or seven years old. Then too her curiosity had prevailed,

and she had opened the jar. The stink which had come out was exactly like that, which emanated from the inside of that ominous door. Still, it was faded and, not at all as strong. Her throat was too dry to let her make any sounds. But even if she could, she didn't think she would have. She stepped through the door and she immediately became aware of a cool, chill creeping up her back. It was like stepping into a cellar, but the room was so dark she couldn't make out anything inside. Her eyes did adjust, however, and she could suddenly make out something in the distance it was the human shape of someone standing against the far wall she couldn't make out any of the features but then again she

didn't think she'd need to she knew who it was as she approached it the smell became heavier it seemed to surround her now thick like a blank blanket of dead things. And she put a hand in front of her mouth and clamped down on her nose. She eventually reached what had been standing against the wall. But she never found Jenna.

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standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.cai.aes.com. I exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.cair to learn more. The building had six bedrooms. This was something Caged Jimmy and Ritchie had investigated thoroughly on the second floor. Each room was just what you would expect, situated on rows of threes on each side of a narrow hallway. It was neat, cozy, and old. Everything was old. The three talked about it later, and all agreed that not a single piece of furniture could have been younger than the 40s,

some around the early 50s. But it was all vintage and worn in that. loving way. Cage got into one of the rooms and closed the door. He felt his day of exploration was over. All he really wanted to do was take something for his head and sleep. His muscles ached, or rather, everything ached. The room was small, just large enough to fit a bed and a dresser, upon which an old mirror was situated. He trailed his hand over the wall on the side of the door, searching for the light switch. But there was none. So far they'd use their phones to navigate the area. But he wondered about the lack of electric lights. He spotted a candle in a

nightstand next to the bed and walked over to light it. Sure, a brilliant flash of modern ceiling lights would have been preferable. But you took what you could get. Small as the room was, the candle managed it fine. Just when he'd lit it, however, his peripheral vision caught a glance of something who shoved his heart right down his stomach before filling it with ice. There was a shape on the bed,

or at least he thought so, the shape of someone or something, sitting on the other side. Their back turned towards him and gaze staring endlessly into the wall. Cage spun around, a mask of fear contorting his face and a scream being born in his throat. There was nothing there. The room was empty and he exhaled deeply. His heart was still racing in his chest, but he paid. it no mind. Just the trick of the shadows, just his imagination. That was all. He sighed and fell backwards, feeling his muscles melt away as they relaxed. He groaned and allowed himself

to close his eyes for a moment. It was heaven, absolute heaven. And before his mind had even had the time to slow down. He was sleeping. Jimmy didn't hear what Richie said, but he honestly didn't care. He found the old place neat, actually kind of awesome. It reminded him of his grandparents' place back in New York. Hell, it even smelled the same. Old geese as such as they always saved all their stuff, never threw shit away, and as such, their place was always littered with vintage stuff. Like the others, he used the flashlight in his phone to navigate dark rooms, open drawers, and even pocketed something nice here and there. What did it matter? The owners seem to have gone AWOL anyway. They might not even be back in the morning,

or even this week. He smiled his scant smile as he went from room to room, pocketing a nice looking porcelain figure here, the silver spoon there, or something else which caught his eye. He stopped once to check his face in one of the mirrors and ran a hand through his jet's black hair. He winked at his reflection. What a good-looking guy he was, honestly. He was going to bring both Jenna and Anne up here together, and let them tell him that as he fucked them. he hoped Cage would hear the moan he always got pissed

well in truth he got jealous but he got pissed because he knew it when Jimmy was about to leave for the first floor again he noticed something odd the wall panel was slightly ajar and a cold breeze came through it he put his finger in the crack and opened it

realized it was not the wall panel at all, but a door. A dusty staircase dwelt behind it, and he realized it was the way to the attic. Heh, neat, he exclaimed, smiling the way he always did and traversed the stairs. He didn't hear the door close behind him. On top of the stairs with another door, or, well, rather like a thin board of wood attached to a pair of hind.

He pushed it open with one hand, and it whined quite forlornly. The rusty hinges almost screeching. The walls were thin here, and he could hear the wind whining outside. It was an eerie tune as if the world had gained a spooky voice. Jimmy didn't mind, though. He liked spooky, like feeling a bit creeped out. As he shone his light around the room, he wasn't disappointed. It was full of old toys, and not just toys which had been put in neat boxes or scattered around the area.

No, the room was set up as if someone was ready to play. But a silky sheet of cobweb covered them. There was a child-sized table with four small chairs around it. In each chair a doll had been put, presumably to serve as guests and the scene sure did a number on Jimmy a thought

that they'd all been sitting here for 20 or even 30 years left exactly the way some kid had abandoned them decades ago was a thought which sent chills down his spine just fucking kid get up Jimmy he said trying to swallow his unsettled dread he strode past the toys to explore deeper in the attic as he passed the little table, a sense of real terror seeped into his heart.

It was impossible to explain just how he felt it, but he got the notion as if he'd been invited to look at something, but he had disobeyed the rules. He'd walked right onto enemy territory. He tried to smile and shake the feeling, telling himself he was a tough son of, a bitch and he sure as hell wasn't afraid of nothing. As if in defiance to the creeps, he put his phone down on the floor and started going through an old box. He uncovered an old diary which

immediately caught his attention. He was just about to look through it when the light vanished. His heart stopped in his chest. And he sat there in the pitch blackness, unable to even see his hand in front of his face. He took a deep breath and reached for his phone. His fingers trailed over the floor, but they found nothing but dust. Huh, what the fuck? He said, feeling tears welling up in his throat. He'd never been so scared in his whole life.

That's when the sound came. It was something from the deepest pit of his nightmares, born from the hell of his subconscious, and manifested in the physical world. It was a sound of something very heavy being dragged across the floor, or in this case, up the stairs. It slammed against each step, creating a heart-curdling thump, every year. time. It came closer, approached the attic, and soon he had the thin, wooden door creek open. It did so slowly, as if whatever was on the other side was in no particular rush. Jimmy felt a warm wetness within his pants, and he realized he'd soiled himself. He was shaking. each breath strained and escaping him in short gasps the heavy dragging began again this time inside the attic there was a heavy pounding step

and then came the sound of something slipping across the floor jimmy couldn't make out what it was just that it was heavy Richie, he whispered, but his throat was so clogged up, he only managed a thin wheeze. The dragon came closer, and the pounding step had vanished. Now there was only the drag and the slip. Drag, slip, drag, slip, drag, slip. Drag, slip. Soon he could feel the vibrations from whatever it was approaching in the floor. That's how close it was.

This is where his mind gave in, however, where it decided to have mercy on his straining sanity. He managed to make out the faintest shape of something moving in the pitch black darkness. And then he fainted. Cage awoke to the rumble of thunder. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, not even where he was. He took a deep breath and the air felt stale and wrong on his tongue. He sat up, the bed springs creaking lightly, and suddenly he was aware that something was very off.

When lightning cracked, he saw what? The room which lit up was not the same, he'd fallen asleep in, or rather it was not the same version. Big cobwebs hung in the corners, uncomfortably heavy with black spiders. The window looked as if it'd been bashed to pieces and then rotted apart. It was cracked inwards, the glass broken and scattered over the bedroom floor. A heavy blanket of dust covered it. dust which seemed to have been undisturbed for at least five decades.

Confused and out of his mind with bewildered fear, he made the mistake of looking to his right. The lightning cracked again, and the pale, leering face of an old woman stared into his. Her eyes were wide and round, insane and hollow. Her wrinkled skin seemed as if it was just about to snap, stretched to his limit as the smiles seemed to make up at least half of her face.

She was there for a very brief moment before the lightning left him in the dark. Somewhere as the seconds passed by in a slow, tumbling motion, He became aware that he was screaming. He couldn't even hear it at first. Couldn't even hear the window crack as he backed into it. The rodden wood give way, and the air rushing past his ears as he fell. He was aware of the chill,

but all other sensations had been lost on his way to hell. He crashed onto the muddy gravel, hard and numbing pain shooting through his entire body he was aware that something had snapped but only far away in the back of his mind

he stared at the house and that was when the final strings let go and his sanity plummeted into the void the neat little Cape Cod which indeed might have been just that one was a miserable wreck. The paint had peeled off almost completely,

leaving tiny flakes behind on the ground. The front door had been boarded up completely, so long ago that even the boards were rotting. Part of the roof had caved in, and every window was either smashed or on its way to falling apart. The sign which had been saying, Crawford home, bed and breakfast.

Now said, building has been condemned. Structure is deemed unsafe. Weeping and laughing at the same time, he realized he couldn't feel his toes. He couldn't feel his legs either for that matter. He could still move them, though, which was the weird part. If he'd snapped his spine,

he should have been basically just ahead. on a stick, not much more. He realized his arms were gnombing off as well. But before they did, he managed to feel his way down his body. He grabbed it the sharp piece of fence which had impaled him, not feeling any pain at all until that precise moment. Even then though, it was just an aching throb somewhere far away. Oh, he managed, weeping a little more now, even sobbing. Something about this was just so fucked up. It couldn't be real.

It just couldn't. It was one fucking tripped out ride of X-or-right. Thinking this, he saw pieces of his guts on the bloody fence post, coating it like sausages filled with jelly. Something about this struck him as funny. And he died, smiling. A couple of days later, there was an article in the newspapers about a Jenna Colfield, who was found wandering aimlessly in a cornfield.

Her feet were bleeding, clothes torn, and face riddled with the magnitude of tiny scars. Nothing she said was intelligible, at least not then, and she was taken first to hospital and then to the mental ward. She didn't speak for nearly a month after she had been found. but once she did police officers investigated her testimony the house deteriorated old and condemned was found but no bodies richie stewart's gauge c reynolds jim l bridger and anne moors were all listed as missing Our second terrifying tale of terror is 80 acres by Mbrain. Preface.

This story is primarily fiction, but the town and farm are real. The main event that led up to the events is a true childhood horror, and it will never leave my mind. I know there are thousands of people who don't believe in God, or the day. devil. I wish I was telling you a god-fearing story of how an angelic being appeared and changed my whole fucked up life. But this is not one of those stories. I'm not sure if God is real, and if he is, I don't know how he allowed such an evil to walk his green earth. I do believe in the devil. I have met his gaze and I don't think I can ever shake all the hopelessness I saw in those cold black eyes. They were endless pools of black.

It seemed as if the light didn't even reflect off of them. They were empty and now that empty feeling is eating at me from the inside and I don't know how much longer I can deny. him. I can hear his breathy voice on the breeze and it's calling my name. I used to love small quaint little towns. Have you ever been to a small town? Well, in case you haven't, I'll elaborate a bit. I don't mean towns of like 16,000 people. I'm talking about the towns that have a population of under 1,000. The kind of towns you would miss if you drove by them and blink, they are the kind of places that live in children's books and country songs. Towns where everyone knows everyone and most of the population is stretched out over

miles of rural gravel roads. Can you picture it yet? Towns where you have to have a truck because the creek floods when it rains more than an inch. In the wintertime these rows remain blankets of white as there are not any plows to come to the rescue. Unless the neighboring farmer has a tractor and is feeling generous. I grew up on an 80-acre farm in a small quaint town called Silver. This town is not much of a town. I can only imagine that it is considered a town at all because of the local post office and the handful of police officers. I have fond memories of the farm, regardless of the events that have recently occurred. I still can't say I have a hate for that place.

My grandparents purchased that land and worked hard to get everything they had. They were god-fearing people, but they did. necessarily go to church every Sunday. I do recall my grandmother having Joyce Myers on TV when I'd get up most Sunday mornings. My grandparents helped my father raise me as my mother was in and out of the picture. They were like my second parents. They made me who I am today and I miss them dearly. I truly think they are what helped keep the darkness away. Before I can get into the present, I need to talk a little more about my past. My parents had their problems, and I could write a whole book about the things that should have and would have been.

I do believe that negative actions can let negative things into your daily life. This rule helps spark these events. My parents abused drugs, mostly pills, for most of my early childhood. They would get messed up at home and if these things got too crazy my grandmother would come and pick me up Which was easy because she lived within a five-minute walk from our trailer My mother was very drawn to the paranormal and this has some bearing on why I share this same fascination She would read tarot cards and dabble in witchcraft Now I'm not saying my mother was a full-blown Salem witch. I'm not saying my mother was a full-blown Salem witch

but she has told me she'd participate in spells and seances with her friends she also didn't have a full bearing on what she was messing with this along with unknown things led to the event I'm going to try to describe to you I had to be around four years old when this happened my parents were suckers and they would let me sleep in their bed, even though I had my own bed. I remember waking up to my mother screaming. I can't remember anything she was saying, but I remember the tone in voice wasn't anything I'd heard come from her mouth before. She had me wrapped up in the big duvet, and I remember the room being so cold that my nose hurt. She had me wrapped up so tightly my legs and arms had fallen asleep. She was in the right

hand corner of the room sitting on the floor and had me on her lap the bathroom light was on and flooded a portion of the room with the light the light shone primarily on the bed my eyes followed the light and what i saw still haunts me today my father was levitating about a foot off the bed he wasn't calmly levitating either he looked like he was being pulled. He was tightly gripping the posts of the headboard, mumbling something I couldn't understand. My mother sat me down on the floor and told me not to move and to close my eyes. Of course, I didn't close my eyes. I was so scared, but I couldn't. My mom entered the room with a Bible and began reading a scripture and praying. My father began to convolves and flail about, all while still a foot off the bed and hanging onto the headboard as quickly as it started. It stopped. My father fell to the bed after his body lurched forward. I don't remember exactly what happened after this, but I quit sleeping in my parents' room

after that. As an adult, my mother has told me that she saw it. leave. She'd called my grandmother when she went to get the Bible. She said it was a very dark shadow. It shot off my father's feet and slithered out of the cracked window in the bedroom the moment my grandmother walked into the house. Now this ties into the story later. The paranormal has always been a part of my life. The supernatural doesn't scare me anymore. It will surprise me from time to time, but I won't allow it to scare me. However, the thing that I've recently encountered does scare me. I can feel it in my bones, and it's like nothing that I've ever felt before.

After my grandparents passed away, my father and I inherited the 80-acre farm, along with everything else they owned. I came down from the city to help my father go over paperwork and get all the affairs in order the day I got the news that my grandmother was gone. It was a happy and sad evening. We stayed in the house that night. We laughed and cried and told stories about the good old days.

The house didn't. feel eerie at all in fact the feeling of the house didn't change until my grandmother was laid to rest I really think her spirit stayed with us over that week and left after she saw we were going to be okay and her remains were next to my grandfather after the funeral the family all came back to the farm and we ate and reminisce With each person that left, the house got colder. I don't mean cold as in temperature. It's as if the atmosphere just began to change.

My father was the last person to leave. He helped me clean up and, as he was leaving, offered for me to stay at his house. I had a bad feeling about staying at the farm. staying at the farm but I declined and said I would be fine he stood there and looked like he wanted to say something to persuade me to leave with him but he didn't I walked him out to the truck and wave goodbye to him I stood in the opening of the garage door and lit a cigarette I hadn't smoked for weeks but this week had earned me a few smokes The floodlights were drawing what seemed like a million bucks to the area I was standing in.

I swatted a swarm of them out of my face and went to the garage and flipped off the light. It was so dark. If you've never been in a rural area at night, you're missing out. You can see stars. You didn't even know existed. I felt like I could see entire galaxies out there. But when I turned the light off this time, I didn't feel adventurous. I felt scared.

I questioned myself. Why are you scared? You grew up here. You've been in this yard when it's dark too many times to count. But there was an uneasy feeling in the air. I flipped my cigarette out onto the gravel driveway, and right as I hit the button to close the garage door, I heard something scrambling around on the tin roof of the garage. I hurriedly opened the door that led into the living room and locked the door behind me. As the garage door was closing, I saw a glimpse of what looked like something's legs.

I closed all the blinds and triple check that every door and window was locked. I went to the interior pantry and grabbed one of grandmother's shotguns and grabbed a handful of shelves from the shelf. I loaded the gun, sat down on the couch, and listened. I was holding my breath to see if I could hear anything. I didn't hear anything at first. Then I heard a thump on the roof and then footsteps. I felt my eyes welling up with tears of fear and anger.

Then I heard a scratching sound and it sounded like sporadic claws being drug along the siding and roof of the house. I even heard a sharp squeal of what sounded like something metal and sharp. being run across the windows of the living room. I felt a tear slide down my face. I wanted to call my father, but I didn't want him to be in danger. I didn't know who or what was out there. The cops wouldn't be able to get here for a while,

and then they would probably tell me I'd been in the city too long, and it was just the sounds of the country. I don't really know what happened at this point, but I woke up on the couch around 6.30 a.m. The sun was shining through a crack in the blinds, but the house still felt heavy. I unloaded the shotgun and put it back in the pantry. I grabbed my keys on my purse and hesitated a little when I went to hit the garage door opener. The door mechanically squealed open and I cautiously walked outside. I fumbled for my pack of cigarettes and lit one.

I walked out into the sunlight. I walked to the side of the garage to get into my car. When I noticed a strange set of prints on the ground, I still really don't know how to describe them. They kind of looked like hooves, but that would be impossible. I then decided it had to be a large cat and the dry ground had distorted the tracks and that had to be what was messing with me the prior evening. I went to my father's house and didn't mention anything that had happened.

We still had a few things to take care of around the farm. The fields needed to be mowed and most of the items in the house were going to need to be packed up. So he rode back to the farm with me. we got back to the house I saw something lying in the driveway I stopped a few feet away from what it was and my father got out first it was a lamb a mutilated lamb my father looked it over and then went to the garage and grabbed a large trash bag looks like a stray dog chased this guy from someone else's property he said while shaking

his head. I knew no one kept sheep near us and our land didn't border anyone else's land, but I know my father was just trying to justify the clearly odd situation. We worked around the house and were about halfway through the packing and cleaning. We both flopped down at the kitchen table and started to chat. I glanced out of the window and didn't realize how dark it had gotten I mentioned that we should head back to his house. He looked at me puzzled and asked why I wasn't staying at the farm. I stumbled over my words and then he said, it's a little spooky out here by yourself, huh?

He chuckled. We started to my car and loaded a few small boxes that had belongings my father was taken to his house. There was rustling in the overgrown head. hay in the fields and it was close. I told my dad to get in the car. He shrugged and opened the passenger door. I looked out into the dark field and saw a figure standing in the tall hay. Now, I'm 5 foot 5 and the hay was a little over my waist. The hay hit the figure in the field at about the knees.

Even though it was dark, I could tell their head was off to one side. It was like they were tilting their head like a dog does when they hear a high-pitched sound. The figure was very thin and had something on its head. I just couldn't figure out what it was. My father started to get out of the face. car but I locked the doors and slammed my foot on the accelerator gravel hit the still-open garage in a cloud of dust trail behind the car my father was yelling at me ask me what I was doing I looked out my car window and saw that

the hay was swaying behind the car in the field next to me the thing was chasing us I could see that in the moonlight that it had horns but not like our local deer. I couldn't place them. I turned my eyes away and my father was staring out at the passenger window. He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned my gaze to the right. Out in the woods that met the fields,

there were sets of eyes. I don't mean two or three. I would say sixty or more. I can't be sure, but it looked like hundreds. My father didn't speak until we were in the house, with the door locked. After speaking about what it could be, we decided it had to be a deer. It was running by us. The eyes must have just been a trick of the moonlight.

The next day my father and I reluctantly headed back to the farm. The tension in the air. was almost tangible. After working on packing, my father and I sat out on the back porch and looked across the golden fields. Let's take a walk, he said. I unwillingly dragged myself from my seats on the porch. I told him to hold on and ran inside to grab my boots. We started to head back to the entrance of the fields that all of the of the outbuildings were on. As we were walking through the fields again, talking about my grandparents, we caught a waft of something rancid. Now, as you've gathered, I grew up on a farm,

and have come across dead animals in the field before. My grandfather was an avid hunter and fisherman, so I'd smelled some pretty terrible smells. But this wasn't like anything I'd ever experienced. It smelled like rot, blood, trash and sewer. I started to gag and my father put his hand over his mouth, but soon followed my reaction. We walked towards the smell. We were standing on an open, relatively flat, piece of land. My boots hit something metal under where we were standing and made a hollow ping sound.

My father looked down and then looked at me with a perplexed look on his face. We kicked away at the cut hay that had been laid over the area. It revealed a large square metal plate. Have you seen this before? I questioned. My father didn't say anything. just shook his head we stupidly decided to move the metal plate because that's a good idea right when we did there was an incredibly deep round hole almost like a well

it was dark even in the bright afternoon sun the horrid smell was the first thing that hit us. It was like a forceful wind of putrid air. My father and I just peered down the hole. Then we heard a chuckle. It echoed from the hole. I started to back up when I saw something in the darkness. Then we heard a scrambling around like something was coming out of the hole. We started to run, but we stopped, entranced by what was happening. All I can remember are the eyes, all black and sunken into a thin face. I see those eyes every time I close my eyes. I was now on my hands and knees and was leaning into the hole with my eyes glazed over,

according to my father. My father bellowed, move, and his voice snapped me out of my trance and I hurriedly crawled away from the hole. My father somehow lifted that metal plate and slammed it down on the hole, and we heard a screech,

unlike anything we'd ever encountered. It was like a barn owl and a panther, but it was so haunting. and loud. I put my hands over my ears and my father grabbed my arm and basically dragged me to my car and threw me into the passenger seat. We drove in silence other than the sound of my labored breathing. When we got to his house he put my bags in the car and told me I needed to go back to the city as soon as possible. He continued to tell me that he didn't know how that whole God, there or what the fuck was going to come out of it but that he had seen those eyes before he told

me the night he levitated he saw a shadow at the end of the bed and it had a hold of his legs and it had those same eyes I returned to the city that very evening after I'd calmed down it's been a few months since this all happened I think this thing that had possessed my father is coming after me. My grandparents are gone and there is no one here to protect me. I was looking in the mirror the other day and I swear I saw my eyes change for a second. I saw those cold, dead eyes staring back at me. I don't know what is going to happen to me. But I know that if you see an 80-acre farm for sale in silver, don't buy it. Please, don't.

No matter how much it appeals to you. If you do, you might find yourself looking into those dead, black eyes. And I might be the one looking back at you. A third fantastic offering this evening is A Favor for a Favor by Vincent Vina Carver. It must have been the most run-down, filth-ridden motel room I'd ever seen. The kind of place where cockroaches didn't feel the need to scatter at the flash of a light bulb. I wouldn't be surprised if a whole civilization of the nasty things were living between the walls, laying their repulsive egg sacks wherever they pleased.

and multiplying faster than an Asian kid on Adderall. I was seated at the edge of the bed, shifting uncomfortably atop its warped mattress, while trying to ignore the rank funk radiating from a pile of unwashed sheets bundled up in the corner. It was the type of room people did everything but sleep in. That was fine by me. I didn't come here for Shadai anyways.

In my left hand was a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels. In my right was a 32-caliber Smith and Weston. The extraordinarily depressing location was poetically fitting in a way. I was extraordinarily depressed after all. It was my wife who was the cause of my misery. She'd broken my heart, leaving me with nothing but a vacant, grief-stricken soul.

Like a teenager who listens to Fall Out Boy and writes poetry on Tumblr. For a while, suspicions of infidelity had loomed over our marriage. But I'd always chalked up my conjectures as nothing more than paranoid delusions. They say denial is the best remedy for heartache. It wasn't until I stumbled across of implicitly sexual emails between her and the pastor of our church, a married man in his own right, that I was faced. with the morbid reality of my wife's secret

sex capades. Pastor Alonso was a slick, fast-talking, cutthroat shark, who dressed more like a US senator than a man of the cloth. He pulled in a far bigger salary than one might expect a holy man to earn. A lot of people would be surprised

to find out just how profitable the preaching business can be, especially when you head up the second biggest mega church in California. Alonso had a taste for life's opulent luxuries and wasn't afraid to flaunt it. It wasn't uncommon for him to drive a Mercedes-Benz to church or show off his collection of Rolex watches during Sunday services. I guess that's why my wife gravitated towards him. She always did have a weak spot for material things.

There was one thing that all the pastor's money couldn't buy him though. kids of his own. His wife, Darcy's, on and off again battle with the Big Sea, had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans to start a family. Recently, her cancer had taken a turn for the worse, and while she lied up in hospital on her deathbed, the pastor and my wife were getting together for some extra Bible study lessons. When I confronted my wife about the emails,

things got ugly. Names were called, expletives were hurled, and threats were thrown out by her mostly. She explained to me that the pastor invited her and the kids to move in with him once Darcy passed,

and off of my, better half, had accepted. She said she was going to give him the family he always wanted, my family. I didn't have the money to fight a long, drawn-out custody battle or hire big-time lawyers, but Pastor Alonso did. Couple that with the fact women usually win these kinds of disputes, even if they don't always deserve it. And you can see why things were looking so bleak for me.

Another man had stolen my wife, my children, my life, my life. and there was nothing I could do about it. The room slowly started spinning and I realised my good friend Jack was up to his old tricks again. Nausea was beginning to settle in and I didn't want to spend my last moments alive vomiting the Carl's junior cheeseburger I'd wolf down an hour earlier. So I decided to stop stalling

and finish what I came there for. I placed the revolver's barrel in my mouth and rested my finger on the trigger. In case you were wondering if my life flashed before my eyes, allow me to be perfectly blunt. It didn't. I was thankful for it too. I'd rather have taken a bubble bath with Bruce Villanch and Ron Howard's little brother than relive all the agony that woman put me through.

I shut my eyes as tired as possible in preparation for the bullet to pass through my brain. They say that he who hesitates is lost. In short, the proverb means that spending too much time deliberating on an important decision can ultimately lead to disastrous consequences. Although, in my case, one tiny, minute moment of pause may have actually prevented said consequences and saved my life.

The cold, metallic taste of the revolver's barrel on my tongue caused me to question my actions for only the briefest of seconds. But, sometimes even that can be more. than enough time to change a man's fortunes. As I sat there, trying to talk myself into pulling the trigger, the telephone in my motel room began to ring. I slid the gun out of my mouth, sat good old Jack,

the only friend I had left, down on the nightstand, and answered the phone. Hello? I said. Am I best possible not about to kill myself? voice. Jacob, I'm so glad you picked up. I had no idea who the voice and the other end of the line belonged to. I'd never heard it before, but, whoever it was, they seemed to know me. Listen, Jake, he continued. Before you go and redecorate the walls with the inside of your skull, we need to have a talk first. I hadn't told anyone where I planned on

being that evening. But this guy not only knew my name and location, but even the fact that I was contemplating punching my ticket to that big toga party in the sky. Had he been watching me? I needed some answers. Using every working brain cell in my head, I came up with the most rational, thought-out, intelligent question I could construct. What? I said we need to have a talk, Jacob. Now, sit tight. I'm on my way over to your room right now. And with that, he hung up the phone. I stared blankly at the wall, completely dumbfounded. My mind still trying to process what happened. I wondered for a moment if I'd just been the victim for a prank call. It seemed from our short conversation that the guy on the other end of the line had been watching me. My first

inclination was that he might have been some sort of pervert. After all, the motel wasn't exactly a four-star accommodation, and I did notice that the place looked to be a magnet for weirdos, freaks, and other types of seedy characters when I checked in. I took a swig of liquid courage. For some reason, I always felt braver when Jack was around. Knock, knock. The knocker. The knock on the door nearly caused me to lose control of my bowels. That double western bacon cheeseburger was coming out one way or the other. I tried to convince myself that I was just being neurotic, but something about the call made me feel uneasy. I'd become aware of a dark, inexplicable feeling that began bubbling from within the pit of my stomach the moment the phone first rang. An awful combination

of dread, fear, hate, and a myriad of other terrible emotions, all simmering together into some kind of unspeakable brew. Who is it? I called out. No one answered. I waited for a response and then tried again. This time, with a little more bass in my voice. Who is it?

Knock, knock. I stood up from the bed, tucked. the gun into the waistband of my pants and zipped up my jacket, making sure it was properly concealed before making my way towards the door. Knock, knock. I said, who is it? Housekeeping. The voice on the other side of the door sounded like it belonged to an elderly Hispanic woman.

Oh, I chuckled at myself for letting a maid get me so riled up. Please come back later. Thank you. knock knock housekeeping i said come back please i clean now by this point

the woman was seriously trying my patience either she didn't speak english or she was a complete moron i come in there's a sign on the doorknob can't you read i swung the door open ready to give the woman a piece of my mind

It says do not... There was no one in the hallway. I leaned my head out of the room to see if the irritating maid wasn't bothering some other poor sap. But the corridor was as empty and barren as a blockbuster video store. Convinced that I'd officially lost my marbles, I retreated back inside and closed the door behind me. Knock, knock. Not a second later, the knocking started up again. Housekeeping.

Go away! I shouted at the top of my lungs. Where had she come from? Just moments earlier, I was alone in the halls. Knock, knock. I changed towels. Listen, just please leave me alone. I bet.

begged. There's no way in hell I'm letting you in. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the strange, dark sensation that was still stewing inside my stomach. Knock, knock. I said, go away. Once more I opened the door and once more there was not a cleaning woman in sight. This time, however, I was not. I was not alone. Doubled over in laughter before me was a teenage boy, no older than 16. He was wearing a forest green hoodie and a matching flat-billed baseball cap tilted off to the side, a fashion choice that made him look spectacularly douchey. His baggy jeans sagged halfway down his ass, exposing a pair of striped boxer shorts and accenting his dushiness even more.

A black bandana hung out of his back pocket As if he was some kind of gangbanger I found this to be particularly stupid Since he appeared to be a type of suburban white kid Whose mum drove him to soccer practice in a minivan Can I help you? I said I was about ten seconds away

From ringing the little twerp's neck By the way he was convulsing in laughter It was clear that he was the mastermind behind my harassment. Ho, ho, oh, man! He managed to squeeze out between breaths. You should have seen yourself. You looked like you got caught with your dick in the family goat.

What? The boy wiped a tear from his eye and took a deep exhale in an attempt to rain in his laughter. Damn, did that go over your head? Sorry. Now that I think about it, the expression is a little before your time. It originated in Scotland in the mid-1700s. A lot more people owned ghosts back then, so I guess it used to be funny. When you've been around as long as I have,

it's hard to stay caught up with the latest lingo. What are the kids saying these days, Jake? Is Yolo still a thing? You know what? Never mind. I came here to talk to you about something else. May I come in? "'No, you may not. "'I extended my arm across the doorframe

"'to block the entrance of my room. "'Why don't you get the hell out of here, kid? I'm busy. "'Oh yes, I can see that, "'but it'll only take a minute of your time. "'The boy ducked under my arm, "'scambling past me before I could stop him. "'Once inside, he paused for a moment, "'surveying the room,

"'and smiling snidly to himself. Geez, Jake, this place is a dump. Why the blazes would you want to blow your brains out here? I personally would have chosen the Ritz Carton uptown if I was going to offer myself. Oh, but not before ordering some of those delicious sweet potato truffle fries from the bar in the lobby. You've got about three seconds to get out of here, kid. Ooh, I'm shaking in my boots. He giggled to himself briefly before continuing.

Honestly man imitation is not your forte I'll promise I'll leave in a second but as I said before I wanted to have a little chat first what do you want to help you out you can help me out by getting out of my room

ooh a bit snappy aren't we Jacob I know you've had a rough day but it doesn't have to end the way think it does? So what if your wife hurt you? Buck up. There is a way to remedy this situation. It was then that I realized the darkness inside me had never gone away. Instead, it had been flourishing, spreading from my core as it pervaded throughout the rest of my body. How did this

kid know so much about me? For a second time that evening, I was so rattled. I could hardly spit out a sentence. Who are you? I said. He leaned in and cupped his ear like an old man whose hearing had waned over time. Were you watching? Was I watching you?

Is that what you were going to say? Learn to enunciate, man. Sorry to interrupt, but if I let you do all the talking, we're going to be here all night and believe me when I tell you, I've got other places to be. Now then, why don't I answer your second question first? Yes, I was watching you, but not in a creepy staring at you through the window kind of way.

You know, like Ryan Gosling in Trife. Did you ever see that movie? It's surprisingly good. And that Gosling, he's got chops, I tell you. The guy is so damn handsome too. Some lucky bastards just hit the jackpot in the genetic lottery. Am I right? The kid was giving me a bad vibe.

I slid my hand into my jacket pocket and felt through the fabric for the handle of my revolver. All the while, he continued to blabber senselessly about how the Mickey Mouse Club was the greatest thing ever to happen to the entertainment industry. I needed to somehow get control of the situation. shut the hell up kid you better give me some straight answers right now why were you watching me the boy's smile quickly disappeared he scanned me up and down probing me with his eyes as if he was

examining every inch of my body a look of utter disgust on his face it was bizarre his stare made me feel ashamed and violate it. More questions, her. First off, you should probably make sure the hammer isn't cocked on that little lemon squeezer of yours. You're going to shoot your dick off, and then you'll really have a reason to kill yourself. Somehow he knew about the gun I was hiding under my coat. I unzipped my jacket and pulled it out from my pants.

He was right. I had left it cocked. I was watching you because I saw a doomed soul, a lost spirit, so to speak, who was about to let the bad guys win, and I just couldn't bring myself to allow you to do it. He mooseed over to the television and dragged his finger down the screen, leaving a spotless streak across the otherwise dust-covered glass. Take it from a guy who's been there before.

I know exactly how you're feeling right now. I too have been portrayed by someone I loved cast down and throw out in favour of another he paused for a moment looking at the dust that collected on his fingertip when he wiped it across the screen but I haven't answered your first inquiry yet have I

who am I well that's a loaded question I'm a man of many epithets Over the years I've been known as the bearer of light, the son of perdition, even the proud one. In a story he once wrote, Washington Irving referred to me as Old Nick. I've been anointed a prince while at the same time branded a beast. You're telling me that you're the...

Please to meet you. Hope you guess my name. But that's impossible. Why? You got a church, don't you? Is it so hard to believe that asinine little book? The one you people so arrogantly proclaimed to be God's true word. Actually, God's something right? Don't go padding yourself on the back for being a Christian, though.

The Bible's filled with more half-truths and garbage than a supermarket tabloid. I was completely taken aback by what the boy was saying. A couple of minutes earlier I was getting ready to lodge a bullet in my brain. Now, I was talking to a teenager who had just declared himself to be the embodiment of evil. If you're the devil, I asked, then why do you look like a kid? Why not? I do as I please. I can appear as whatever or whoever I want. You think this is weird? Once I made myself. look like a snake, just so I could get to talk to a hot naked chick. Yeah, but that doesn't make

any sense. Neither did Carlos Mencius' comedy career, but it happened anyways. By the way, I assure you I had nothing to do with that. He shook his head. I suppose it's proof you, require, eh? God, I miss the old days when you people would blindly take me for my word. It made it so much easier to cheat at poker. The boy gave me a mischievous wink. All right, why don't you pick up the phone? There's someone who needs to speak with you. Not a second later, a shrill, ear-splitting sound came through the motel room. The telephone on the end table was ringing. I shot a skeptical look over to the teenager. He was holding his hand to his ear. as if there was an invisible phone in it.

Uh, hello? I said as I picked up the call. Housekeeping, I clean now. As the boy's lips moved, I could hear the cleaning woman's voice over the telephone. No, I'm going less. I come in. He burst into a fit of laughter.

I was flawed. I tried to play it cool, but I'm certain he could read. the shock in my face. Hey, check this one out. He cleared his throat. I'm leaving you, Jacob. Now he sounded like my wife.

Pastor Alonso has got a bigger house than you. As a matter of fact, that's not the only thing that's bigger. They send him into another round of giggles. After he had his laugh, his voice returned to normal. Not bad, right, I mean, I'm no damn. he gans, but I bet I could still play the nugget. And when he said that, he smiled, but it was just a little too wide, wider than a mouth should stretch. Ever so briefly, I caught a glimpse of his teeth. It was as if hundreds of tiny daggers were protruding

from his gums. He shifted his head ever so slightly. and his peculiar facial features had disappeared. Once again, he looked like a typical douchebag teenager. You can't have my soul, I said. It's not for sale. The boy scoffed. Come now. Do you really think I just go around buying people's souls from them?

Ye have little faith in humanity, Jacob. Most people are too smart to fall for that kind of thing. What's a lifetime of happiness compared to? to an eternity in hell. Then, why are you here? Like I said before, I do as I please. And it would please me very much to do a favour for you. No contracts or souls involved.

What kind of a favour? I asked. He turned and started out of the door. Why don't you accompany me for a walk and I'll explain. Oh, and bring that little pistol with you. As the boy exited my room, I picked up the phone again and held it to my ear. I didn't hear a dial tone, so I followed the cord only to find that it wasn't even plugged into the wall. Jack was still sitting on the nightstand, waiting to provide consultation for me if I needed it. He was going to have to wait just a little longer.

I followed the boy out the door. I caught up to him halfway down the hall, and together we headed down. down the rusty metal stairs that led to the parking lot. Hmm, I see that you're in a bit of a bind, Jacob. Your wife of 15 years is leaving you for that idiot pastoral, and taking the kiddies with her. What were the names again? Oh yes, Hunter and Elizabeth.

Ah, such darling children. Leave my kids alone. The mere thought of him mentioning my kids sent my anger into a tailspin. He stopped halfway down the stairs and jabbed a bony finger into my chest. Listen here, tough guy. Just because I look like the lost member of the Backstreet Boys doesn't mean I won't turn into some sort of ten-foot-tall lovecraftian monstrosity and bite your legs off if you continue to disrespect me.

Capiche. I nodded my head. Good. I don't know what all the fuss was about anyways. I love children. I'd have one of my own, but it's so hard to find a suitable candidate to bear the Antichrist. There's something about heralding in a millennium of hell on earth, and bringing about the apocalypse that turns most women off.

The only people who ever volunteer for the job are nutballs and wackos. And trust me, Jake, I don't want no baby-mama drama any more than you do. I think he was making a joke, because he paused for a sound. and glanced over to me as if he was expecting to hear laughs. He continued talking once he realized I didn't find him amusing. If you ask me, you have three options. Option number one. You go back to your room and blow your brains out. You never see your kids again and your wife continues fucking the pastor. Option number two, you don't do anything like a pussy. Go back to your boring and now lonely existence. You'll see your kids the second Saturday

of every month and your wife continues fucking the pastoral. I suppose this is where you tell me about option three. When we made it to the base of the stairs he gestured towards the parking lot indicating the direction he wanted to walk. Smart man, he said. Option number three is this. You take that 32 caliber Smith and Wesson over to the pastor's McMansion tonight. Your wife's there right now, discussing church business. He made a set of quotations in the air with his fingers. I'm sure he's got it down on her knees taking communion as we speak, you know, accepting the holy body inside her mouth and all that. Okay, okay, I get it.

But that's a terrible joke. We aren't even Catholic. What are you trying to say? You want me to kill, Pastor Alonsoe. Kill the pastor, kill your wife. Hell, kill his annoying little shih Tzu while you're at it. You have to kill them, Jacob. Don't let them take your children from you.

End their lives for trying to ruin yours. I'd do it for you, but no killing is one of the few rules I'm bound by on this miserable plane of existence. I have to admit it was an idea that it crossed my mind earlier that night. More of a fantasy than anything. I never actually considered going through with it. But that would be a sin, I said. Now that I know hell exists, there's no way I'd do anything to risk damnation. Look who you're talking to, Jacob.

Don't you think I have a little bit of pull down there? For this one particular night, I will absolve you of you of you. your sins. Think of it as a get-out-of-jail-free card. And don't worry about the fuzz either. I have friends in high places. You won't even be considered a person of interest in the murder investigation. I couldn't believe I was even entertaining the idea. I'd become so engrossed in what the miniature Kevin Fetle line was proposing that I didn't even realize he was leading us to my car until we were standing right in front of it. So, if it's not my soul you want, what are you getting out of this?

Ah, I see my reputation precedes me. Like I said before, I'm just doing you a solid man. He stuck his fist out waiting for me to bump it. I left the devil hanging. Maybe one day in the future you'll repay the favour. Or not? You certainly wouldn't be obligated to. What kind of favour?

Oh, I don't know. Pick up my dry cleaning? I haven't thought of it yet. Who cares? I may even never bother you again after tonight. I reminisced back to when my wife and I were young. We were so in love. And now I was standing in a parking lot

under the neon lights of the world's dirtiest roach motel, letting this baby-faced demon talk me into murdering her. How did it come to this? She's my wife, they said. Part of me still loves her. I don't know if I could do anything that would harm the mother of my children. He rolled his eyes. Oh, and she clearly still loves you too.

Why else would she be on her back right now, letting that idiot pastor plow her into next week? and when he said that his voice got deeper, a thousand octaves lower than anything I'd ever heard in my life. The sound was maddening. It made me want to bury my fingers into my ear canals until my eardrums burst. Your adulterous whore of a wife

sins with that slimy, two-faced, sorry excuse for a human being as we speak. If that wasn't enough, she plans on ruining you by taking your children and for what because you don't have a big house or a fancy car she used you until something better came along and he did the same thing to his wife

hell is filled with men and women like them send them where they belong it felt as though his voice was microwaving my brain from the inside I grabbed my head and fell to my knees that pastor sins in God's name and you'd really sit there and do nothing send them to hell Jacob

send them to me and I will make sure they suffer until the end of time okay I'll do it excellent his voice had conveniently reverted back to normal let's get started shall we I'll meet you at the pastor's

house. I'd ride with you, but I'm the lord of fucking darkness. And you drive a Prius, so you know. Even though he wasn't in the car with me while I drove over to Pastor Alonso's home, I knew that I was far from alone. Every time I doubted my sanity, every time I started to question if what had happened was even real. He was there. Standing, standing in a moment, standing in a on a street corner, waiting at a bus stop, even watching me from the windows of other cars as they pass me by. I realised now that he was keeping an eye on me, making sure I didn't get cold feet. It came as no surprise to find him already waiting for me on the front steps of the pastor's massive home when I pulled up. He placed a hand on my shoulder when I got near and spoke some final words

of encouragement to motivate me. Do it for your children, Jacob. From the moment I nudged open, the pastor's gaudy, oversized front door. I could hear he and my wife wailing away from the bedroom upstairs. I drew my gun and followed the moans up the steps. Jeez, Jake, it sounds like a couple of pigs getting slaughtered in there. Is that what it was like when you two used to bump uglies? I brushed off his inconsiderate quip and leaned.

against the door. The boy was licking his lips in anticipation. It seemed as if he wanted them dead worse than I did. Doubt began to seep into my mind. I was no killer. The very thought of murdering the mother of my children was beginning to make me feel sick. Perhaps sensing apprehension, he started whispering into my ear. Do it, Jake. Send them to hell. His words were easy to ignore. I was too busy thinking about my kids. Could I really take their mother away from them? Even though I'd let the boy manipulate me this evening, I still had my free will.

I knew that I had the power to walk out the front door if I wanted to. No one needed to die. He who hesitates is lost, Jake. How could I even pull the trigger? For God's sakes, I still loved the woman. That's when the dark, inexplicable thought. feeling that had been growing inside me started to dwindle. In its place I felt hope, hope that maybe if I could talk to her, even hear her speak, I would come to my senses.

Then, almost on cue, her voice rang out, resonating through the air like a magnificent melody plucked from the fingers of a master harpist. Fuck me, preacher man. I kicked in the door. My gun had six bullets, but it only took me three. It would have been two, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to relieve the pastor of his holy scepter. It's strange how draining murder can be. All I did was point my gun and pull a trigger, yet my body felt like I'd just run a marathon. I knew you had it in you, Jacob, but holy hell.

I didn't expect you to blast off his pecker, too. It wasn't his wife's crack that startled me. His voice had changed. It was deeper than a teenager's now, more dignified too. Perhaps most alarming, it was a voice I knew very well. When I heard echo off the stained glass windows of my church every Sunday for years. Pastor Alonso's voice. I whirled around to see the man I just showed.

shot, smiling at me from the doorway. Relax, he said as he entered the room. It's just me, Lucifer, king of the underworld. Father of lies, yada, yada. He looked back to the bed. The real pastor's bullet-riddle body still lied motionless, next to my wife's corpse. Their cadaver is entwined with a set of tacky bloodstained bedsheets.

Why did you make yourself look like Pastor Alonso? I asked. Why does it matter? I do as I please. Before I had a chance at a follow-up question, the thunderous sound of the pastor's front door being slammed shut, carried through the house and up to the bedroom. My heart began to race as a bevy of heavy footsteps made their way up the stairs. What the hell is going on? I demanded. but he didn't answer. The wicked grin painted across his face sent a wave of fright throughout my body.

Do you know what they're going to do to you in prison, Jacob? He said. Two uniform police officers strode into the room. As the policeman made their way towards me, my panic began to intensify. All I could think about was wasting the rest of my life away in an orange jumpsuit and playing housewife at the behest of my cellmate.

a tattooed skinhead named Knife Face. I still had three bullets left, and I knew there was only one way out of the situation. I raised the revolver to my temple as the cops marched towards me. I don't know if I really would have pulled the trigger if they'd attempted to arrest me. Thankfully, I didn't get the chance to find out, because instead of drawing their guns on me, they brush right by without saying a word. I watched in awe as they started wrapping the pastor

and my wife's bodies in the soiled silk sheets. To my surprise, they appeared to be cleaning up my mess. You know who fell to the floor and began howling. Now you really do look like you got caught with your dick in the family goat.

He thrust a finger into my bewildered face. Oh, I'm just joshing you, Jake. These fine gentlemen are with me. Them too, he motioned over to the doorway. Two more men I hadn't noticed before, wearing plain clothes, but still brandishing badges were waiting in the doorway. Jerry, come over here for a second. The older, heavyset man sauntered towards us.

His somber face and reluctant gait made him look like a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The no longer baby-faced demon patted him on the back. Do you know who this man is, Jacob? I shook my head. Jerry here is the head of the police department. That means he's very important. Pleased to meet you, I said.

I really wasn't. At that point, all I wanted to do was distance myself as far away from the pastor's house as possible and forget the whole night ever happened. The police chief remained silent. The shame and discomfort in his eyes told me the feeling was mutual. The demon gestured over to the other man still standing at the door. The guy over there just made detective.

He turned his head in the detective's direction. Congratulations on your new promotion, Bill. The man looked away to avoid eye contact. Once again he focused his attention on me. Guess who's going to be heading up your wife's murder case? What about the pastor? I asked. Who's going to be looking into his murder?

He stretched his arms out and twirled around us, as if he was showing off a brand new coat. What are you talking about? Pastor Alonso wasn't murdered. He and his wife just decided to move away so they could do a missionary work in Africa. You see, everything wraps up neat and tidings, and you get off scot-free.

Now, Jacob, before you leave tonight, I wanted to speak to you about that favour. What? You know, we talked about this. I said that maybe one day I might ask you to return the favour I did for you. Yeah, I said. I remember. I guess I didn't expect it to come so soon. Well, life's funny like that sometimes.

Don't worry, though. It's really nothing you can't do in your sleep. I'm not going to ask you to pick up and dispose of dead bodies like these guys. What do you want? He leaned in close and looked at me with a solemn expression on his face. Listen to me, Jacob, because this is the only favor I will ever ask. of you. It is imperative that you never attempt to contact Darcia Lonso. Do you understand? What? His request had left me puzzled for numerous reasons. But Darcia Lanzo has cancer.

She's dying. His lips curled into a devilish smirk. Well, let's just say I did her a little favor. What are you going to do with her? What's it matter to you? I do as I please. I wave my finger in his face. But you said I'm not obligated to listen to you right. If I wanted to, I could go right over to the hospital now and tell her about everything that happened tonight. Of course you can, Jacob. Like I said, there's no binding agreement between us. Your soul is yours and you're free to do whatever you want with it. As a matter of fact, I stick no claim to any of these men's souls. They're just people who are kind enough to repay the favour I did for them.

I've done favours for a lot of people, Jacob. Cops, judges, lawyers, even paedophiles who take pleasure in the rape and murder of children. Hey, that reminds me. Don't your kiddies walk home from school every day And when he said that He looked me right in the eye It was as if his stare caused my mind To play out a thousand different scenarios

Each one more heinous and vile than the last It was like Looking through a window into hell Darsie and I are going away He continued All you have to do is forget about her Forget about this entire night if you want. But don't forget that I'm always watching you, Jacob. He didn't need to say

another word. The message was clear. I turned and exited the pastur's house without looking back. The next few hours were a blur to me. I remember driving back to my home, vomiting in the kitchen sink. Yes, that double western bacon cheeseburger finally did make it's escape. And then, passing out on the couch in my living room. My wife's body was found 48 hours after I shot her inside of a liquor store dumpster. Just as he said, I was never even considered a suspect. Her murder was pinned on a 19-year-old kid from the barrio. It took no more than a week for the jury to reach a guilty verdict. He was sentenced to death. The kid is currently incarcerated and trying to appeal for the jury's decision.

But something tells me he won't have any luck. I have a feeling that I'm not the only person who has a favor to repay. Darcy Alonso checked out of the hospital that evening and was gone by morning. Word around the church was that she and the pastor had believed her miraculous recovery to be a sign from God. so they set out across the globe to spread his message. But if you ask me, that story is a big a load of bullshit than a politician making a campaign speech while rolling in a pile of fertilizer.

Two weeks after they left town, their house was put up for sale. It was hard for my children to lose their mother at such a young age, but they'll learn to get along without her. I like to think I've been doing a hell of a job as a single parent. cooking, cleaning and taking care of them. It took a while for things to start getting back to normal for us. But the fact that they're smiling and laughing again makes me think that they're going to be okay.

About a year after everything happened, I received a green envelope in the mail. I didn't think much of it at first. It was the middle of December and I'd already collected dozens of Christmas cards. It wasn't until I tore open that envelope that, I realized that dark, inexplicable sensation had made its presence known once again in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't the title on the front of the card that made me feel sick.

Merry Christmas! From the Alonso's. It was what I saw when I opened it. The message was just one sentence long, but it hit me in the gut like a body blow from Mike Tyson. The doctor says we're due to have the best Christmas ever. Attached to the card was a picture of Darcy and the pastor wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and grinning from ear to ear.

Darcy's sweater, however, was pulled up past her midsection, exposing her belly. She looked to be about nine months praying. Today's penultimate tale of terror is the Carpathian Carver by L.J. The Carpathian Mountains cast a long shadow as the sunset. I was in this godforsaken place for my brother. He had left three months ago, leaving a voicemail before vanishing. He said he was on to something that it might take some time, but that when he returned he would have no more worries. I've been worried every day since. You never really know how much you miss

someone until they're gone. I grown familiar with his journal the past week as I made my way here, traveling from my home in America to Uz-Rod in Ukraine. I boarded a train from there destined for a small village off the maps. I opened the journal to the entry of the I'd bookmarked. June 13th. Looks like I wasn't lost. Turns out there's a town out of the way, east of Uzhorod. Geez, I had to read over the train routes like 13 times before I even saw it.

It took me all day to get here, unfortunately. It's super small, pretty old. But the worst thing is that it smelled. Real bad. Like they've been cooking asparagus casserole in an oven and forgot to check it for two years. I'm staying at a run down in, but at least they've got internet. The people here are really weird, though. They're, I don't know, stiff.

Not unfriendly on purpose, but just... It's like I'm in a town of autistic children. The innkeep barely said a word to me, just brushed his beard up on me, and took my money, and grunted, and gave me a key. His eyes were super sunken in, and cataracted. So bad, I don't know how he could see, and his skin looked really weird, floppy. But I left too quick to get a good look, because I didn't want to spend any more time next to him, because he smelled like asparagus too. Tomorrow I begin my trek into the woods.

I've already packed my bag, checked and double-checked for food, water, survival gear, cigarettes, essential, and a knife and holy water. I have no plan to engage the demon in the least, but best to be prepared. Anyhow, that's it for today. So good night journey

Get it? Because it's like a pet nickname for journal And I'm on a journey Yeah, that's funny Yeah, I'm funny I'm lonely But this will all be worth it when I come home Ah

Yes The demon Reference to as the Carpathian Carver on the internet I collected an assortment of tales of folklore and anecdotal evidence on the creature. The earliest accounts attributed to the Carver date back to the mid-16th century during a period called the ruin, a period of war for total control of Ukraine.

One origin story describes a chance encounter between a tribe of druids and a brigade of Russian soldiers, fearful of their blue-painted bodies and wild faces. and mistaking their sacred ruins for black magic. The druids were slaughtered. The last one they killed died clutching an ugly book to his bleeding chest, a tomb of esoteric incantations, impossible to find anywhere else. There are a multitude of other theories on the internet. Deviant mutants, supernatural two-bit laws,

and then government sanctioned genetic mutation gone wrong. Oh, and aliens. Someone's always thinking it's aliens. Regardless the cause, something is happening in this forest. I turned the page of the journal, June 14th. Today was a waste. I searched for hours, losing the trail and finding it and losing it again.

I gave up a couple of hours before sunset. Insanely disappointed. I was wondering if this mimic guy was just some Ukrainian asshole jokester. There was an interesting development, however. The townsfolk fished a body out of the river just before I got back. A woman. It was messed up real bad. I only caught a glimpse.

But the throats was slashed so bad. It was just a gaping hole. Nothing in it. It looked like a bear or something had taken the chick down. She had some claw marks along her face, and her shirt was torn up. My Ukrainian hasn't improved much, but I heard the villagers whisper, voice, or something like that to each other. But what does that even mean? I don't know.

and they all have weird numbers. The innkeep saw me looking, and I guess I must have looked really interested, because he came out to me and started saying, Don't go, I think, and pointing upstream. He seemed pretty calm for having seen a dead person. He kept scratching himself. I think he'd once had frostbite or something,

because a splotch of his neck looked real, I mean, like it was dead. I'm somewhat hesitant to continue on. This carver dude drinks blood like water. But if he exists, that means the transmutation exists. I can't stop now. I've got some weapons. I've seen a few Jackie Chan movies with all the cool kung fu moves. Yeah, I'm good. One, Tomorrow I'll go upstream and the day after I'll be on a plane home turning all sorts of stuff into gold a gold bed a gold toilet yeah a gold toilet will really help me pick up some chicks mimic this was all his fault mimic is a user on an internet forum for paranormal discussion he is by far the leading expert on the carver and he says he's a historian he's got loads of evidence on the carver he describes the

carver vaguely though he seems certain holy water is its weakness mimic focuses mostly on the explanation of transmutation the book he says the druid died holding he attributes all sorts of qualities to such as the ability to raise the dead, to grant immortality, to convert substances to gold, and myriad other fantastical things. He wrote on it in such depth that I'm sure he's convinced a lot of people to search for it. Surely he's making some of it up. He's crafting a story, a prank to convince stupid foreigners to travel all the way out to Ukraine so he can have a laugh. That's what I would have thought if I hadn't received my brother's journal in the mail

Shipped in a box that smelled of necrosis the box that contained his severed head his head missing the eyes the number 6,061 carved on his forehead I turned to the last journal entry I'm dead, so dead.

How'd I even end up here? I'm locked in a closet. I've only got a lighter, and I'm writing my last words. I walked up the stream. There was this old stone house. It's the carvers. It's also a mausoleum. Smells putrid.

It's full of the dead. I saw it. I saw it and waited. I wasn't just going to enter it, not right away. Night came. I wasn't worried. I'd be able to find my way back, just follow the stream. And then I saw him.

The carver. His flesh clings to his body. He's so skinny, almost a skeleton, if not for the pale blue sea. blue skin wrapped tightly to his bones. He walked slowly, but surely, with a strange confidence. I waited a while after I lost sight of him just to make sure. I would be in and out in a flash, I thought. Part of the wall had collapsed on one side. I jumped it, and I got hit by that smell. The smell that follows me. It sunk into my hair and my skin.

I smell like a corpse and... Moonlit lit a bit of the room. Centuries old this building. And it smelled. There were fragments of bones and trinkets. A stained rug? But no book. I went into a door.

The smell got stronger. It was in my nostrils now, and I vomited. I wiped my mouth and pulled out my lighter, my hand shaking so bad I almost couldn't get it lit. And the dead people were there. They were propped, propped up like figures in a wax museum, dressed in fashions from eons ago.

All different kinds. All skeletal, or ripe green, or dirt brown, and some of them were hanging from the ceiling like marionettes dancing. And others were sitting at a table, silverware in hand. And another was staring out the window. Another had a laptop in its hands. And another applying makeup while staring into a mirror. Can you imagine that?

A dead person staring at themselves in a mirror. staring with no eyes, just black sockets. And there was another propped up in a chair, reading a book. The explanation of transmutation. I pulled the book out of its hands, knocking the corpse over. A thousand baby spiders exploding from the skull. I ran into the forest, waiting to see the carver. But he wasn't there. I was elated. The world was mine. I stopped to catch a breath and the book began calling my name.

I took a quick look. The pages were blank. They were all blank. Page after page after page. I kept turning. All blank except the last. one. One sentence scrawled, Knees. And I heard footsteps behind me. Then I woke up here and I'm waiting to die. And I'm so alone. I hope someone reads this. Please stay away. My brother's address is as follows.

Send this to him. Tell him. I miss him. Tears came no longer. I'd read it too many times, imagined his death too many times. I put the journal away as the train began to slow. I disembarked, the only passenger to do so. The air had a fetid odour and grew stronger the closer to town I walked. It reminded me to prepare myself. so I stopped and unzipped my travel back. I didn't bring just a knife like my brother. No, I came to slaughter. An MP5 and a fragmentation grenade,

which I purchased through a friend of a friend of a contact in my brother's journal. Six-nine millimeter clips and a gallon of holy water, blessed by a reluctant priest, a machete and a litre of gasoline and matches. I was going to torture the carver to death. With my weapons ready, I continued into town. Oil street lamps lit the cobbled stone streets, and I began to see people, slow, milling about aimlessly. I continued down into the middle of the street. studying the town. It was aged, storied with the history I would never know. Was it built during the ruin? The throngs of townsfolk began to thicken. They all looked sick and had numbers written on their

shirts. What did it mean? They were all in the six thousands, but not one higher than it were the carvers' victims. They had me surrounded, dozens of them all staring at me, the faint glow of the street lamps illuminating the sickly pallor of their dead flesh. I saw the innkeeper amongst them in the back. He was a stranger, to be sure, but there was something I recognized in his gaze. Contrarily, the village's eyes were glazed, void of consciousness. They stepped toward me.

Gun in hand, I dropped the bag and began spraying bullets into the crowd. Black, bloodless holes filled their bodies, and they just kept coming, ignoring the rounds, aside from a flinch from impact. Clip after clip was spent. I could smell the decay on their breath, could see the yellowed whites of their eyes. And then there was the click of the last magazine running dry. Only a few lay still, and I began to worry. I strapped the bag of munitions to my back and sprinted towards the closest building, kicking down the door and barricading it.

As soon as I stepped away, the door rattled on its hinges. The village's bloodlust made audible in clarion screams. It wasn't going to hold very long. Shadows flit by the windows. I heard glass shatter somewhere. Got to go. Got to get out, but where do I go? I ran through the house, searching desperately.

But only one thing came to mind. Burn, baby. Burn. I wouldn't be able to escape, but I wouldn't be the only one to die tonight. I began another lap through the house, unzipping the bag and pouring the gasoline in a trail, evading villages that had breached the building.

I struck a match, and the trail lit, consuming the house in an instant. A few villages in the way of the trail became walking torches, though they did not scream as the flames roasted their skin. In fact, they made no reaction, other than to continue to lumber toward me. It was useless. I tried to run. They were around every corner.

I couldn't get out. I ascended a staircase, trying to dodge the flames quickly climbing it. And then I stopped, as I heard a loud grove. The stairwell broke, and I fell. I woke with a start, my temple pulsing in agony. The smoke was caustic as I inhaled, and the light of flames flickered through the cracks above, illuminating the tunnel I was in with eerie light.

After my eyes adjusted, I crept down the dank passage. I saw torchlight near the end, set beside an ancient, rotted door. It was heavy and creaked loudly despite my caution. It opened up into a mammoth room, cobbled and mildewed, lit by lanterns in intervals. A foul odour crept into my lungs. and there was not a breath shallow enough to save me from it. Stone tables were staggered throughout, at least a hundred, each with something on them. Embarming tables.

They were all embalming tables, still occupied by bodies of mangled, pale flesh, that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. I walked silently toward one, careful not to wake them, lest they be animated like the villagers. The one I looked at had a carving in its chest, the number 1,012. He kept them. The carver kept them as trophies. This was disgusting. I was disgusted and I needed out. I needed out right now.

The confines of the room. began to close in. Clostrophobia squeezed my lungs as I ran through the room, aimlessly searching for an exit, any way out, but it was filled with tables, tables and corpses, and that terrible smell. In my carelessness I knocked over a trap of tools, rusted brown, and they clattered to the ground. The echo, lasting several moments. And before I even looked up, I could feel eyes on me. And when I did, every corpse in the room was sitting up, staring at me. And then cold, feted hands clasped my face from behind me.

And the world faded to black. I awoke to darkness hanging by my arms. I stood up the reek of death all around me. When my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in the room my brother had described. The one with all the corpse is propped up, except they were all staring into my eyes with green withered faces. I remained motionless, for I could not tell if they were alive or not. They were perfectly still. But their eyes, their eyes were alive and glistening.

I looked around, but there was no escape. I saw the bag with my supplies in it, five feet away, but impossible to reach, for my wrists were bound by chains. My head dropped. This was it. I had failed. I would die in the same cursed place as my brain. brother had. Poor brother, I was not strong enough to avenge you. I looked back up. Like an hallucination, two corpses lay on the floor, one freshly killed, one headless, and a ghastly figure kneeling beside them with a book in hand. It had a mask of human flesh on, the in-keeps. He was wearing the innkeep.

The creature was frail, emaciated, his bones more prominent than his musculature, varicrous veins pulsated, splintering off from his heart like lightning. There was a patchwork of his victim's flesh wrapped around him, interspersed by dried blood and pale blue. He began incanting an ancient language. with the voice of a woman and he looked at me my brother's eyes inside his darkened sockets the demon put his finger inside the newly deceased's head rubbed the brown blood on a page inside the book and then placed his hand on the headless body it began twitching the carver dropped the book standing to look at me. He ripped the flesh mask off, the moon, lighting a sickening smile on his

lipless face. The headless course stood up, wobbling. Six thousand and sixty-one, carved in its chest. A boast. A trophy. The carver reached toward me, his fingers missed. His fingers shapen claws. The corpse flinched, bristle behind it, as if agitated. New heart! He hissed. He poked my chest and began pushing, slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time. His head tilted, relishing my reaction. His finger squirmed, sliced tissue, prodded my lung and suddenly he fell to the floor my brother's body had attacked it but as soon as the carver lost sight of me it flailed blindly searching without eyes for the chains that bound me it made contact and with supernatural strength tore it from the ceiling I would have authored thanks but he didn't have

ears with which to hear me. Carver was back up and grabbed my brother's body, throwing it outside, through the wall. As soon as he turned back to me, I whipped the broken chain at it, denting its skull. It fell back to the ground, stunned, and I went for my bag, rifling through it. I desperately threw the vials of holy water at the demon, but they did not impede. his recovery. No, no, I grasped as the carver pulled apart my chest and through the pain I swung the machete down, tearing his torso wide open. He recoiled, falling to his knees at my feet, clutching his spilled in it. I reached back into the back, grabbed the grenade, pulled the pin with my teeth and shoved it inside his wound. This was it. The explosion was deafening.

I sailed through the air. Dead flesh rained from the sky. Everything was destroyed. Through the haze of my fading consciousness, I realized that I was missing most of my body. I still. This was the end. I gave it my best and had won, even though it cost my life to succeed. It was worth it. I closed my eyes. Time passed, but I could not tell how much, nor did I care. And then something shook me awake, a cold breeze or a soft howl from far away. I blinked. The air was charged with some sort of energy. I looked over my shoulder and saw a blue glow as the carver's body began piecing itself back together.

Only tiny pieces, but it was forming quickly. already a finger was reformed. No, I won. I had won. I'd beaten him. I would not allow my victory to be snatched away. I would not allow this. I began crawling with the last limb I had attached,

at first to the carver, but then to the book lying next to him. It was already open. Turned to a page which I could not read. But something called to me from it, whispering in my mind, and I knew not what I did, I only acted. I picked a bit of the carver's grey matter off my face and placed it on the page, which said strange ruins aglow in blue light. The book spoke to my mind, told me to trace the last run. but I hesitated.

I knew what this meant. I would become the new carver. I would become a monster, unredeemable, atrocious, forsaken, and alone. But was I not already alone? The carver's head was mushy still, but his face was forming. And if I did this, how many brothers would I steal from the world? How many families would I destroy without regret or conscience? Was it worth vengeance?

The carver's torso was fusing together, bone popping out of a hand that reached toward me. If I chose this, I would be immortal, undead, leading a hollow life of stealing from the living. Could I live with myself knowing what I was? The Carver pulled himself on top of me, his saliva dripping on my face. Was this worth absolute victory? What would you think, my brother?

I think so. I traced the ruin, my body disintegrated. The transformation was extraordinary. My mind was filled with knowledge. Foreign memories made. Consciousness transcended. Senses redefined. Beliefs and morals distorted and remade.

Existence was understood from a whole different perspective. Life was an essence, something tangible, transferable, if one used the right tools. My body was reformed, stronger, more powerful, restructured with a foreign genetic code. But it was also malnourished. I reached out for one of the myriad limbs laying around me and used it, absorbed it, ate it. The feeling, the taste, was intoxicated. My greatest desire now was to use it, to experiment, to see how much flesh I could transmute. The old carver stared up at me in horror, broken and writhing.

Yes, I knew what he was thinking. He had not known fear in centuries, and to stand here above him, to revel as he coward. It was bliss. I'm going to torture you to death. I whispered, and then I consumed him in thin ribbons of flesh and rivulets of blood, dissecting him, peeling his flesh, taking inventory of his organs,

collecting his nails, strangling the screams from his throat, for hours on end. And when I finished, when he was naught but a slimy paste, I sought the long dead and consumed them too. I left the old building to find one more corpse and found him. Ah, but this one I would not eat. I hungered, yes, and I would sate that earth.

with a million souls for I was the new carver I generated flesh on the body before me to erase the number placed on it except I left the one the first you are the first my brother let us share this victory together a final Maccabre story this evening is there's something going through my garbage by Nathan Jane. I don't know what to do at this point, which is why I've come here. What I've seen has changed me. I don't know if what I've seen is real, but I believe it to be, as I saw it with my own eyes. A horrific sight from the darkest of nightmares.

I'll try to explain my situation as best I can, but I... pray to God there is someone who reads this that has had a similar experience. If not, then I will have come to the conclusion that I am insane, which will be hard. My whole life has been a practical one, and up to this day I have only ever known reality. I have now seen such a thing, as of last night, that completely contradicts any of my past beliefs of this reality in which we all live. Please, bear with me as I try to explain my situation, as it's a strenuous task. Let me first introduce myself, as I have yet to do so.

I go by the name my lovely parents gave me, Nathan James Willem. I am a man of 20-some-odd years, and I have been an attorney at law for the past four of them. I reside alone in my lonely little house in the suburban area of my town. It's been my home for no more than two years at this point in time, and I was finally feeling settled into the place when the strange occurrences began. It was no more than a month ago that I woke to a sort of ripping or tearing sound outside the wall of my bedroom. This wall I speak of is the barrier that separates my bedroom from the outer. side part of my backyard, where I let my garbage bin sit when it's not trash day in my neighbourhood. It took me only a few moments of thinking in my sleepy state to determine what the

noise was. Something was going through my garbage, a critter maybe. I figured I should probably go out with my flashlight to scare the thing off before it thrashed open the bags in the bins and scattered bits of rotten garbage all over my yard. I arose from my bed, teetered a bit in my not-yet-awake state, and then grabbed my black maglight I keep in my bedside drawer. I roam the dark rooms of my home until I made my way to the back door. Once outside, I strolled over to the side of my house, guided by the light of my back porch light, and made my way to the area that connects my front yard to the back with a locked wood gate. Once I was in the area with the bins, I switched on my maglight expecting to catch the creature

in the act, a possum, raccoon, or whatever it was. But there was nothing. Just my bins of garbage leaning against the wall where their tops flipped up. The bags inside were somewhat torn, but there was no garbage that I could see on the ground in front of me, using the light from the maglite. There was, however, a horribly disgusting smell. A smell that I cannot accurately describe. You may be thinking something like, well, duh, there's a smell. You're standing next to the garbage, Nathan. Use your damn head. Yes, I was standing next to the open garbage bins, but this horrific smell wasn't that of the garbage in front of me. It was from

The Thing It smelled like death Worse than a corpse actually Like I said the smell is Most indescribable And it still lingers in that spot today It's as if I Can't get it out of my nostrils

Even if I were to cut off my nose The smell is most uncanny And unnatural Those are the best terms I can use to describe it to others. That night, I returned to my bedroom and lay down again, feeling quite puzzled. I wondered why the animal had so neatly torn open the bags in my bins, without knocking them over or scattering the contents everywhere. How did the creature disappear without a trace, only moments after me hearing the noises from my bedroom? leaving nothing but its horrid smell behind.

It was quite eerie. Though I let these thoughts go eventually, as I drifted off to sleep again. I can't remember for sure, but I feel as if I had very strange dreams for the rest of that night. Though, again, I can't recall any of them at this point in time, so I can't say for certain. I slept peacefully for the next week or so

with no disturbances in the nights following the incident. I remember rolling the trash bins to the street in the cool of the evening of Tuesday that week, Wednesday is trash day in my neighbourhood, and, realising the rotten smells still refused to cease from lingering in the air on the side of my house where the bins usually sit. It was quite disturbing to me, and I even went to the point of asking my neighbour what the cause may be. may be. Rachel is the name of the quiet lady who shares a fence with me that separates our yards on that particular side of my house. To be honest, I don't know much about her. She's young, a single mother, and usually keeps to herself. I caught her one morning that week, walking from her front door to her grey SUV parked in her driveway. I did something then that I hadn't ever really cared to do since I'd moved into this house.

I struck up a conversation with the woman. Out of desperate effort, I hurried through the small talk while trying my best to not seem rude and ask her about the smell. I was disappointed to find that, even though Rachel keeps her garbage bins right on the other side of the fence, she could smell nothing. I asked her if anything had been in them recently. She told me there hadn't been any reason for her to believe that there was.

I even led her over to the wood gate that leads to my backyard and asked her if she knew what the horrible smell might be from. I remember her awkwardly tilting her head and looking at me briefly before saying, smell. I don't smell anything unusual and I'm pretty sure my sense of smell is still intact. weird as it was the woman truly did not smell anything i felt embarrassed in the moment i apologized to rachel for acting strange and let her go on about her day the embarrassment faded shortly after and i remembered doing a good bit of

thinking that day why was the smell there after a whole week why was i able to smell it even from part of my front yard by the wood gate when Rachel smelled nothing. It was so strong when I was near the gate, yet the smell went unnoticed by Rachel when she was standing right next to me. Am I insane? I might be, but I'll get to that in a bit. It was a few days after my conversation with Rachel that I was awoken by the familiar noise once again. I remember briefly looking at my phone to check the time. 3.33am. Once again, I rose from the warm cover and sheets of my bed

and grabbed the maglight out of my drawer. It was then that the noise outside increased, almost as if something large was in the bins, and digging into the bags as the bins knocked against the wall. Something as small as a raccoon couldn't be making such a rancor. ruckus. So I figured a stray dog may have found its way into my yard, threw a hole in the fence or something. This time, along with my maglight from the drawer, I grab my baseball bat so that I keep under my bed. I didn't intend to hurt whatever it was, but I figured it's better to be safe rather than sorry.

I've always been taught to practice caution, a principle I live by and even apply to my daily work as an attorney. Anyway, with my bat and maglite I made my way through the house and out the back door. This time the noise hadn't ceased once I made it outside. I wasn't scared, but maybe a bit nervous. I made it all the way to the side of my house with the bins when the noise finally stopped right before I was able to switch my light on. The strange thing about the incident is that there was no trace of sound of the creature's abrupt escape.

It's as if the thing just vanished at the perfect time, right before I would see it. I remember thinking to myself, what the fuck? Before the smell hit me like a train. The smell was stronger now. The smell. I can vividly recall almost loose. losing my balance as it filled my nostrils in threatening waves. If I hadn't quickly placed my hand on the wall then, I think I would have probably fainted

on the spot. I flashed my light around the scene, the beam of light darting from the fence to the wall, and then to the ground. When I came to the conclusion that the thing that had been there only a few moments ago had completely vanished, I saw that the thing that had been there, I saw that the thing that had been there I slowly approached the bins. With the light of the flashlight set on the spot that the bin sat in, I could see exactly what had happened.

The bin that I used for my recyclable waste was left unaltered, but the main waste bin was left with the lid open and leaning against the wall of my house. The smell was utterly unbearable, as I came into close proximity to the open bin. Now, you'd think your nose would become accustomed to even the worst of scents, if exposed to them long enough. But this smell is different.

Different from anything I've ever smelled in the entirety of my life. It never faded a bit, but only grew stronger as I peered over the open waist bin and fixed my light onto its contents. What I saw then made my spine go rigid. Upon the torn bag in the bin lay a single envelope with my name and address. A piece of my own mail discarded by none other than myself only a few days before. I can still remember shuffling through the mail I'd received when I recognized the envelope that contained a copy of a bank statement.

I remember tossing the unopened envelope into the tree. Trash can I keep in my kitchen, as I have no need for a written statement. I do most of my banking online these days. Though, as I stood by the bins that night, staring at the envelope, fear surged through me. I felt cold. I looked at the envelope that was now torn open at the top, either by a knife or someone's nails. and felt the hairs on my back and neck stand up straight.

I picked up the envelope and realized its contents were now gone. It was then that I realized that it wasn't an animal that had been in my trash that night. It was a person. A human being had gone through the contents of my garbage to find a statement with my personal information and then vanished with it, without any trace other than that terribly unnatural smell. I can well remember getting no more sleep that night,

as I went over the incident in my head for the rest of the dark hours before morning. Creepy thoughts filled my head, and I couldn't seem to get rid of them for long, no matter how much or what I tried. Who in the hell could it have been? A past defendant seeking vengeance for a case I managed? Possible but most likely not judging by the smell. A homeless person, maybe. They usually tend to give off a certain stench from lack of a place to bathe.

I thought to myself even someone who hadn't showered since the day they were born would smell much better than the stench that refuses to leave the side of my head. house. I was stumped. I contemplated filing a report for a short time, but eventually dismissed the idea. I usually take matters into my own hands, and I didn't believe that my local law enforcement would be able to do much with the case evidence I currently possessed. There was nothing to go on. At least, I thought there wasn't. Until I went over. to the scene the next morning and found the print. I was paralyzed, unable to move at the unsightly print in the wet mud before the bin. It was only one, and it was not of human form, from what I

could tell. Coupled with the lingering stench, the footprint was a horror to behold, and I remember having to swallow vomit in my mouth at first gaze upon the mud. The print of what I thought was from a foot of some kind had not five, but two toes. The best way I can find to describe it myself is that of the shape of a pair of flippers used for scuba diving and such, though only one print was made instead of two, and the head of the flipper had a strange indent that formed two obvious, toes. This is what made me realize that the print was not a shoe or some kind of footwear. It was the footprint of some deformed person's actual foot. It was not a pleasant sight

to behold in your own backyard. And, as I was finally able to move again, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the print to save for evidence. In whatever case, I may have possibly needed it in the future. I can't say I slept well the next few nights as I recall, though there were no noises or signs to indicate the person was back in my garbage. The same day I found the print, I took it upon myself to order a personal surveillance camera from Amazon for just under a hundred bucks that arrived the next evening via my prior membership. I set the camera up outside on the corner of the roof of my house so that it would capture the entirety of the side of my house where the bins sit. The camera was able to capture a night vision wireless feed that I'd set up on my laptop that I kept on my bedside table.

It was good quality as I figured out from testing, but it could not capture sound. This was not a big deal to me. I only wanted to see for myself what was going through my waste to acquire personal information so that I could have evidence to submit to the police in hopes that they would be able to identify the intruder. For a week or so after I'd set the camera up, there were no disturbances. It wasn't until the night before last night that it happened. I awoke from a loud bang, the sound I knew at least.

once to be the garbage bin hitting the wall of which my bed sits against. It was louder than the previous times, and it came with a ravaging noise. Whoever it was that was on the side of my house was furiously ravaging through the waste bin, caring not one bit about the sheer volume of noise it was producing in doing so. At first, I laid there, unable to move, and out of pure fright. I was paralyzed for no more than two minutes as I sat there listening to the intruder on the outside. When I finally broke free of the paralysis, I quickly reached over to my bedside table, grabbed

my laptop and flipped it open. I pulled up the camera feed and what I saw on the screen, numbed my body from head to toe. Feelings of terror, panic and absolute fear of the unknown were all I felt for a time as I looked at what was on the screen as I became completely paralyzed once again. I saw the thing sitting in a crouch position upon the outer rim of the bin, as if it held no weight. It was rummaging through the bin within human maneuvers of its dark, It was somewhat humanoid in the nature of the form of its body, but it was no human by any means possible. It was made up of a dark, blackish mass of what looked like shaggy fur, though I knew this was not the case.

It was not fur that I saw which made up the mass of this thing. It was some sort of black fire, ghastly in nature, that I was. would flare like that over the flames of a fire. Its hands were not hands. Instead, they were a pair of claw-like spikes that darted out from each of the thing's forearms. The feet were almost impossible to make out by the angle of the camera and the position the thing was crouched in, though I had no doubt then and there that it was the same thing that had made the unearthly footprint I'd seen in the mud only last week. The thing then rotated its dark heads so slowly and so unnaturally to face directly up and towards the camera. It was when I saw the creature's face

that I screamed like a child. Or so I thought I did. No noise came out of my terrified self, if I recall correctly. Upon its face, the creature had dimly lit red eyes, as if the light in which was keeping the glowing color alight, was of some supernatural explanation unknown to humans. From what I could see, the sort of demon had no mouth or nose, just those evil red eyes that flickered and flared like the rest of its body. It looked directly into the cat,

for a time that seemed like a year in the moment, almost as if it knew I was looking directly back into its eyes through the camera. Did this creature know I was only a few feet from itself, where I then laid in my bed, separated only by the thin wall of my house. Just as the thought crossed my mind, the thing on the screen vanished before my eyes, and the camera feed went dead only seconds after. Nothing but a static scream. For the rest of the night I did not dare to move nor try and sleep. There were no signs that the thing was still out there at any other time of that night, but I was too terrified to get out of bed. I just laid there with the covers covering all of my body except for my head for what seemed like an eternity.

It wasn't until daylight streamed through my bedroom, and I could hear the sounds of suburban life outside commencing that I finally arose. The first thing I did was check the scene of the incident. I puked at the stench when I got close to the side of the house, but not much came up as I hadn't eat anything good in twelve hours. I pressed on towards the bins and saw that once again. only the main waste had been tampered with. And I couldn't tell if the creature had taken anything with it this time.

What I did find gone, however, was the camera. It was as if it vanished along with the creature. What's worse is, the recording is gone from my laptop. And the picture I'd saved on my phone of the footprint seems to have been deleted as if it were never taken. I feel like I'm going completely insane. This was only yesterday morning. I didn't go to work yesterday, and I probably won't today either.

The thing came back last night. I know this for sure. What's worse is I think it was in my house, in my bedroom. I tried to sleep last night, but I was abruptly woken by what seemed like, Nothing at all. I quickly realized that I was completely unable to move. I wanted to, I tried to, but I couldn't. I was lying on my side in bed, facing the wall, while unable to move, when I suddenly noticed the smell. I started to panic. I knew exactly what was in the room with me. I couldn't moved to save my life. I then heard the whispers of the thing who does not speak like we speak.

Its whispers were of a language I'd never heard before, and they didn't sound coherent whatsoever. All I remember is the terror the sounds gave me, just from listening, before I felt it on my bed from the direction my back was turned. I still couldn't move, but I could feel it trying to climb its way onto my bed. I tried with all my will and strength to move, and finally broke free. I jumped up as quick as I could, and everything seemed to cease then and there. I realized it was daytime now and that I must have slept through most of the night. There was nothing in my room with me.

No whispers circled the air now. But the smell was there. The smell is in my house now, and I am terrified. I have no idea what action to take at this point. Along with the smell, various objects from my house have gone missing. Candles, random pictures, and my rosary I've kept in my drawer in my bedside. table that's belonged to me since childhood.

I'm still terrified, which is why I'm posting this account. I've done some research on what the cause may be and have come up with silly results such as sleep paralysis or psychosis. This all seems too real to me to be of any natural explanation. I think I'm dealing with something supernatural, and demonic. I've ordered a set of surveillance cameras that should arrive tomorrow, assuming I'm still alive and somewhat sane.

I feel like I'm living in a house out of the paranormal activity movies, only it's real and naturally much more disturbing. I'll hopefully report back with accounts of what I've seen on the new cameras, and what I of myself have witnessed in the next. few days. If nothing is heard from me after this account, please assume the worst. Nathan Jay Willem.

And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. wherever you get your podcast from please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast

that's it for this week but I'll be back again same time, same place and I do so hope you'll join me once more until next time sweet dreams and bye-bye