Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep233: Episode 233: The Essence of Horror

Episode Date: April 8, 2025

Tonight’s first horrific tale of terror is ‘Knuckle bones’ by Kolpik, share via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Kolpik https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Knuckle_Bones Our second tale of the macabre is ‘This is why Mimes are much more terrifying than Clowns’, a wonderful story By Mandahrk, kindly shared with me via NoSleep and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/Mandahrk Next up we have ‘My Girlfriend Starred in a Movie that Doesn't Exist’, an original story By Spook Brain, kindly shared with me via NoSleep and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/SpookBrain/ https://www.facebook.com/SpookBrain/ We continue the horror with the utterly bizarre ‘A Fair Warning: Don’t Order Unlimited Salad and Bread Sticks at Olive Garden'’, an original work by iownaxult, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/iownaxult/ Our next tale of terror is ''Something watches me while I sleep'', an original work by Kallier Devdi 6359, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/KallierDevdi6359 We continue with a story by the wonderful Celephais 1985, ‘The Phantom Cat of Black Mountain, Australia’, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all; please visit his website: https://www.reddit.com/user/Celephais_1985/ Tonight’s penultimate story dares to go where no other Halloween tale will follow: ‘The Town that Banned Halloween’, a brilliant original story Snickering Haystack, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/user/snickeringhaystack/ Our final terrifying tale of terror is ‘My old home videos showed me a life I never lived’, a wonderful story by Richard Saxon, kindly shared with me via Dr. Creepen’s Vault and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/RichardSaxon/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's Dungeon. The essence of horror stories lies in their ability to tap into our deepest fears, both real and imagined. They create a sense of unease by distorting the familiar, telling safe places into traps and trusted people into threats. Horror plays with the unknown, the unseen and the uncontrollable, forcing us to confront what we try to bury. Fear of death, isolation, madness, or the monsters within ourselves. At their core, great horror stories don't just scare us. They reflect something true about the human condition, making us question our reality long after the story ends.

As we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. Jack didn't bother to brush the dirt off his rotten suit. Some some say cleanliness is next to godliness, but he figured the big man upstairs or even the head honcho of hell didn't factor into his current situation.

There was a spent bullet rattling around in his empty skull after all, and he couldn't recall ever seeing anything resembling a tunnel of light, or even a sucking pit blacker than night. Besides that, digging from the wrong end of a grave was tiring work, and he still had more to do that night. With empty eye-sockets, he spotted the handle of a shovel partially hidden under dead and decaying leaves. He assumed whoever buried him there had accidentally left it behind, thus marking the spot where his remains had been hidden. Not bothering to consider the irony of it all, he lay out a breathless sigh of relief, simply glad he didn't have to dig any more with his hands.

The hound wire of his resurrection was a mystery to him, but somehow he knew what had to be done and where he had to go. He only hoped he could hold together long enough to complete his task. With limbs lacking connective tissue or ligaments to hold them together, he leaned down and picked up the rusty tool. Despite the absence of muscle tissue, he gripped its handle tightly and rested its long wooden shaft upon his bony shoulder, defy more than a few natural laws he did all these things and then turned away,

shambling through the woods toward his final destination. He had a long road to travel and another grave to dig that night. He clumsily shuffled his way through the overgrown thicket on the edge of the woods, past a dead-end sign and headed directly up the centre of May Street. Children dressed in all manner of colourful costumes walked along the sidewalks. Plenty of them gawked at the animated corpse of Jack Marlin, but no one saw his appearance as the coming of the Zorke. zombie apocalypse. In fact, he fit in quite well with all the other ghoulish creatures

roaming the streets that night. There really was no better night for his return to upside. After all, pretty much anything goes on the 31st of October. One kid made up to look like a hamburger yelled out to him. O'y, super scary costume, Mr. Bickle. You've really outdone yourself this year. Jack didn't know who Mr. Bickle was, but he took the misplaced compliment as a sign he'd see a little resistance on his trek through town. If it weren't for his jawbone lying somewhere back in the thicket, he might have responded with a right back at you, kid. Instead he ignored the boy and continued his slow, arduous walk down the street.

He figured it was probably for the best he didn't try to speak. Another trick or treaters seemed daunted by the thing held together with nothing more than filthy, rotten clothes, and a will stronger than death itself. But even a single, gush, grunt or growl might have inspired unwanted scrutiny the last thing he needed was an angry mob intent on doing some zombie bashing by the time he reached the opposite end of may streets the sidewalks were vacant most front doors were illuminated only by moonlight turning left he took to the sidewalk to avoid

attracting too much attention the next few hours crawled by at a pace matching his own sluggish stride other than a few blaring car horns and one inaudible slur he walked along unnoticed and undeterred. Crossing the street toward the end of his journey, he tripped on the curb and did a faceplant on the sidewalk. As he rose to his feet, something the size of a fist slipped out of his ragged clothing and burst open on the cement.

Thinking another part of him had fallen off, he looked down to see if it could be salvaged. Lying there on the sidewalk was a rotten piece of cloth surrounded by charred bits of bone. He only had to compare them to his own hands to confirm they were broken finger bones. The knuckles, being the only bits not touched by fire, made him think of popcorn for some strange reason. A phantom pain where his stomach used to be stopped him short of reminiscing about his past life. With a swing of his shovel, he scattered the bones, not giving one second to consider the bone's significance.

He then moved on toward his destination. A shaggy dog with dirty matted fur came upon him about a block from his destination. It followed along behind him, probably hoping there was still some marrow left in his bones. He shoot it away with the business end of his shovel when he got too close for comfort. Oh, if anyone's bearing anything tonight, Fado, it sure as hell ain't going to be you. The thought made him chuckle inwardly as he came upon a railroad crossing. walking over the tracks brought up memories of his wife she always crossed her fingers when passing over train tracks she insisted he do it too but he never played along in fact he always chided her

for being so superstitious suddenly overwhelmed with regret he did it for her then and lost a finger for his efforts not bothering to pick it up he continued on the second time that night he felt a strange tingling in his bones shrugged dragging off the doubt welling up inside, he quickened his pace, certain that whatever was holding him together had an expiration date. He stopped for a moment when he came to the edge of the cemetery and gazed out over the landscape. He wasn't present when he was interred there, well, only in the way that counts, but somehow he knew on the other side of the property was an empty coffin and a headstone with his name on it, and right beside it was where his wife

rested. She was alive the last time he'd seen her, but in the same mysterious way that he knew where his grave was, he also knew she was dead as well. Walking amongst the grave markers and headstones gave him a little taste of the tranquility no unmarked grave could ever give him, to finally be at rest beside the woman he loved was all he wanted. He didn't know who had dug him up and buried him in the woods at the end of May Street, nor did he understand why anyone would do such a thing. He decided it didn't matter because he'd taken matters into his own hands and would finally be at peace very soon. With the shovel gripped tightly in his dead cold hands, he stepped up to his headstone. Next into the stone was his name, the timeline of his life

and a simple message, beloved son, father and husband. Beside that was his wife's stone. He brushed a redden leaf off the top of it and turned back to his plot. time to get bad to being dead and buried he thought as he sunk the head of the shovel into the ground he pressed it deeper with his foot and heaved out the first shovelful of dirt as he tossed it aside a voice broke the silence surrounding the graveyard how exactly do you intend to pull that dirt back when you're done jack spun around to discover a tall man in a plain black t-shirt and blue jeans not seeming the least bit shot by the animated corpse of jack marlin standing before him, he exclaimed, Ah, there's my shovel, before snatching it from Jack's hands. In about a second of hesitation, he swung the shovel around and slammed Jack in the side of the head.

The dead man bellowed inhumanly as he stumbled to the side. Just as he regained his footing, the stranger swung the shovel upward, catching him square on the chin and dropping him hard onto his back. Seconds later a boot pressed heavily on his chest. chest. He could hear his ribs cracking as he desperately clawed the man's leg. The stranger stabbed the shovel into the ground beside the dead man's head and grabbed him by the arms. With a great heave, he tore them out of their sockets and tossed them aside. The writhing corpse of Jack Marlin led out a ghastly screech that echoed through the cemetery. The stranger grabbed the shovel and,

without a second thought, drove it straight through the dead man's neck. Jack's head rolled free and settled into the divot he dug just moments before. Crouching down, the man picked up the severed head and spat in his eye socket. You don't remember me, but I wish you did. The next time you see me, it'll be like we've never met before. Sadly, hexes can only do so much. You're probably wondering who I am, but my name is not important. Just know I'm the great-grandson of Hilda Swanson.

You at least remember her right. She is one of the many people you swindled. Well, she has a message for you. With all that said, he set Jack's skull on the grass and pulled a little pouch and a pack of matches from his pocket. Within the pouch was a fine red powder he poured in a circle around the skull. Jack, being the unwilling witness he was, could do nothing but watch as the man took a little sack from another pocket. He guessed what it contained seconds before the man opened it and dumped its contents onto the the grass. Lying there before him were bits of yellowed finger bones. The man placed the bones

around the skull, the knuckle end of each sticking outside of the red circle. Mumbling a few inaudible words, he struck a match across the top of Jack's head and dropped it onto the circle. A green flame burst alive and quickly encircled the skull of Jack Marlin. The flames rose up around him and flickered threateningly. Jack awoke as if from a dream. You're sitting at the desk in his office with a loaded revolver gripped tightly in his hand. The loud voice came from the other side of his office door. I repeat, this is the police. We have a warrant for your...

The voice cut out just as an elderly woman in a long yellow dress appeared before him. Her dress flowed around her as if she were under water, but her grey black hair didn't move an inch as she strode up to his desk. don't you worry about them sugar they ain't coming in unless you give him the go-ahead jack blurted out who are you what's going on she leaned over the desk and looked him right in the eyes my name's hilda swanson you and me need to talk in a flash everything came back to him he was reliving the last moments of his life the woman was new but everything else was just as it had happened before he'd gone off the phone with the head of security who caught up to tell him the police were heading up in the elevator to deliver a warrant for his arrest the realization was almost too much for jack to take in but he eventually came to his senses i i shop myself that's right sugar but don't you fret over that just yet ain't nothing carved in stone that can't be undone with the right ritual oh ow this can't be real i mean simple of them bake in a pie.

You just got to stand up and open that door. Jack sat there staring at the ethereal figure standing before him. What would that do? Hilda shook her head in frustration. Seems I got to spell it out for you. Go ahead and let them men in here so things can move along as they should are in the first place. Things should start themselves out from there. But I don't want to go to jail.

He ought to slammed her hands down on the expensive mahogany desk. You damn coward. You'd rather leave this mess for your family to clean up? Yeah, I guess you were. It's what you'd done before, so go on then. What's she waiting for? Go ahead, put that gun in your mouth and pull that trigger. Jack looked at the revolver in his hand.

He wondered how things had gone so wrong. Well, convinced he'd never get caught, he'd dug himself deeper and deeper until he had never. inevitably ended up where he was, deciding between whether to eat a bullet or face the shame and humiliation awaiting him on the other side of that door. Discovering a courage he didn't know he had in himself, he stood up and walked around his desk. He dropped the revolver at his feet and stepped up to the door. Taking a deep breath, he reached at the doornaw. Hilda began to cackle wildly as he swung the door open. There were no police standing there, or even his secretary, typing away

her desk. Instead, all he saw was the graveyard he'd walked all night to reach. You're a damn fool. Nothing can undo what you done. He'll exclaim between bouts of insane laughter. He spun around to confront her. I don't understand. You said her. The old woman's laughter died as a twisted grin replaced the laugh lines on her face. Yep, I said what I said, but only so I could watch you blow your brains out again. It's the first time you ever chose option to. I took you long enough. It don't change nothing.

You're dead, and so am I. But nothing, sugar. I had waiting for those in charge to figure out where you hit all your stolen gains, and so did plenty of other people you cheated. No doubt you locked it all away in some Swiss bank, and ain't nobody ever going to get it. So all that leaves, little old me, there's the chance once a year to shitting your conflicts. I believe you me.

That's just what I'm going to do for as long as my kin keep pumping out babies and teaching them all about you. As long as they keep the tradition alive on Halloween, you ain't ever going to rest easy beneath that fancy headstone. Watterly dumbfounded, Jack could do nothing but sputter and gasp in shock. She said he'd never rest in peace, and he'd never rest in peace, and he'd be. believed her he wondered in that moment how long this whole sordid affair had been playing itself out but he didn't bother asking he doubted she'd tell him he didn't think he really wanted to know lost in a mire of self-pity he failed to notice Hilda step up behind him rising up on the balls of her feet she leaned in close and

whispered in his ear all that's left is you get back in the ground see you next year With his name barely out of her mouth, she leaned into him hard and shoved him through the door. About an hour later, Jack was once again dead to the world and settled back in his unmarked grave in the woods. Hilda's great-grandson tossed a small bag bound with a leather cord onto the corpse. His contents crackled and hummed with the promise of dark and impossible feats. He then filled the hole. When his task was done, he laid the shovel beside the door. the mound and covered it all with leaves and branches as the sun began to peek over the horizon he uttered the five words he ended every halloween with see you next year

For as long as I can remember, my father's been irrationally afraid of mimes. I've seen him get reduced to a sweating, quivering mess at the mere sight of them. No one knew why this was, as he would always angrily brush it off whenever we questioned him about it, and he'd pretend that they didn't affect him at all. While this had become a running joke in the family, I was always curious about the reason behind this odd little quirk of his. Well, this Christmas I finally got him to spill the beans after that. filling his stomach with copious amounts of cake and wine.

I took his story down, almost word for word on my phone. It really is something, I can tell you that. You really want to post this on the internet? It sounds extremely unbelievable, so I'm surprised if they accuse you of making this all up, okay? Geez, where do I even start? So, you know that I came to this country back in the early 90s, right? It was a couple years before I met in marriage and mother.

times were tough for someone like me back then I had to work two jobs just to put food on the table and to have a roof over my head and even then all I could afford was the rattiest apartment in this decrepit old building in a crime-infested shithole of a neighbourhood like well it was so bad you couldn't get a good night's sleep without hearing at least one gone shut each night

just a mouldy crumbling old place to live in now my second job was basically a weekend thing where I worked as a bartender at the local strip club It was called the rear end Fucking hilarious Well, it was trashy and Something I'm particularly proud of But working at a titty club sure beats

Sleeping on the streets, I can tell you that What's that? Yes, your mother knows We just don't talk about that part of my life Don't even look at me like that Those women were some of the bravest, most honourable people I've ever known Anyway, my job meant that I would come back to my apartment late I mean two or three a.m. late

I just need you to understand how late it would usually get those nights so you can truly appreciate just how bizarre what I saw in the elevator that day was it was a Saturday night I remember it well I was exhausted and just wanted to go back to my bedroom as quick because I could got into my building lumbered over to the elevator and saw a fucking mime waiting there for me you know makeup white face blood red lips striped shirt and a whole shebang

He was holding a string tied to a balloon in one hand and waving with the other at something in the distance with this weird, lifeless smile plastered on his face. And his hand wasn't moving naturally either. He had this weird robotic, don't-like quality to it. Like it was something mechanical, you know. He jerked his hand left, right, left, right, just smiling at something far off into the distance behind me

with these wide, unblinking eyes. Oh yes. there absolutely was just a wall behind me. Nothing else, which is what made it so creepy. I mean, I've seen all kinds of strange shit in this country, but nothing came close to seeing a mime in the elevator of my apartment building at 3.30 in the morning. Needless to say, I was thoroughly creeped out

and decided to take the stairs to my apartment on the ninth floor. I didn't actually have this belly back then, and I was in decent shape, so that climb, while tiring, wasn't impossible. Sometimes I would even climb up and down those stairs just to exercise. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wasn't worried about climbing up all the way to the ninth floor, so making a decision to use the stairs wasn't that difficult. I think I'd reached the fourth or fifth floor when I noticed something moving from the corner of my eye. I paused, turned around, and there he was, climbing the stairs a couple of floors below me.

Have you ever seen those old silent films? ever see a character tiptoe around in an exaggerated manner when they're trying to make it obvious how important silence is that's how he was walking with his hands balled up into fists in front of him and climbing with these freakishly long strides jumping over multiple steps at a time only using the tips of his toes to pull himself up

he froze when I saw him mid fucking stride like a fucking statue with one leg suspended in air as he stood precariously I expected him to tip over and fall backwards any second, but he didn't move even an inch. It was like he turned to stone. Not all of him, however. He had this strange expression on his face, almost this cutesy.

Oh, he caught me stealing the cookies again, shit. And his eyes were darting around rapidly, refusing to acknowledge my presence. I was this close to losing my shit, but I steeled my nerves and spoke up. Hey man Cut it out I laugh nervously You got me man Yeah hilarious shit

I tried to rationalize it to myself But this was nothing but a prank Or a practice performance or something You know I don't have any money man I'm dirt poor so yeah You can stop now With that I picked up my pace and started running upstairs

My blood rang cold as I heard him start moving again, much, much faster this time, but in the exact same motion. I looked behind me again. It was just one floor below me. Again, he turned into this living statue shit. But he was so close to me this time, I could see the whites of his eyes as he stared off into the distance. It was so bizarre. I didn't even know whether this was all malicious or not, you know. Was this mime trying to hurt me? I think knowing that he was a psycho nut would have made it easier to deal with, but this, it was irrational. The fear I felt was primal, shaking me to the core.

I screamed at him. What the fuck do you want? I shouted at the top of my lungs, not caring who would wake up. No, I'm hoping someone would. Leave me alone, asshole. Just fuck off. His expression instantly changed at that. He looked sad almost, but it was frighteningly disingenuous, like he was putting on a show.

His face fell and he brought his hand up to wipe off a non-existent tear. I watched in stunned silence as he then proceeded to climb the railing of the stairs and jump before I could so much as open my mouth. I screamed and quickly bent over the stairs to see what the fuck had happened. He was sprawled on the ground, six floors down, limbs twisted at all. odd angles and lying in a pool of blood. I must have spent almost a minute just staring at his lifeless body, wondering what the fuck had just happened. At the back of my mind, I knew that I had to call the cops or something, but I was far too shocked to even move. It was a tingling sensation

in my spine that brought me back to reality. This strange feeling of being watched, like thousands of ants running down your back. I looked up at the stairs above me, and I kid you not, son. There he was. That fucking mime, looking at his own dead body with this shocked expression on his face. He was holding his cheeks like that scream painting and his mouth had dropped open

with his eyes threatening to pop out of his sockets. His face was just inches from mine and I damn near peed my pants. Did you see my hands right now? Did you see how they're shaking? Just thinking about that night? Imagine how terrified I was. must have been back then. My body had just shut down, refusing to move. We both stood there,

like statues, like some kind of living art installation. He was the one who moved. After about half a minute or so, being utterly still, his eyes moved and finally locked onto mine for the first time that night. Shivers ran down my spine as I stared into those deep pits of nothingness. But the spell was broken and I could move my body again. I stumbled and fell backwards, but quickly scampered onto my feet and ran. And kept running until I left the building, not bothering whether I was still being followed and doing my heart is to keep away from the body lying on the ground floor. I stayed away at that whole night, grabbing a coffee at the first cafe that opened at the crack of door. Of course I anonymously called the cops from a payphone in the morning, and of course

there was no body in the building when the cops later showed up. I'm not a very religious man, but I knew that shit was not something logic could explain. Well, for the next week I stayed away from my apartment as much as I could. Only going there to shower and change my clothes. Spending the nights at friends' places and was making the weakest excuses imaginable. No, I didn't tell anyone.

You crazy? Who would fucking believe me? No, that's... There were no CCTVs in that building. Bavity is freaking cruel son. I could no longer impose myself on my friends and I didn't want to go to the homeless shelter. So I decided to go back to sleeping in my apartment.

I tried to fool myself into thinking that what I'd experienced wasn't real, that I dreamt it all up, like it was all just an hallucination. But deep within me, I knew that it was real, all of it. And that it would probably happen again. A feeling of tremendous dread washed over me when I stood outside my building,

eight nights after I'd first run into that mime. It was again pretty freaking late, and at the same time when I'd run into him the last time. With a heavy heart, I trudged over to the elevator, trying to avoid thinking about the fear clutching and squeezing my heart. I couldn't even look at the spot where he'd fallen and chose to stay the fuck away from it. The elevator opened, with a soft,

soft ding. I breathed a sigh of relief to see that it was empty. Why didn't I just take the stairs? Hell, fucking no. Too much trauma associated with that place. Better to be cramped inside a fast-moving elevator than risk climbing the stairs and meeting the suicidal mind from hell. I guess I should be thankful that my elevator ride was peaceful. I don't think I would have survived if he'd shown up there. A heart attack would have killed me long before he could slice me up or something. I just don't know. I fumble with my keys, but quickly got in and locked the door behind me, kicking my shoes off, immediately running to the comfort of my blanket

and curled up in there, trying hard to fall asleep, but staying awake like a freaking owl. So, this apartment was pretty small, right? Just two rooms excluding the bathroom. So you can hear whatever is happening in any corner of the room. Get where I'm going with this? No, he wasn't in the house, but he was outside of it. I heard something rustling around outside my front door, and instinctively I knew it was him.

At first I thought I'd just stay there in my bed, but the rustling didn't stop. The fear just kept building inside me. It was becoming unbearable to just stay there. My heart was beating so fucking fast, I feared it would leap out of my mouth. Fuck it. I whispered to myself

and got up to investigate. I banged my toe against the foot of the bed and yelled, with the sounds from outside ceasing almost instantly. After controlling my pain, I walked over to the door as softly as I could and looked through the peephole.

I whimpered as my fears were confirmed. There he was, that fucking mime, just standing there with his back to the wall in front of me, at attention like some damn army cadet. I think he must have sensed me watching him, because as soon as I looked through the peephole, he bent over forwards, such that his upper body was almost parallel to the floor. His blood-red lips stretched into the most vicious smile, and he began to stare right at me. I don't know how he was somehow looking straight at me.

No, he wasn't anywhere near the people, so I don't know how, but I knew he was watching me, watching him. I thought his eyes pierced my very soul, taunting me, letting me know he was playing with me, and that he could kill me whenever he wished. He brought his palms up to the side of his face, opened his mouth and began clicking his tongue. Except I never heard the clicking sound.

What I heard was a knock, and my door began to shake. Knock, knock. No. Short bursts of three. I fell back in fear. You know, he wasn't near the door, but it still knocked. I don't know what the hell was happening, but I knew I couldn't stay there even for a second. Climmed out of my window and began descending using the iron emergency exit stairs attached to the side of the building. I then heard something impossibly large and strong slam against the door to my house as I began to climb down that rickety iron staircase. My door gave in with a painfully loud crunch, and I almost fell down.

Why didn't anyone come out to check what was happening? Well, people mostly minded their own business. Home invasions, murders, drug deals gone wrong. Could have been freaking anything. Not necessarily something demonic. At one point in my way down, I considered just jumping and ending my life. I was that terrified. But I shook my head and continued to fight for my survival.

I was soon free. I was out of that infernal building and panting and catching my breath on the streets below. I looked back up to where my apartment was and saw him for the last time in my life. He was standing on the railing of the emergency stairs, right outside my bedroom, without a care in the world. I don't know how the fuck he balanced himself on that thing, but he stood there, staring at me without fucked up smile on his face. The theatrically brought his hands up and clapped. I watched in terrified silence as one by one. The lights in all of the apartments began to switch on.

He was there in every apartment at the windows that I could see. Everywhere. He was. He was performing, if that makes any sense. At one house he was miming, drinking tea, in another juggling invisible balls. Well, that was a fucked-up. sight to say the least. Though the original one continued to stare at me,

and then with another clap, switched off every light in the building and disappeared, leaving me shivering in the darkness. Jesus Christ, Dad, I whispered. Did that really happen? That's up to you, he replied. I know what I saw. So, did you go back there again?

I asked. He shook his head furiously. Never in the night. Never again. I moved out as soon as I found another place. What happened to that building? He sighed. I kept tabs on it.

The owner had to sell it to a builder. It just wasn't profitable anymore. A bunch of suicides occurred there. Like two or three each year for half a decade. Bad omen all around. Oh, the new owner tore it down and built a shopping mall. A shopping mall? Which one? I asked. He looked at me blankly.

You don't mean my blood froze as the realization sunk in. But they have a mind performance in the amphitheatre every month. He nodded. You're such a fool, Jason. Grow up. Putting her hair into a tight bun, my girlfriend pushed my hands away from her breasts. Her tone was dry as usual. It was why I loved her. If I'm such a fool, what does that make you? I winked playfully, nudging her shoulder.

A fool-fucker, she responded, without missing a beat, causing us to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Jumping from the bed, I walked towards our living room, scratching myself. Grabbing for the remote, I turned on the television, flipping to the local news. Local actress Mariah Sanders has snagged the role of a lifetime, and having been cast as the leading lady in Martin Scorsese's newly announced film. A grinning headshot of my girlfriend peered back at me from the TV. I stood there, speechless, wondering what the hell was going on. My girlfriend was many things, but an actress was not one of them.

We'd been dating on and off for almost four years, and I knew her anxiety would never allow her to perform in front of the camera. She was a delicate flower, and I did my best to protect her. Um, Mariah, I need you to come here for a second. We stood together in the living room, rewinding the news story over and over again. A quick Google search confirmed it wasn't an isolated thing.

It was everywhere. Her face was plastered on TMZ, people and every other gossip brag you can imagine. This has to be a mistake. I don't know how, but this has to be a mistake. mistake. Mariah was trembling, clearly overwhelmed with the moment. Her phone had been ringing off the hook, but she hadn't even glanced at it. This is so freaking weird. I don't understand what's happening. Soon everyone's going to find out I'm a fraud. Oh God! Joking back tears, she ran into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I stood there, scrolling through

endless articles and mentions on social media. As the day wore on, things got even stranger. A Wikipedia page appeared, and soon it was filled with dozens of previous TV and movie appearances. Hundreds of photos from commercials, adverts and photo shoots began to pop up not soon after. It happened at a dizzying pace, her catalogue growing with every minute but passed. I could hear Mariah sobs from the bedroom. I could only imagine what she was going through. It was like her life was getting rewritten by an unseenuteur, and she was powerless to stop it.

Her history was being stripped from her. We had no way of explaining it. Jason, you need to see this. Her voice quivered, barely loud enough for me to hear. Huddling around her phone screen, I watched as the news ticket flashed with a breaking headline. Derae, she should be. Chicago man kidnaps actress Maria Sander.

Now there were two famous people in our house or... Reading through a CNN article, I discovered that I was being accused of kidnapping my own girlfriend from her non-existent downtown apartment. A neighbor that was interviewed described a brazen and violent daylight kidnapping and ended by saying Mariah was the sweetest person she knew. Please tell me this is the world's most elaborate prank so I can hate you for a week and then get over her eyes filled with fear maria looked at me with her beautiful pouty legs i wanted nothing more than to lie to her to tell her everything was going to be okay but all i managed to do was give a sullen shake of my head

so this is all real before i could respond the door flew open from its hinges wood splintering everywhere A team of SWAT office has poured in, covered in Kevlar. Grabbing Mariah by the shoulder, I pulled her into the bedroom and shut the door behind us. Somberly, I looked squarely at my love and said, You need to yell that I have a gun, and I'm going to shoot you if they come in here. Until we can figure out what's happening, I need to escape, and to do that, I need time. Begrudgingly, Mariah told the police what I'd asked him. As I expected, they couldn't risk storming the police.

the room, so they'd stall until a negotiator arrived. Babe, this is all so confusing, but hey, you're famous now, so, and something. We both chuckled in between crimes. I will find you, and we will figure this out, I promise. Love you forever and always. And with that, I slipped through the window and disappeared into the night. Starting over was the hardest thing I'd ever had. to do. But five years later, I've managed to eke out in existence. During that time, the only

thing that's kept me going was Mariah. I watched her career explode from afar. She became a bigger and bigger starlings, climbing to the highest echelons of Hollywood. It was painful, but I was so proud of her accomplishments, despite everything that had transpired. Well, that was until an interview she gave three days ago. Dressed in a graceful white dress, she sat on the couch spewed lies to a late night host. Oh, your bravery and quick thinking in the face of such danger is truly incredible. You're amazing, Mariah. Simply amazing. America wants to know. How did you do it? Well, Jimmy, I simply fed into his delusions. I did what I know best. I acted. He believed I was his girlfriend and I knew if I played the part well enough I could

eventually help direct his actions. When he jumped out of that window, I couldn't believe it was finally over. Those words grated against my heart, leaving a permanent scar. Deep sadness was replaced by an immense rage. She'd never spoken about that night before and I believe that was to protect me. But she was so clearly deluded by her newfound fame. She'd do anything to curry favour with the masses. As I sit here, a barely running 94 Chevy, I watch her living her new life. New man, new dog, new house. History has a habit of repeating itself, no matter how hard you try and erase it. So, imagine this. You go to all. You go to all. You go to all. You're olive garden and order unlimited salad and breadsticks.

The first serving comes out. You eat it. The second serving comes. You eat that as well. The third serving comes. You're starting to get full, but you eat it because, fuck it, you want to get your money's worth, right? Then the fourth serving comes. You start to eat it, but stop about a third of the way through because you're full and you can't eat anymore.

As the waitress comes to give you a fifth serving, you tell her you won't eat it and that you're ready to pay. Tree replies, OK, with a smile, and goes to get your check, but leaves a fifth serving on your table. About ten minutes go by and the waitress comes out with a sixth serving. You grow a little irritated and tell her you didn't want any more food. You wanted the chat. Again, she smiles and says, I'll bring that right out. As she's walking away, another waitress comes out with a seventh serving of food. You're stunned at what's happening, as you now have nearly three full portions of uneaten food.

The waitress comes back with an eighth serving and tells you the computers are down, and it might take longer than expected to process the credit card payment. She places the food on top of the food already on the table. The other patrons at the restaurant are now starting to glance at your table with confusion. Then a ninth serving comes out. At this point you can't even see the table underneath the food, but that doesn't stop the waitress from bringing a tenth serving. You're irate now, and demand her and bring you your credit card back so you can leave.

She says the payment is still processing, but she'll go check on it. So she comes back with a tenth serving and tells you the payment is still processing. But as you're going to have to wait, she could bring you some water. you oblige, bewildered at the pile of uneaten salad and breaststicks strewn before you as the warm scent of garlic fills your nostrils. She comes back with an 11th serving and a glass of water. You drink the water. A 12th serving comes out.

At this point the food is powered so high you can't even see across the table anymore. Thirteen serving. Food starts to fall on the floor. fourteenth serving people start to leave the restaurant confused and a bit frightened at the spectacle fifty you start to get up to leave but the waitress tells you it won't be much longer i don't care you say your voice cracking from fear just let me get out of here i'm afraid i cannot do that sir you must finish the unlimited salad and breadsticks you ordered now at this point thirty servings lay on and around your table. A conveyor of waiters are stacking up servings one by one at the table surrounding you. Kitchen production has reached one serving every four seconds.

After one hundred servings have been brought out to you, you try to make a break for the door, but you slip on a greasy breadstick and fall face first onto the floor. Oh, can I help you, sir? A worried voice asks. You look up. It's the waitress. Please, just let me go. I'll do anything, please. She smiles and replies. Oh, sir, you chose your fate already, and it only cost you $6.99. You begin to cry. You crawl to the door. It's locked. 250 surveys. You begin to wet yourself. You pray, hoping for a miracle. Four hundred and twenty-eight servings.

Red sticks are now shooting out of the kitchen like bullets from a sub-machine. All the waiters and waitresses have gotten on their knees and formed a circle, citing the Olive Garden Code of Conduct as smoke billows from the floor within. Salad dressing starts to fall from the ceiling. You begin to suffocate from the lettuce blocking your nasal passages. 2,564 servants. You accept your face. Power comes in and out.

A lightning storm forms outside. There are so many breadsticks in the restaurants that you are unable to see any light. The door breaks open and food begins to pour out at the speed of sound. The road in front of the restaurant gets covered in slippery lettuce and salad dressing, causing a multi-carpimer. 6,591, serfings. The earth begins to tremble.

There is a power, black end. 15,477 servings. Nothing can stop the cataclysm. 61,89, serving. 422,455, serving. 10,174,592 service. The earth begins to split. Volcanic magma makes its way to the service.

The Olive Garden employees have summoned Kutu. He sets fire to the continent. Salad and breadsticks completely cover the earth. Oxygen supply is cut off. Sunlight is non-existent. You're already dead. The unlimited salad and breadsticks continue to multiply, increasing the mass of the earth to unsustainable levels.

Earth collapses in on itself, causing a supernova, the likes of which have never happened before. And silent. I'm terrified of waking up at night. Not because I can't go back to sleep, but because I know that if I do, he'll be there. watching me. I first saw him a year ago, after going into a musky antique shop in town with my friends. The wrinkled, old woman shopkeeper noticed that I was a fifth wheel and that my two friends seemed to be picking on me insistently.

She put me to the side and asked if there were any improvements I was looking to make in my life. Slightly weirded out, I told her, of course, and that I hadn't realised I was being so obvious. She went behind the counter and grabbed this vial of liquid and then told me to put some on my hands. I was definitely suspicious, but she put some on hers first, so I figured why not. It had an odd scent to it, like a strong lavender. Ready to leave, I walked outside, and was going to tell my friends about what the lady had done. Turns out they'd forgotten about me altogether and had left to the next location. No big surprise there.

Then around a corner came Carrie. A girl from school I'd had a crush on for months. To my surprise, she actually approached me to say hi. I mean, I wasn't ugly or anything, just average, I guess. But this kind of thing was definitely not normal. Sadly, I was too nervous to get her number or anything. But it still gave me a nice little boost. Then later, once I got home,

My mum, who had been sick for months with a suspicious illness that doctors hadn't been able to diagnose, said she was feeling way better. This was amazing, but I still chalked it up to coincidence. That was, until I was lying in bed later, and saw that I had a Facebook notification. It was from Carrie. She'd Facebook stalked me, found my profile, and added me. This was getting downright suspicious. After that, her and I started texting, and things were going surprisingly well. I also found out that I'd gotten one of the highest grades in the class on one of my math tests,

which, I mean, well, I was terrible at math. So, I actually seriously started considering whether this oil was doing all of this. I got home later that night, and after taking a shower and going to bed, I sent out a good night text to carry. I waited a half hour or so and got no response. Considering we'd been exchanging text I every couple of minutes for the last day, this was weird. Then I sniffed my hand and noticed that the scent was almost completely gone.

Frustrated, I lay down and tried to sleep, but then began to hear the sounds of my mother coughing through the walls. Let's just say, I didn't sleep much that night. The next day I noticed that Carrie still hadn't responded. That was it. I couldn't explain why this was happening, but I definitely had to figure out how to get some more of that oil. So I showed up later at the shop that day and looked for the owner.

She was in the back, organising shelves as I approached her. I asked her if I could possibly purchase some of that oil she'd given me the other day. It works well, doesn't it? She said with a grin. She then went on to tell me that it'd been given. to her by a deceased husband, who was an archaeologist, and she was unsure of what it was, or even where it had come from. So she told me that she could give me a little bit more, but only to be used sparingly. Otherwise, they'll take notice, she said, with a sort of nervous

grin. Not really understanding what she was talking about, but not really caring, I agreed. She put a single drop on my hand, and I rubbed it in thoroughly. Upon smelling it, I immediately felt a sense of calm come over me. It seemed my mind had already associated good things with the smell. I told her what had happened with my mom and how the oil was literally changing my life. Then she said she wanted to show me something and walked to the back of the store. But she left the vial sitting on the table, and the temptation to take it flared up inside me. It was just too easy.

I started to hear a walking back from the storage area and impulsively grabbed the vial off the counter and ran out of the store with it. Totally expecting her to come out after me, I turned back to see the store. However, she never came out. I didn't even have to run, really. I immediately poured a generous amount on my hands and rubbed it in. Not surprisingly, Carrie started returning my texts. and we actually began dating soon after. By the end of the week it was like I was a completely transformed person.

I had the girl of my dreams, and other kids were finally starting to see me differently. However, the night I first tried to kiss Carrie was when things began to take a turn for the worst. I'd walked her home, and while at her front door I tried to kiss her, and she shied away nervously, leaving me for the night. Down and defeated,

I noticed I couldn't smell any scent from the oil. So I went home and immediately rubbed a bunch of it onto my hands. Then Carrie immediately texted me, saying she was sorry and that whenever I was ready to kiss again, she was. This stuff was almost too good. After that I just laid back in bed with a smile and dozed off for the night.

I had a weird nightmare that night, though, where the wrinkled old shopkeeper was giggling and playing in the street like a little girl. Then she looked at me and started laughing hysterically, laughing until she cried even. Then her tears became blood, and I woke up. My eyes still blurry. I blinked a few times and noticed something beside my hand. It was dark, but it looked like a man or something on its hands and knees, sniffing my hand. I screamed and turned the lights on, but there was no one there. Truly horrified, I turned the TV on and put on some cartoons.

I figured I must not have been fully awake yet, and somehow I'd imagined it. Later that day, I went to school and everything was pretty much normal. I was still pretty shaken up, though. Carrie started texting me again, and I was excited to see her later that day. Once the school bell rang, I bolted out to my bike to ride straight to her house. Then, when I got to her front door, she immediately came out, smiled and kissed me. Then she invited me in, so I went to park my bike, but when I rolled it around the house to put it up against her garage, I got the distinct feeling that someone was watching.

In the corner of my eye, I saw a man across the street. a man with a car accident face just staring at me but then by the time I turned my head towards him he was gone I went inside and tried to forget what I'd seen but obviously I couldn't so the next day I went back to the shop and that was when things really started getting weird the shop was closed permanently I got a cell phone number off Google and called the number for it. And much to my surprise, the shopkeeper actually answered.

I began to apologize furiously. I told her that I would give her back the oil. The next sound I heard over the phone sent chills down my spine. She started laughing. You've seen him, haven't you? Too scared to respond. I just stood there on the phone.

They've taken an issue. interest in you. What do you mean? I asked fearfully. It seems they can improve your life, because they want a better story, but you must entertain them. At least that's what my husband thought, shivering and almost in tears. I asked if I could make it stop. She told me flat out that I needed to try and give the oil to someone else before it ran out. And she rudely hung up the phone and I was left staring at the empty shop. I got back home later. Pulled the bottle out. To my horror, it was empty. Clearly stressed beyond belief. I woke up again that night. My room was dark, but in the corner I saw a figure, his arms at his sides. His head slightly tilted

with a bizarre, empty grin on his bag-like face. His head slightly tilted with a bizarre, empty grin on his bag-like face. eyes two little black holes. I closed my eyelids tight and pretended he wasn't there, waiting for something to happen. To my surprise, it never did, at least not yet. I haven't really slept at all night since then. Only now, when I wake up and I know it's still nighttime, I don't open my eyes, and I know I never will again. The following journal entries were discovered in the home of Dr. Alexander Perditus. The police officers who originally discovered it in his house, after making entry, were not able to decipher its contents to determine if it was the ravings of a madman

or a cleverly hidden cipher. Unable to determine its purpose, it was turned over to the state officials in the hope that they could discover its meaning. Here is the diary in its original fall. 36. Today has been a most fortuitous occasion. Yes, you may even say that it has been the greatest day in my professional life, but I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning. I was sitting in my office at Harvard, going over student paperwork and musing about the rumblings of war over in Europe, and my good friend and fellow professor Jack Hamilton came into my office. He looked excited,

but in a state of dishealming and so pale of skin that I hardly recognized him at first. I proceeded to ask what was wrong, and he said nothing, only handed me a wooden box that he'd stuffed under his coat. I opened it to find a book, wrapped in what I presume to be leather or some other type of animal hide, with the strangest markings on its cover. I am, as you already know, dear journal, a professor in ancient history and languages, but even I, using all my considerable skill, could not decipher its meaning upon first glance. Jack, who had by now sat down, told me that he had discovered this book on a recent trip to Egypt, but that it supposedly came from the Sumerian region of Iraq. I was immediately intrigued and asked him if he could

elaborate on its origins, but all he could state to me was what he had already told me. I thanked him very much for the gift, and had Jake follow me home so he could get some much-needed rest, and my wife, who is a nurse, could properly tend to whatever was causing such great discomfort in my friend, June 8, 1936. A part of me wonders if Jack was on a bash and the merchant who sold this to him is just having a gas. I've been studying this for hours in my study at home, using every reference material in my library, and a few I borrowed from the university to try and make heads or tails of this. The writing style is chaos. more like that of someone who's suffering from some form of mental illness than a dedicated scholar.

The ink itself has been smeared in places and appears to be written in gold, which is preposterous. The most I've been able to make out is a single phrase, In the abyss does the plague await? In the abyss does your fate awake? After pouring through texts, the only mention I have of him is the Sumerian god Nerga, the god of plague most heavily mentioned during the reign of Hittite king, Supulayama, when a great plague broke out. Oh yes, I must mention Jake.

His sickness appears to have gotten worse. He now spends all day in bed, sweating profusely and mumbling about a great desert and a black wave. I can only hope he gets better and pray for his quick recovery. June 16, 1936. This confounded book is driving me mad. Every attempt I make is foiled by a later discovery. It's almost as if the Gordian knot was put into book form.

I have so far deciphered three more phrases of this damned document, but I am only in the beginning stages of understanding this manuscript. Every phrase is again some mention of catastrophe and plague, but its language is not that of someone afraid of the appending doom. Rather, it seems as though this person is giddy with the idea of the coming pestilence. I can only surmise that this was written by a worshipper of the plague god. For example, such phrases as, Let me be bathed in your beautiful horrors, let me shower in your misery.

Do indicate a love of this deity. Though I must wonder who in their right mind would worship such a thing. jake has not been recovering either my dear friend has unfortunately started to grow wounds on his skin and boils that fester with pus whenever my dear wife attempts to clean these out he reacts violently he calls them treasures and signs of favour i can only surmise that his sickness has broken his mind and can only have taken him from my care to be placed into the care of the hospital i hope he recovers quickly and i will endeavour to decipher this book that my friend has brought me in such obvious cost to himself, June 20, 1936. I must apologise for my inconsistency in writing. I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately. Nothing serious just a cough and a general feeling of weariness. But enough about me, I have had a breakthrough moment in the deciphering. I called upon another friend to help,

and he informed me that the characters seem to be a mix of both Sumerian and Egyptian. Why did I not catch it sooner? I must be too weary and worried about my friend to have noticed. Oh, it's so simple to me now. I can feel it. This work will be the greatest in my lifetime. I know of no other document that can hope to be this mysterious and gives a peek into a concha we thought lost to the sands of time.

I feel energized and must endeavour to finish this quickly. And, yes, an update on Jake. He is at the hospital now. But the doctors are unable to help him, and he is now being placed in solitary after he attacked a nurse and screamed that he must spread the love of Nerga. I find myself disturbed by this, but it must be his mind, right.

I mean, he must have gotten an understanding of at least one phrase and in its fervid state his mind grasped onto that, as that's the only thing I could see that would cause such a break in my friend's sanity. July 5, 1936. I feel so illuminated. My mind is racing with the possibilities and the fame I shall attain. Yes, it is true that I am now confined to my bed, unable to get up due to the sickness now racking me.

I've had all my research material moved into him. and now dictating this to my niece. But I have discovered so much. His book is not just the ramblings of a lunity, but rather a path, a guide-book, if you will, to open the door to Nagao, so he may gain entry to this world. It speaks of how he only wishes to show us his love through our suffering, and that suffering brings us closer to him. His blagues are not meant to be feared, but to be embraced as his tender mercies. But surely nobody would believe this. Well, I digress.

I will publish my findings as soon as I am held. July 15, 1936. Jake has passed away. My wife told me when she returned from the hospital. He was discovered by a nurse on her regular checks. He was blackened, burst open upon touch, spreading past and most curiously maggots everywhere. My wife is very distressed by all this

and now there were reports of sickness in the hospital. I do not see why she's distressed, for this is obviously the work of the great Nagar. He's saddened that we've grown so far from him and wishes to bring us closer so we may understand him. I have finally come to understand the truth The sickness is not to be feared, but to be lauded, to be glorified, to be put up as an object of our worship. Nagal, is to be our spiritual guide to the higher plains of understanding.

I must figure out a way to spread his message to all. July 18, 1936. I am now writing this with trembling hands. My niece was afraid to come back due to what she said was my mother. madness. But what madness is there in knowing the truth? I know now how to summon the great Nagal into our realm. I must find those clean of his touch and sacrifice them to him by feeding them his children. My wife left today and said she would not be coming back tonight as the sickness has consumed much of the staff and patience. She'll be staying to help them

recover and she betray me. Going to take those. who have felt his love and take that away from them I will not stand for it yes my wife must become one of the sacrifices I must do this tomorrow or I fear I will not have the strength July 19th 1936 everything is ready I have drawn the symbols in my own diseased sacred blood my wife and niece along with other random people pulled from the street have been successfully tied down inside the symbols and the bodies of those who have gone to be with plague father have been stacked inside of there as well tonight at midnight i will cut up the bodies of the glorious dead and feed them to my sacrifices i can hear my wife crying but why does it matter she is a traitor

a heretic working against the love of the great one. I'll feed her first. Together we will become the first apostles of Nerga, and usher in a great age of delicious sickness and beautiful disease. Wait, I hear someone at the door. This is the last entry that can currently be deciphered. The rest appeared to be covered in blood. Officials are attempting to uncover the rest, if any,

in the house. What is known though is that at approximately 8.30pm on July 19th, a witness heard screaming coming from Dr. Perditus's residence. After the police were contacted, they made entry to find him attempting to feed the severed arm of a diseased patient from Mary Grove Hospital to his restrained wife. Officers attempted to subdue him, but he pulled a knife. In fear of their own lives, the officer shot and killed him. The diary was then discovered in his study, along with the partially eaten body of another patient. It is unknown at this time what caused him to fall so far. But hopefully the more we uncover in this diary, the more it'll point us in the right direction.

The statement of Alexander Ribnick. March 15, 1937. It wasn't about fame or fortune. It wasn't about making history or to stand on the shoulders of giants. It was about knowledge and truth. I needed to know what happened to my grandfather. I needed to know what he'd discovered. I needed to see what he saw with his own eyes

and come to an understanding. A mundaneity and pointlessness of life finally sent me on my way. My friend, Captain Peasley, would take me on my quest. We travelled the ocean on the captain's fishing trawler, the southern crux. We were to make landfall at coax. town, a coastal town in the Shire of Cook, Queensland, Australia. Before he died, my grandfather was a university lecturer who taught archaeology. I followed in his footsteps. In his will, he left me a key to a safety deposit box at his bank. To my surprise, the box contained several books on the

occult and mysticism and numerous maps. But the most significant items in the box were a pair of sketches and a curious black stone with a face of sorts carved into it. In my grandfather's letter, he stated that the drawings were inspired by strange dreams that had been plaguing him. I examined the sketches. A subterranean cavern of immense height was meticulously drawn on paper with black pencil. The centrepiece of this sketch were two rows of standing stones that ran parallel to one another. They were built from massive cyclopean rocks that were stacked in such a way that was reminiscent of Stonehenge. The image evoked fleeting thoughts of Eldridge terror. Written on the back side of the drawing, the gateway to the other side resides within the mountain. The second drawing was even

more bizarre. I got the distinct impression that it was a cold and arid desert at night. The ground was fissured and littered with fields of mummified human remains. The focus of this image, however, was that of an enormous plateau which stood menacingly. On the surface of the plateau was also a collection of standing stones similar to the first. An indistinct shape stood on the edge of the plateau, an animal, I think.

Written on the opposite side of the paper was a message. The fabled plateau of Leng, each and every single one of us will face this. It is inevitable. The stone carving came from a time when we knew very little and feared the primal world. A modern mind wouldn't find it difficult to visualize the world through the eyes of ancient man. The face on the stone, however, instilled an instinctive fear of the dark. My destination was a site held sacred by Australian Aborigines where humans feel unwanted,

where they vanish without trace. a place that is rugged and foreboding, clouded in mystery and immersed in superstition. Black mountain. Aboriginals refer to it as the mountain of death. Tunnels and caves honeycomb the area. The only living things on the mountain are giant spiders, pythons and typhans. Thousands upon thousands of gigantic boulders strewn across the landscape make up the mountain. a treacherous barren waste. Scientists have offered theories behind the origin of this peculiar mountain.

A volcanic eruption, an upheaval during the ice age, an asteroid impact site. But none of these possibilities seem satisfactory. I stood at the bow of the ship, gazing at the continent that loomed on the horizon. My guide, Tommy, approached. I think you're as mad as a bag of ferrets. "'Tell me a tale,' I said. Tommy leaned on the railing next to me. "'My people have many beliefs on how the mountain came to be.

"'Go on,' I said, as I withdrew a pack of cigarettes from my shirt-pocket. "'I for Tommy a cigarette,' he declined. "'I lit up as he began. "'One such legend says, in the dreaming, the time when legends were born, "'there was a beautiful young woman whose skin shone like obsidian. Two brothers were smitten by the woman. Both were determined to win her heart. Our attention was directed upwards towards the heavens. A faint ghostly band of red light materialized in the pre-dawn sky directly above us.

It was the aurora Australis, the so-called southern lights. Tommy continued sharing his tale. To settle their differences, each brother set out to build a mountain of boulders. The brother with the highest mound would take the woman. Day after day the brothers worked. Their piles of boulders grew taller and taller. Tommy paused and focused on the aurora. The glowing ribbons of red lights spread across the dark sky

as it brightened with intensity. The rippling lights continue to dance across the backdrop of luminous stars. Before the contest could be decided, a wild storm descended on the land. boulders tumbled down and crushed both brothers the woman died too do you believe it's haunted ah they say her cries can be heard throughout the canyons and caves of the mountain the place is cursed at dusk the evil of the place begins to reveal itself you can hear it on the wind that blows in the endless caverns that run deep into the earth it's a moaning wind that lures unsuspecting people to their I grabbed my kit bag and withdrew the black stone with a carving on it. I presented it to Tommy.

My grandfather found this in the mountain. Does it look familiar to you? Tommy stared at the stone a good while. He traced a finger over the lines that form the face. No, this does not resemble anything that I've ever seen. You say he found it in the mountain? Yes, in a subterranean chamber. Hmm, it's very stray. Shortly afterwards we docked at a fisherman's wharf just outside cooked out.

I booked a room in a nearby inn. Peasley would stay with the ship. During the day we would go into town and stock up on supplies. While I was chatting with the innkeeper, I noticed movement in my peripheral vision, a person sitting on a bench directly across the inn. Underneath a street lamp was an elderly tribal man. He had a very distrable. He had a very distrish. look that he seared into my memory. He had winter white hair and a beard that was long and unkempt. He was wearing a dusty old suit, which seemed to be slightly afraid. I think the most unsettling thing about him was his gaze. Well, I rode him off as a drunkard before checking in. Now, before departing to my room, I took one more glance at the old man, only to see that he was gone. Little did I know that this was a sign of things to come.

And after a long voyage, sleep came easily. The following day I sat down with one of the tribal elders at a local pub. I enjoyed a pleasant conversation over drink and food, and he explained a belief among his people in the area. The tribal elder began telling me some of the beliefs of his people. The mountain is of important significance to the tribe. Kalka Jaka is what we call it. The place of spirits.

The tribal elder paused to take a sip of his drink. His eyes scanned the room. He seemed suspicious of something. The mountain originated in the dream time with an evil medicine man who convened with wicked spirits from beyond. A young chief confronted him about this and was murdered by the medicine man. He leaned forward and lowered his voice.

But it didn't stop there. The cruel medicine man went on to. devour the flesh of the chief and drank his blood. The tribe became aware of this and chased the man out with burning of vengeance in their hearts. He fled into the mountain where he was then struck by a cleansing bolt of lightning. His body exploded and in turn charred the surrounding rocks. The tribal elder stopped again. I could see his eyes focused on someone behind me. He focused on me again and continued. It is a place that demands respect.

But the white man has often disregarded the legends. In 1877, a courier was horseback riding, searching for a stray calf, when he, the horse, and calf all disappeared. Several years later, a constable was hot on the hills of a wanted man. He was tracking the criminal through the bush at the base of the mountain. They both seemingly vanished into thin hair. Other trackers followed the trail to a cave entrance, but came up completely empty-handed.

Despite the unrelenting heat, I could feel a chill course through my body, like someone had walked over my grave. The tribal elder saw me shiver, and a grim look formed on his face. The disappearances have occurred ever since. Nearby cattle ranchers and their herds have gone without trace, gold prospectors and cave explorers of all inexplicably disappeared into the ether. Human remains have been found in the vicinity of the mountain. Their bodies cut to ribbons. But the most shocking thing about these grisly finds

is that each of the individuals have had their skulls cracked open and their brains removed, possibly devoured. The tribal elder paused when he saw the colour drain from my face. My grandfather was killed by someone in a very similar fashion while he was seeking treatment in Canberra. There are many predatory animals in Australia, but none of them are known to have these particular habits. Rumors of a killer stalking the countryside run rampant.

The police have been working overtime on this. My heart sank into my stomach. But what about this phantom cat I've heard about? The tribal elder took another long sip from his drink before continuing. There have been rumblings of a large, mysterious black cat that has been sighted on the mountain. Maybe it's a surviving relative of Villacchio Carnifex, which was Australia's largest marsupial carnivore. This is an especially curious claim because there are no terrestrial cats on the continent. Domestic cats were introduced by colonists in 1804, and there are a large,

wildcats that live in public zoos in the capital city, but none that live in the wilderness. Another pause between the two of us. We were both scanning the room now. I think I could confidently say we both felt like something was wrong. A shift in the conversation. I showed the black stone to the tribal elder, as well as the drawings created by my grandfather. He examined each one carefully and shook his head. A look of worry formed on his face. How did your grandfather die? The tribal elder asked.

He was murdered. My condolences to you. May I ask how he was before he died? Oh, he looked like a man who was pursued. He was always looking over his shoulder. He shut himself away from the world. The tribal elder let out a sigh. Maybe he saw things he shouldn't have.

maybe he took things he shouldn't have touched there was a long silence between the two of us as we looked down at our drinks we were both pondering things I happened to glance up and briefly caught sight of an old tribal man with a striking white beard and wild hair he was dressed in a dishevelled suit that looked like it came from another period

and he was fixated on me he slowly raised a hand and pointed a finger directly at me. I blinked. The man was gone. The tribal elder broke the silence. Maybe it would be best to return the stone to its rifle place. I spent some time at the library. I'm not sure what to make of this. Excerpts from a doomed expedition. In 1850 a French explorer, Axel Guillaume set out to explore back mountain. The expedition consisted of four other Europeans, two Aboriginal guides and seven horses.

They were never seen or heard from again. Only the remains of one of the guides was discovered. The camp was found at the base of the mountain. It's believed they perished on the mountain. Subsequent search parties turned up nothing. There are photographs of each member of the expedition. The photographs were taken at a local church in Cooktown. One photograph in particular has put a strain on my nerves. It is one of the guides. An old man with a white head of hair

and a grey beard. He was wearing a dark frock coat over light trousers and low-heel shoes. The name under the photograph, Clifford, Bombard. Not much is known of his youth, but his skills in tracking and knowledge of Aboriginal language suggests a traditional upbringing. His skills in horse riding and marksmanship indicated extensive contact with colonial culture. He was serving as a native assistant in the police force at Cooktown, where his tasks were to assist in tracking of escape convicts who were wanted by the authorities. He had a reputation as a superb tracker, and a reliable and useful member of any travelling party. The mutilated remains of Clifford Bombat

were discovered on the outskirts of their camp. Possible animal attack. The most significant wound was done to his head. The trek through the forest of eucalyptus trees was long and arduous. A thick fog bank swallowed the landscape. It suffocated the environment in its omnipresence. The looming mountain was a ghostly silhouette in a thick white veil. Fortunately, we were not far from the base of the mountain when the worst of it arrived.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw a spectral shape moving in the fog. And a feeling of dread began to squeeze my heart. I don't think we're alone, I whispered to Tommy. Oh, no. Tommy reached into his rucksack and withdrew an M1-9-11 pistol. He looked at me. You know how to use firearms? I nodded.

Tommy handed the gun over to me and withdrew a second hangar. He stuck it in his belt. There are two huge pythons that live in the mountain, big enough to swallow a fully grown kangaroo. Tommy and I set up camp in a small clearing surrounded by tall grass. We would wait for the fog to dissipate before moving on, but in the meantime we examined my grandfather's maps. It was unusually quiet. The surrounding area was completely mute, save for the sound of a gentle breeze.

Can't help but feel eyes on both of us. In a dream, I was standing in a dark hallway at night. My grandfather's home in Poland. At the end of the hall was a door that was partially open. A dim orange light seeped through the minute openings. I approached the door with great trepidation in my heart. I summoned whatever courage I had. and nudged the door open.

A slow, painful creak sounded as the door gently swung open. It was my grandfather's study. A lone figure stood at the desk. It was my grandfather. A look of sorrow and regret was etched on his face. He reached into the desk and withdrew the black stone. He held it in his hand and extended his arm towards me. His lips were moving as though he was speaking,

but no words came out. something materialized behind my grandfather an apparition it was clifford bombat his gaze was piercing my soul and then something happened his form began to change he fell to the floor as a thrashing mass of shadows a giant cat emerged from the dark its coat was inky black that refused to reflect any light the beast was unlike any cat species I was familiar with. I could say its sleek body shape was similar to that of a cheetah, but its head was shaped like that of a jaguar with powerful jaws. I think its eyes were the worst. Both pupils were completely dilated. They were both ringed by luminescent irises that gave off a strange white light. It reminded me of a solar eclipse at totality. It bears its teeth, revealing. It, peeling rows of sharp teeth that drip with saliva. A low, rumbling growl sounded from its throat. Its jaws unhinged and something erupted from its moor. Serpent. Tentacle! It was a muscular

appendage that extruded towards me. It was the cat's esophagus and stomach turned inside out. At the edge of the gut sac was a bony lance of sorts. It punctured my skull and I collapsed. to the floor. Several smaller tendrils emerged from the beast's throat and lashed out towards me. They entered the bleeding gash in my skull and began to pry it open. And in the room went black. I awoke to a late-night thunderstorm. I was gripping the stone with a face carved onto it. It was a tough scramble up the mound of gigantic black boulders that formed Black Mountain. We had the benefit of my grandfather's maps that showed us the path to take. take. It was very meticulous about detailing the location. The cave entrance was on the summit of the

mountain. In order to access it, we had to get down on our bellies and push all the air out of our lungs in order to squeeze through a narrow gap. Once we got through the squeeze, we were able to stand upright. Next was a downward sloping tunnel. The sunlight lessened in here, so we readied our electric torches. The further we traversed the tunnel, the darker it is. The further we traversed the tunnel, the darker it came. At the end of the passage was a straight drop down. Tommy grabbed the climbing ropes from his rucksack and secured them which would allow us to climb down the shaft. And then, it happened. Heavy footfalls sounded behind us. A black silhouette knocked Tommy face first against the cavern wall. In the light from my electric torch a massive feline was revealed. It swiped its

claws at me just inches from my midsection. I could see pure animal rage in its eyes. It led out an ear deafening roar that rippled through the passage. It was the phantom cat from my dream. But this was no dream. This was real. In a desperate panic, I withdrew the pistol from my kit bag and fired several times at the beast. The tunnel lit up from each shot. The deafening rounds punched holes into its hide, but the cat didn't even flinch. A guttural rumble sounded from deep within its throat. The cat opened its mouth showing off rows of razor-sharp teeth. A muscular and flexible protuberance emerged from its throat, just like in my dream. It was the animal's stomach in esophagus, turning inside out and repurposed into a tentacle of sorts. A bone

The lonely claw protruded from the very tip of the tentacle. Tenticle reeled back like a snake getting ready to strike. It launched towards me and struck the ground just inches from my feet. It did this several times, forcing me backward each time. I kept backing up in complete and utter terror until I found myself falling. Darkness. When I came to I found myself at the bottom of the shaft. I was in a state of shock.

Agony, despair, horror. I detected movement coming from up above me. I grabbed my electric torch, which had survived the fall, and shone it upwards. The face was peering down at me. My grandfather! I cried out. I painfully retreated into the dark passage behind me, my heart, noisily beating against my heart, noisily beating against my

ribcage. My lungs felt like there was fire in them. It came to a complete stop at the end of the passage. My mind was trying to process everything that had happened. Primordial masonry stood in front of me, a wall composed of cyclopean stones. Perhaps it was a structure built by the ancients. Oddly enough, a single block was missing. It was a way through, and I squeezed my way through silently, praying that the whole thing would not collapse onto me. I clumsily emerged into a chamber beyond the cyclopean wall. Spikes of pain shot through my back, reminding me of my great fall. I gasped in pain.

My gasp had drawn the attention of something, something big, something hungry, the sound of something dragging through the loose rocks on the chamber floor. A massive creature slithered towards me. A cylindrical, limbless body moved into my light. Glistening scales, an arrow-shaped head. Two yellow eyes fixed on me, a large, fanged mouth. A giant python was moving towards me with predatory intent. I raised the pistol and fired twice into its head, putting it down instantly.

The recoil of the pistol started making my hands feel numb. I instinctively turned around and saw a shadow figure standing back at the cyclopean wall. I shakily pointed the pistol and torch at the apparition. But to my dismay, the shape seemingly ate the light. It was darker than blackness. It didn't strike. It just stood there staring at me with creeping brutality. I started singing a lullaby to myself

When the blazing sun is gone When he nothing shines upon Then you show your little light Twinkle twinkle all the night By this point I was on the other side of madness A descent to the inferno Then the traveller in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark

How could he see where to go if you did not twinkle so. Tears whirled up in my eyes. My heart was overworking itself now. In the dead silence of the nameless ruins, I could hear hell's churn in my ears. My breath was stolen. I fled.

After ploughing through an untold distance of steekin depths, I found myself standing in an enormous cavern. The limits of the chamber were farther away. than any eye could see. The inky darkness proved impenetrable from my flimsy torch. I halted, my mad dash. It was freezing cold down here,

a stark contrast to the surface climate. I could see vapors of my breath and the light. My teeth began to chatter as I started to shiver. A twilight mist began to slowly drift up from the cavern floor. Two rows of just, gigantic standing stones towered over me. It was a prehistoric monument of nebulous origin. It was much larger than Stonehenge. These were the ruins my grandfather had sketched on paper.

I gazed up at the monoliths. Each of them had unidentifiable glyphs etched into them. What they were supposed to represent remains unknown. But horrible suggestions and primordial fear is what came to mind. The curious altar between the first two monoliths caught my attention. Dark stains discoloured the top with rivulets on the sides. Movement behind me. I turned around, only to come face to face with my grandfather. I found myself being lifted up off the ground. I kicked and thrashed helplessly.

Next, I found myself being flung towards the altar. I landed on my back, having the wind knocked out of me a second time. I groggily got up and saw my grandfather pointing at me. By now the twilight mist became waist-high and the temperature in the cavern continued to drop. I realised my grandfather wasn't pointing at me, but at the altar behind me. I knew what had to be done.

I nervously reached a hand into my kit bag and poured out the black stone with a face carved onto it. I gently placed the rock, on to the altar. I felt an electrical sensation travel throughout my body. There was a smell in the air like that of a thunderstorm. The mist started to dissipate and the temperature began to warm. A loud eruption startled me and everything went black. I remember flashes of consciousness, dark passages and cave tunnels, the sensation of being dragged and a voice, Tommy's voice. You're going to be okay, mate.

Just a little further. I looked up and saw Tommy's face. But there was something different about him. His eyes. They reminded me of a total solar eclipse. And I faded out. When I finally came to, I found myself in the Cooktown Hospital. I know the truth about Black Mountain.

I know about the dark and forbidden. secrets that are hidden within. I put things right and re-establish the balance, and I think I've been forgiven. However, the mountain of death, the place of the spirit will forever forever remain in my dream. For seven consecutive years, no one has gone trick or treating in Bigelow County. In fact, no one in that rural, God-fearing little town. celebrates Halloween at all under pressure from concerned parents elderly residents who make up the majority of the electorate and the four churches all of them some form of Protestantism well the October holiday is banned has been since 2012 no trick-or-treating

no costume parties no jack-o-lanterns neither the Kmart nor Target sells costumes at any time of the year or even the seasonal bundles of mini chocolate bars. And you have to drive two and a half hours into Milton Valley if you want to see an R-rated film playing in theatres. Despite the gripes of uninformed teenagers and former residents, the mayor had not made the decision nor wields any power to reverse it. The decision to bar Halloween was instead rendered by the five city council members, Mrs. Esther Calhoun, Mrs. Linda Bata,

Tali, Mr. Ian Finn, Mr. Ronald Womack, and Mr. Frank Olbrecht. Albrecht, unlike the others, is not of Bigelow County. He was born in the city and moved his family into the small town to set up his businesses, a toting company, a tire shop, and a home appliance outlet. He doesn't feel the same religious fervour over the supposedly satanic nature of Halloween or care about its pagan roots. If he actually spent time to think on it, he would probably be an atheist, but, well, those reactionary Bible thumpers are not only his constituents, but also his customers. So when it came time to vote on the matter, he didn't have to think twice.

Naturally, October 31st of this year starts out as a non-event for Albrecht. The morning and afternoon passing him by without him ever remarking at the date, just another Thursday. In the evening, about 8 o'clock, he settled in his study, pouring over sales reports on his desk with a mug of black coffee steaming by his elbow. He's tried reaching his son, Felix,

he runs his truck stop in cold water five times on his cell, each time in vain. He's about to attempt a sixth call when he's interrupted by the doorbell. It rings feverishly, A volley of six or seven rapid dings, as though being pressed by an impetuous child. Placing the phone down beside his desktop monitor, Orbrecht eases himself vertical and shuffles out of his study.

Another rapid volley of eight hasty rings doesn't hurry his pace, but deepens the creases on his brow, putting his teeth on edge. Through the peep-hole, he can see a small person. Not a toddler as such, but likely a pre-teen boy, maybe 11 or so, wearing a black polyester cape and cow. Beneath the cow, Orbrecht can make out an orange plastic mask. When he opens the door, he can see the mask is of a jacko-lantern face, similar to the one his son worn for Halloween decades ago, well, when they still lived in the city. He studies the costume figure on his front stoop for a beat before scanning the vast cul-decent. sat behind him, looking for an adult. For a fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of them

are the last living souls on earth. Hey there, kiddo. He addresses the figure, a forced laugh in his voice. He is standing in the egress before this wood-be trick or treater, wearing a pair of car keys and a buttoned out. His reading-glass is still perched on the bridge of his note. No Halloween decorations of any kind anywhere near his impressive property. Where's your parent, little guy? You know, your guardian? The mask trick or treater says nothing. Instead, he just stares up at Albrecht, the eye holes of his mask filled with shadow. Anoyed, Albrecht's sighs through his nose. Look, kid, he says emphatically. I don't have any goodies for you, okay? I'm not

doing Halloween. Nobody around here is, okay? So when your mother or whoever comes by to get you, tell them to take it down the road. With that, he shuts the door on the mast trick or treat his face. Slightly befuddled, he makes his way back to his study, needing to get a hold of his son more than ever. And then, ding-ding-ding-dong, ding-ding-ding-dong, ding-ding-dong. His shoulders hunched Orbrecht gives out a sibilant grunt before spinning on his heel and charging the door. Hey! he shouts, finding the same mast trick or treater waiting on his stoop. What's your problem? Didn't you hear me the first time? You speak English or what? Like before, the mast trick or treater stares up darkly at Orbert, a taciturn eeriness radiating from behind the plastic pumpkin face.

that feeling of loneliness settles over Albrecht again, lingering this time the two of them standing in the island of wheat light. Albrecht then wrinkles his nose, finding a fetid, metallic odour in the air. Perhaps it's Charles Homeless, he thinks. He also realizes for the first time that the mast trick-or-treater is holding a pillowcase, presumably his sack of candy, which looks nearly full. "'Who would have given this kid, can't he asks himself? "'Though, given the smell, it might not be anything sweet "'creating that round bulge at the bottom of the bank.

"'All right, listen to me, son,' says Ornbrot, bending a knee, "'staring directly into the dark eye-holes in the orange mask. "'This is private property, got it, "'and what you're doing isn't allowed in this county. "'Now, I have a girl get your gun, or wonder back where you came from, otherwise I'm caught in the police. Again, he shuts the front door on the trick-or-treater, slamming it for emphasis. His mood sufficiently soured. Orbrecht marches back into his study, scooping up his cell phone

and checking his messages. Still nothing. No texts or calls from Felix. More agitated than concerned, he hisses out a triplet of curses. then begins chewing his bottom lip. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong. Or Brett can feel the back of his neck turn red at the sound. He then looks down to his phone, his thumb searching the keypad, cooling off a little, thinking himself a real goon for calling the cops on some kid in a Halloween get-up. He opts instead to dial the number for child protective services.

Before completing the call, he sits down, takes a sip from his coffee, now cold, and decides to wait it out, hoping like hell someone shows up to claim the kid. Sitting slumped in his office for minutes on end, the incessant doorbelling informs Orbrach the child has not disappeared. He knows it would be better to watch him through his den window, but in the sanctuary of his study, he can't bear face that mask trick-or-treater. again, the thought of the unsettling chill in the kid's stare, spreading goose flesh up his horror. Having waited the better part of an hour, the first tremors of a headache palpable in his temples, Albrecht unlocks his phone and sends the call to CPS. He sits there, listening to the phone ring in his hands, before bringing it to his ear, having heard a female voice chalmed through the speaker.

Um, hi there, he intentionally stammer's. Is this CPS? Yes, sir. May I ask where you're calling from? Orbrecht rises to his feet, making his glacial walk back to the front door. Yeah, I'm at 5-748, Chestnut Circle in Bigelow County. Look, there's his kid on my stooping, he's just been standing there for an hour. I think he might be lost or homeless or something.

I see, sir. Do you know the name and address of the child? No, you see, that's the thing. He won't talk to me. Orbrecht inches closer to the door. Reticently, he peers through the peep-hole, finding the mast trick-or-treater still standing there, reaching up to ring the doorbell for the thousandth time. He's just standing in front of my door, and ringing the bell. He's dressed up for Halloween, but he won't leave. even after I'd said I wasn't given out candy.

Another agonizing stream of doorbellings. Okay, sir, perhaps you can try again and see if you can get the child's name and address. Nodding his head, Orbrecht begins reaching for the doorknob, but then, confused, bites into his bottom lip. You've got my address? He then says, more is a question than a statement.

Yes, sir, but if there's an issue, we can send someone to check up on him tomorrow morning at his place of residence. You're not going to send someone to pick him up now? He can hear his voice jumping in octet, feeling as though marooned on a desert island and watching a freighter pass by in the distance. I'm afraid, sir,

our closest social worker lives about 300 kilometres out of Bigelow County, Believe me, we will call this person tonight, so they know to leave the next morning. So if you're concerned about this child for the night, I suggest either phoning your local police station or getting the number for his legal guardian. Okay, got it, mutters all breath, exhaling wetly through his nostrils. He hangs up, then immediately dials the sheriff's office. Sheriff's office, Deputy Buckley speaking. Hi, Ted, it's Frank Albrecht. Hey, councilman.

How's that new truck stop in Coldwater? Felix's finding it okay? Fine, yeah. Look, Ted, I got this kid on my stoop, about age 10 or 11, I think. He's been there about an hour and he won't leave. You recognize the kid there, Frank? No, no, see, he's wearing a mask. Like a Halloween get up there, yeah?

Uh, yeah, exactly. He's causing mischief? No, not really. He just keeps ringing him a doorbell and won't leave. I've asked him several times. Well, okay, councilman. Have you spoken to his adult? I mean, they should know there's no Halloween in around these parts. Yeah, that's the thing. He seems to be unaccompanied. I've been looking around and wait for an hour, and there's nobody here with him. Okay, so? So I was hoping that you or the sheriff could come by and pick him up. Yeah, I see, councilman. Well, the thing is, sheriff and I are pretty busy. Hearing this, Albert rolls his eyes.

These cops have the cushiest job in one of the smallest, safest towns in the country, but are always making excuses to sit on their lazy asses. Could you possibly try and speak to the young man again? find out his name, his address. Perhaps get a number to call his folks. I've always been speaking with him, Ted. That's why I'm calling you guys. I understand, Counselor, but doesn't it seem a bit excessive

to send a prowler over there for one kid and a costume? That does, don't it? Well, I'll stay on the line, but why don't you try speaking to the kid again? See if he's willing to talk with you now. I mean, you don't feel like you're in any kind of danger, do you? Despite the prickled hairs on his neck and the lump forming in his throat, Orbrecht responds with a no. He doesn't feel like he's in any kind of danger.

At least, logically he doesn't. Logically, he isn't. He couldn't be. Exailing deeply from his chest, Orbrecht turns the brass knob. Son, he addresses the masked trick-or-treater, who's staring back at Orbrecht with his chest. head tilted to the side, as though not recognising Olbrecht as a human.

What's your name? he asks, holding his phone to his chest. The dark, tilted stare holds. You speak English? Orlbrick asks, sincere this time. Silence. Utter, quiet around them. Save for the chirping crickets and rustle of the wind. Do you live around? here he tries again his inability to stir a response from the costume figure reminiscent of a dream about quicksand his heart has started firing hard in his chest see i told you he won't talk to me orbrecht says into the phone i can understand that counsellor the deputy replies why don't you hand him over the phone let me speak to him that sounds just right to orbrecht taking a knee so to be highly level with the visitor, Orbrecht holds out the phone. The masked trick or treater doesn't bite. The police are on the other end, Orbrecht says, brandishing the phone before the sunken eyes behind the cheap orange synthetic. Take it. They want to speak with you. Nothing.

Near his wits end and on the verge of strangling the little twirl. Orbrek leans forward, extending his arm full length to hold the phone next to the phone next to the visitor's face. When he does, the visitor grasps his arm, hatching hold at lightning speed, squeezing hard, the foam clattering down the concrete steps. Being a small boy, his fingers aren't long enough to wrap around Orbreck's wrist, but his grip stings like a cobra bite. Jarring on the spots. Orbrecht feels his entire body tingle hotly, his ears ringing like he's being kicked in the head, feeling like he's having a heart attack. His eyes squelched closed. Orbrecht feels a sudden rush of vertico and a sensation of being hauled to his feet. When he opens his eyes, he blinks,

and blinks again, hoping, praying that he can whirl what's before him from existence. The mast trichotrita has disappeared, replaced by a towering seven-foot obscenity. The polyester cape and cow have transformed into a black cloak of thick, heavy wool. The head under the sagging hood, a carved pumpkin, its jagged outlines consumed by its roaring inner fire. The face morphing as the flames lick and blacken at the vegetal meat. Orbrecht looks down at his arm. finding in the obscenities cadaverous claw enveloping his wrist audibly crushing the bones the goose flesh on his forearm is now overcome with boiling spreading warts he pulls back hard only for the

creature to release him sending him teetering backward before landing hard on his buttocks inside his home it's worse so so much worse The heat is unbearable, humid and unbreathable like jungle mist. The walls move, sliver, made up now of anacondra and python instead of plaster, wood, brick or stone. Their scales shine with menace, their slick, corpulent bodies writhing, halcyting, forming a vertical barrier. Around him, perched on the furniture, a huddled manifestations of the most unspeakable grotesquery. horns, pincers, grey puckered skin, dying eyes, vast, yawning moors. Nightmen.

Orbrecht can't be sure if he's in hell or he's lost his mind. Nursing his obliterated wrist, Orbrek looks up and sees the seven-foot obscenity has advanced into what was once his home. The visitor has now made his, its, final transformation. Pumpkin meat was receded into blackened ribs about the face, the feeling a charred death mask with a skeletal smile, the teeth yellow and caked with shreds of cooked flesh.

The only remnants of the fire now burn behind the visitors, peeled, staring eyes, met by that odour from before. Albrecht heaves, feeling deathly ill. It has grown in torrently rancid, fecal and coppery, A swarm of insects, from out of nowhere, buzzed maddeningly around the room, hovering tellingly close to the sack held in the visitor's grip. That round bulge is still there, though now the sack is soaked through wet with dripping crimson. An excruciating torment. All Breck plastered his one good hand to his left ear, burrowing the right side of his head into his shoulder,

the doorbell echoing like an alarm in his skull. Then, like a song-changing note, the sound morpts, splintering into syllables of a language Albrecht doesn't recognise. A language more rasp than vowel, more growl than consonant. Then, as though he spoke in it his whole life, the meaning of the guttural tongue comes clear to his mind. You do not know. You do not understand the significance of this autumn night. In your ill hubris and folly, you believe you can embargo its cathartic rituals to serve your own sense of normalcy, that you can bar it from your community for the sanctity of your souls. You believe in utter ignorance that tonight is when you invite the fallen angel of your God Yahweh into your commune.

No, tonight, as it has been for thousands of years, is the night you mortals give sacrifice. to the titans of your harvest, to the old ones who once roamed this planet with unchallenged authority, to sponsor our brief revival into the material world, to exercise our lingering minions, your most carnal and macabre desires from your frail flesh. But as you have broken this promise, here in this settlement, Bigelow County, we seek to take the sacrile of sacrifice so does the same sacrifice as was taken by force before this annual treaty of Halloween was ever made we take what was once yours what you most cherish tears in his eyes his boils bursting with pus allbrecht witnesses the seven-foot

visitor reaching into the blood-drenched sand the smell of rotten blood embedding itself in his sinuses he observes the visitor's corpse-like arm pulling something out, the position of its wrist indicating a grasp on some kind of hook or handle, as if the visitor is unearthing a turnip by its stem, or pulling something up, by its hair. No, cries Albrecht, choked by the image of his worst possible fear. No, no, no, no, it can be, it can't, you can't. You, you can't. couldn't he can't be orbrecht's scream pierces the night air rousing the entire cul-de-sac at nine twenty-four p m councilwoman and retired school principal esther calhoun is getting ready for bed in the bathroom she pours out her dentures placing them into a glass of disinfectant on the countertop next to the sink in the other room her husband is

in her slippers and silk nightgown she pads down the hall about to turn off the last house-lights when she startled by the door-bell ringing incessantly no matter what you see in the coming months regardless of how convincing it might seem is no that i didn't want to die i'm going to take all possible steps to prevent my predetermined demise but if i don't make it I need at least someone to know what really happened to me. I'm not, nor have I ever been a remarkable person. I've never been terrible, but I did great deeds either. To put it bluntly, ever since I left high school, I found my place in eternal mediocrity. Honestly, being perfectly average didn't bother me much while growing up.

Life was decent. I didn't struggle, and it felt like I had an overabundance of time to improve myself. But, once I entered my thirties, the time I'd wasted started to wear on my confidence, and a bout of anxiety invaded my otherwise peaceful existence. In order to make myself feel better, I decided to look through my old home videos, figuring that maybe I could get an inkling as to where I lost my passion for living. I dug through my parents' basement while they were at the market, to look for the long-since-forgotten memories. We hadn't filmed anything since the death of VHS tapes back in the early 2000s, but with some luck, the infinite procrastination abilities possessed by my father meant that both the tapes and the players still waited idly by in the dust-covered boxes.

After a long search and a couple of coughing fits from the dust clouds, I found a box marked home videos. The box was full to the brim with old tapes and the player itself. far more than I ever remembered filming, but it had already started to satisfy my hunger for nostalgia. I felt confident that I'd find at least some inspiration and drive within the films. So with little hesitation, I eagerly brought them home to my one-bedroom apartment and connected the old player, using a ton of adapters to make it fit modern televisions. I picked up the first tape, labelled Adam Davis Highlights, 1985 to 2006.

and inserted it into the player. Though some of the footage was more than three decades old at that point, the tape itself was rather new, or at least as new as VHS tapes could possibly be, it meant that someone had transferred the footage to a newer tape to preserve the film, probably my mother. It had to be rewound, and as it did,

I bought myself a glass of cheap whiskey while listening to the loud whirring sound of the tape being dragged back to its beginning. And then, I hit play. Poorly focused picture came to view, partially covered by the date, reading January 5th, 1989. It was myself as a baby, barely out from the womb, and my mother was a person behind the camera.

She cooed and made funny hand gestures to get me to smile, which I diligently did as she laughed, enjoyed her wrinkly little creation. I sat through half an hour of footage, watching myself grow up, and now I was a little I had no recollection of these events. It felt nice to see that I once lived a carefree life of joy in exploration. Everything felt amazing. And before I knew it, Christmas of 1989 had rolled around, one of my very first happy memories. Four years old and wearing an oversized Santa hat, I sat on our carpeted floor and fiddle with a colourfully wrapped Christmas gift. Cheerful music played in the background, and a dog ran around, excited by the torn

wrapping paper littering the floor. The dog eventually ran over to my young self and started to playfully pull on my presents while I attempted to push it away, all the while laughing my heart it was a wonderful scene to behold. And though I had a vague memory of that day, my first Christmas to remember, I had absolutely no recollection of ever owning a dog. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs. In fact, I always wanted one, but due to horrible allergies that developed during my childhood, my parents always kept me away from the furry and lovable creatures. My first thought was that the dog belonged to some other family member. But as the years went by, the dog proved a faithful companion and made several appearances on the tape.

Though the footage was clearly real, and I was the centre of it, I couldn't for the life of me remember the dog. He, Doug, followed me around until the age of twelve, when it suddenly stopped showing up on the tape. Presumably passed away from old age, but he wasn't discussed any further in any of the other clips. He kept watching through my primary school years, then high school and finally college. Everything was exactly how I remembered it, every minute detail matching my memory of life. everything except for the dog as the tape neared its end

the date read October 7th 2006 I was filming myself out with some colleagues from my part-time job he was just having a few drinks after work and no it wasn't a particularly exciting evening I remember feeling so happy absolutely certain of my place in the world

everyone was laughing we seemed to have a genuinely great time the evening went on and my memory turned hailed while the footage turned more sloppy as it often goes with an overabundance of alcohol there were holes in my memory from that night the screen cut to black for a few seconds once the picture returned someone was filming me from the other side of the bar whoever held the camera they weren't one of my friends nor did i seem to pay them any attention on the footage i still sat with a

couple of my colleagues at the table, just finishing up my final beer before getting up to pay the tab. As we left the bar, the cameraman followed us, keeping his distance. He still didn't acknowledge his presence. Unbeknownst to us, a stranger had gotten hold of my camera, but in my drunken state I never realized. He kept following us down the street as my friends dropped me off into a taxi. The clip ended, and the screen cut to black. for a full minute. I wondered if the tape had reached its end, but the time it kept counting up. Once the picture returned, I was met by a dark scene. The camera was pointed towards a dimly lit road, slowly panned along the street. Small pieces of debris and chunks of cloth littered the road,

all accompanied by a vague, crackling sound in the distance. Before long, the picture showed a mangled car wreck partially on fire. The cameraman moved closer to the wreck. I gasped in shock as I saw the severity of the crash. The driver's head had been smashed beyond recognition by the steering wheel. He'd suffered a quick, unexpected death. But the passenger... I was still alive.

It zoomed in on my mangled body as I desperately tried to get free from my seats. But I was stuck under twisted metal, and my broken legs had been caught within it. The fire spread slowly at first, and the cameraman stood idly by watching as it reached my body. Still, I didn't notice anyone filming me. The fire started to spread quicker, and I screamed in agony as it climbed up my body towards my face, my clothes fusing to my skin and my face charing from the heat. After the fire had burned away most of my skin, killing each of the nerve endings, I stopped screaming.

though I never stopped moving Not until my muscles had finally stopped functioning Did I finally go quiet I'm not sure how long the scene lasted Nor do I care to go back and check I sat frozen in fear As I listened to each second of my pleading screams Until the moment I fell silent

And finally die My life had ended On camera The 7th of October 2006 that was just the end of the first tape i sat speechless trying to figure out if i'd fallen victim to some sick prank or if the footage showed an alternate version of myself that never made it out of college i dug out another tape and read the title adam davis highlights nineteen eighty five to two thousand two with extreme trepidation i removed the first tape and inserted the second into the player Be it morbid curiosity or a desperate need to find answers, I decided to watch another. The footage was almost identical to the first tape, but no dog ever showed up in the film.

Instead, the only notable change to my life was the fact that my grandfather had died in 1999, instead of 1993, and the colour of my first car changed from black to red. I kept forwarding to the very end of the tape, only watching bits of clips along the wall. away. Once at the end, the day was dated November 15, 2002. It was a party, and though too young to legally drink, it hadn't stopped me from enjoying the occasional house party. I remember leaving the place around midnight after being rejected by my crush and walked the two-mile journey home alone in the dark. As I walked, someone followed me in the distance, filming me without my knowledge, just as we had the first time.

Across the street and took a shortcut through an alleyway and was immediately cut off by a hooded figure. The scene was filmed from too far away to hear what was happening, but the hooded person pulled a gun, and I lifted my hands up in response and immediately froze. Whether it was supposed to be a robbery or a hostage situation, I didn't know. I just kept holding my hands up high while the robber erratically waved the gun around. Before I could diffuse the situation, the gun went off and hit me point blank in the throat. I fell to the ground, clutching my throat.

While I lay there, desperately trying to slow down the bleeding, the cameraman approached me with slow, patient steps. This time I noticed the stranger approaching, and I stared into the camera as I gasped for air, unable to call out for help. It took me less than a minute to bleed to death. The camera continuously getting closer to my panic face until the moment I took my last gargled breath. And then it cut to blur. In 2002, I died alone on the street.

Never knowing why, the same scene kept repeating itself for each of the recordings. Every time small details were changed. Memories that didn't make sense, things that didn't happen, but they always ended with my untimely death. On September 29th, 2004, I drowned as my car plunged into the river. The windows didn't open, and I couldn't break through the windsheet.

On January 13th, 2005, I fell off a cliff and broke my legs while hiking alone in a neighbouring city. The fall caused an open fracture which severed one of my arteries, and it took me a full hour to bleed out as I desperately tried to crawl for hell. Five deaths, each film by a stranger, never offering a helping hand, never speaking a single word.

I returned to my parents' place with the box of tapes and demanded to know what the hell was going on. They took one glance at them and denied knowing about their existence. Despite my father's extreme laziness, he'd long since gotten around to digitalising the footage, putting it on a hard drive and storing it in a fireproof safe. They showed me the home videos they'd made, and everything appeared just as I remembered it, with no horrific death at the end. The tapes had to have been put in the basement recently, as a flood had destroyed most of the stuff stored there only a year before when I was abroad.

Whoever put the videos there, it wasn't my father. Following the conversation with my parents, my first instinct was to throw the tapes in a fiery pit and forget they'd ever existed. But saner thoughts prevailed. I had to talk to the police, to figure out who had made them, and, more importantly, how. I loaded them into my car,

checking over each of the titles once more. When I noticed one marked, highlights. 1985 to 2020. I stopped dead in my tracks, and just stared at the tape in my hand. It was bizarre enough to hold a cassette dated in the future, but the fact that I already knew its ending horrified me even further.

After what felt like an eternity of contemplation, I decided to see what the tape had to offer, a glimpse into my near future, for better or for worse. If it revealed any details, maybe I'd get the chance to escape whatever fate had in store for me. I stared intently at each memory depicted on the television screen, desperate to look for any deviations from my own memory. If I was lucky, it was another reality altogether, but no matter how hard I tried to look

for any discrepancies, it perfectly matched my life as I knew it. Once the tape got to December 2019, I took a deep breath and paused the video for a moment. Maybe I should have let the police deal with it. If fate is predetermined, then how could I even prevent it? but I had to know what would happen to me. The urge was irresistible. I hit play once more. The date read December 17th, 2019,

and the picture revealed a cold, grey hospital room. I was there, holding my unconscious mother's hand as she took her last breath and felt eerily silent, as if her presence had left the world. The doctor in the room assured me she hadn't felt any pain, but she was at peace. but the actual cause of her death never came up.

Whoever filmed it didn't seem to take part in the interaction, just like with the other clips. The stranger simply observed us, unnoticed by anyone actually in the room. The clip ended rather abruptly, cutting to black, remaining empty for a full minute. Once it faded back in, the date read January 24th, 2020.

I saw myself sitting in what looked like a dirty motel room, one I couldn't recognise. I kept my hands folded over my lap as I sat on the edge of the bed. I was clearly distressed and paid little notice to the cameraman in the room. Went on like that for a couple of minutes, me muttering some incomprehensible panic sentences and the camera remaining focused on my hands. suddenly I lifted my head towards the cameraman with pleading eyes please I don't want to do this don't make me do this I don't want to I don't want to I said with a trembling voice the cameraman remained silent but the look on my face said

enough I was horrified and it was clear that whoever filmed me was also coercing me to do something against my will I lifted my hands up from my lap to reveal a knife. Just the run-of-the-mill pocket-knife, but threatening nonetheless, the hands shook as I once more begged for mercy. I don't want to, please, don't make me do this. Then I directed my attention to the knife, and without hesitating any further, I plunged it into my wrist,

dragging it up along my arm towards my elbow as I winced in agony. I sat motionless on the bed as viscous blood, poured from the cut. The camera keeping its focus on me as the life slowly drained from my minutes passed when I dropped dead on the floor, letting out a final breath before succumbing to bloodlock. The tape ended with the familiar jagged lines and grey screen, with a high-pitched, monotonous beat the only thing left to keep me company. Following the last tape, I headed straight to the police station, handed over the tapes. They were hesitant at first, but quickly came around when they saw the footage.

Of course, their explanation was more within the realm of logical possibilities that someone had altered the footage, created a doctored video, though they did take it seriously as a threat to my life and swore they'd keep me safe while they looked into it. Unfortunately, without a perpetrator, it would be hard to do anything. I was left with little choice, but to hide in my home with all the doors locked, and every window covered up. After getting home,

I sat myself down by the phone and waited for the police to call me with any updates, though I knew if anything did come up, it would take days, if not weeks. It's possible that it is another reality, and that'll be fine. Maybe it is just a sick pranking, not someone that can literally see into the future.

Those all just hopeless thoughts. Because an hour ago, I received a phone call from my dad. He told me that my mom collapsed in the bathroom and that they're taking her to the hospital. He keeps reassuring me that she'll be fine. But I know better. In a few weeks, my mom will be dead.

And then shortly after, I'll follow. 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.