Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep361: Episode 361: Urban Exploration Horror Classics

Episode Date: August 11, 2026

Our opening story tonight is ‘I Explored an Abandoned Asylum’ by Suomynona404. This story was shared with me via the Creepypasta wiki and is read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license.https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/I_Explored_an_Abandoned_Asylumhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Suomynona404Next up we have ‘Urban Exploration’ by TheGoldenSpoon. This story was again shared with me via the Creepypasta wiki and is read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license.https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Urban_Explorationhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:TheGoldenSpoonTonight’s third story is ‘Urban exploring in Rural Canada’, an original work by Terra627, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Terra627/https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/gbavn6/urban_exploring_in_rural_canada/Our fourth story tonight is ‘I’m What You Like to Call an Urban Explorer’ by Gabemcceldry. This story was shared with me via the Creepypasta wiki and is read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license.https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/I%27m_What_You_Like_to_Call_an_Urban_Explorerhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:GabemcceldryTonight’s next horrifying tale of terror is ‘Be Careful with Rural Exploration’, an original story by Sam Marduk, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and narrated with the author’s kind permission: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/829sj4/be_careful_with_rural_exploration/Our next tale of the macabre is ‘The Sealed Building’, an original story by Michael Whitehouse, again read with the author's permission: https://www.creepypasta.com/the-sealed-building/Our next work is ‘The Journal of Kaneonuskatew Blackwood’ by EmpyrealInvective, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license.https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Journal_of_Kaneonuskatew_Blackwoodhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Category:EmpyrealInvectiveWe begin tonight’s podcast with ''The Mannequin Farm'', an original story by Shadows in the Light 23, kindly shared directly with me and read with the author's permission.Tonight’s penultimate fabulous unmissable story is ‘Never Go Looking for Urban Legends.’ This is followed by ‘My dream home won't stop bleeding’, and we round off this evening with ‘I Made a Horrifying Discovery in my Brother’s Basement.’ https://www.reddit.com/user/MammothFormal1/We round things off with ‘Primrose Mall’ by Penko Bell, again kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license.https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Primrose_Mallhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:PenkoBell

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Well, it is said that exploration is a wonderful way to open her eyes to the world and to truly see that impossible is just a word. But maybe we should also be scared that everything is possible, as we'll see in tonight's four stories. Later on, we have three stories from Mammoth Formal One. Never go looking for urban legends. My dream home won't stop bleeding.

And I made a horrifying discovery in my brother's basement. But we begin with the mannequin farm by Shadows in the Light, 23. Now, as always, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. All humans are driven by their curiosity. There's always a desire in our minds to explore the unknown, the mysterious, and get an adrenaline rush out of it.

As for me, I get my adrenaline from urban exploration, which involves exploring structures that have been abandoned and left around at the mercy of mother nature. Well, urban exploration is pretty popular nowadays, thanks to the internet. If you're an urban explorer with a YouTube account, there's a good chance that your videos will become viral. Exploration of abandoned places always has its dangers, and these dangers include collapse floors and ceilings, police, gang fights, toxic mould and carcinogenic fibres from old insulation.

There are, of course, reports of paranormal activity in some of these places, which makes sense, as some of these places have a very dark and disturbing part. I myself had a run-in with the paranormal a few months back. At my university, I'm currently enrolled in a cinematography class to pursue my degree in film production. For Halloween, my instructor, Mr. Anderson, had assigned a Halloween-themed project. Our project was to simply create a scary short film. As a result of my hyperactive imagination, I came up with the idea of filming something that was terrifying in real life.

I wanted to go ghost-hunting at a haunted location, catch something scary on camera, and blow the other films from my fellow students out of the water. All the places I'd explored up to that point had zero paranormal activity, but I figured my latest destination could change that. At the edge of town, on a giant hill, there stands a complex of buildings that was once a lunatic asylum. There's no modern feel to its appearance.

When you gaze upon the massive stone towers, you feel like you're right in the middle of a horror game. I'll present a little bit of history, but I'll try not to bore you with too many details. The asylum was constructed in the late 1800s under the Kirkbride plan, created by Thomas Kirkbride. Now, Kirkbride believed that the insane should be offered large, rooms fresh air and sunshine to cure them of their illness. The asylum was meant to be a safe,

comfortable place for the mentally ill, but it eventually became hell on earth for its patients. According to federal investigators, there were reports of patients breaking out of their rooms and going on murderous rampages, killing any staff members in their way. Suicide was common there, as some people hung themselves from the ceiling with bedsheets, while others dip their heads in pots of boiling water stolen from the kitchen. A torture innocent patients became the norm as some were a restraint for so long that their skin grew over their restraints some patients were forced to sit in baths of boiling hot or freezing cold water for hours on end or some patients underwent lobotomies in a lobotomy procedure and ice-pick would be shoved through the

patient's eye socket and the frontal lobe would be disconnected from the rest of the brain some patients would become crippled while others would be reduced to non-responsive vegetables the place was eventually closed in the 1980s due to abuse and neglect. With the amount of security swarming the place, it's almost impossible to break in, but the few teenagers who've succeeded in doing so have told of all kinds of crazy stories, like slamming doors, floating heads, glowing eyes, moving wheelchairs, and disembodied screens. One of the hallways in the building has been nicknamed the shadow hallway, because shadowy apparitions supposedly roam this place.

as much as I wanted to explore the place, I didn't want to be an idiot and face charges for trespassing. Luckily, my best friend Dennis is the sheriff's son, so I asked him to pull a few strings for me when it worked. The razor-wire gate at the entrance was unlocked for both of us, and I had the sheriff's note of permission in my pockets, in case we were confronted by a security guard that didn't get the memo. Dennis came with me because we'd partnered up for the project. Being a history buff like me, the chance of exploring an abandoned institution over a hundred years old was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He researched the history just like I did and printed a copy of the old campus map off the internet, so we would know which building was which.

We decided to explore the main hospital building first, since it was massive compared to the other buildings. Once we were inside, we were absolutely blown away by the condition of the interior. The inside was in near perfect condition, as if it had been closed just yesterday. Thanks to the efforts of the police, nobody had a chance to vandalise or spray graffiti on the walls. The ceiling hadn't collapsed, which was a blessing because I didn't want wet pieces of rust to fall on my neck. The only damage we could find was just some peeling wallpaper. Everything inside was left behind when the hospital closed. Wheelchairs, beds, syringes, gurneys, medical equipment,

and papers were scattered in almost every room. After half an hour we found the electroshock therapy room where many patients had met a painful demise as they were given often high levels of electric current that their bodies could not handle. Dennis pointed to the wall. Dude, look! I looked at the wall.

Attached to it were two thick electric cords. Dennis glanced at me and grinned. All the money in the world wouldn't convince me to plug my arms into those. No kidding, I replied. He left the therapy room and started walking down yet another dark hallway. The building was literally like a giant maze. He both saw it at the same time. A giant dark shadow rose out of the floor. Its green, glowing eyes, flashlight headlights as it stared at us. My hands were shaking with excitement as I pointed my camcorder straight out the thing. It eventually turned its head away from us and sang back.

into the floor. Did you get that on camera? Please tell me you got that on camera. Dennis exclaimed. I smiled. Yeah, sure did. Dennis high-fived me. Oh, we're going to ace this project now. Our film will be the best in the class. Right at that moment, my camcorder shut off. I clicked the on-off switch multiple times with no response. I can't believe this. What? The battery died This doesn't make any sense I just charged it right before we left Dennis shrugged

Could be ghosts Plenty of paranormal investigators have reported the same thing happening to their electronics Plus we got that ghost on camera So we're still going to beat the other projects By our landslide Yeah that's a possibility And we still have the whole complex to explore for the night

The dead battery can't stop us We eventually found ourselves in Ward D where the most violent female patients have been kept. On each side of the hallway, the patient rooms have thick wooden doors with giant brass locks on them. And that's when it happened. Without warning every single door simultaneously slammed shut with a series of loud bangs.

He froze. She, it appeared. There wasn't a flash of light, no misty fog, no stuff like you'd see in cheesy horror movies. She just appeared out of nowhere. She was wearing a simple, white hospital gown. Her skin was as white as a skeleton. Her eyes had no pupils, no irises, no veins.

They were just empty white circles. A few wisp of blonde and hair stuck out of her head at random angles, like strands of hay on a broom. She spoke. You? Why are you two here? You're here to watch me suffer, aren't you? Well, despite her terrifying appearance, her voice was smooth and sweet, dripping with honey as she spoke.

We stood still, frozen with shock. She continued. Doctors, both of you told me that you wanted to cure me, so I could return to society, but you were lying. I knew you were lying. Every time you locked me in an empty room, and every time you shocked me and burned my flesh, I saw that wicked look of glee in both of your eyes. You didn't want to cure me. I was just an experiment to you.

A guinea pig for you to toy around with. And eventually you two got bored with me, so you wanted to have one last experiment. While I was fully conscious, you strapped me to an operating table. You wanted to slice my brain to pieces and watch me scream in the process. You wanted to kill me in the most painful way possible and enjoy my attempts to break free from the straps. And you... succeeded my eyes wandered to her hands and I saw the object she was clutching in her right hand

it was an ice pick she noticed me looking at the pick and smiled now she smiled her face stretched itself apart like bubble girl she spoke one more time you see doctors all I won is a little revenge is that too much to ask the mouth in open into a large gaping hole as she unleashed the loudest, most blood-curdling scream I've ever heard in my life, and I hoped to never hear it again. It wasn't just your ordinary scream. A scream entered my head and it occupied all of my thoughts. He stirred up all of my fears and amplified them to the point. It was causing waves of pain to travel throughout my body. I don't know how else to describe it. It was like she was an embodiment of fear itself.

run Dennis yelled as loud as he could she rushed at us with lightning speed and we ran down the staircases like the building was on fire when we reached the ground floor we took a leap of faith and jumped out of a window frame with no glass present once we're outside she didn't follow us is she gone Dennis's face was white with fear i took some deep breaths it looks like it Dennis pointed a trembling finger at the hospital. I'll tell you one thing, man. I'm never going in there again.

Whatever those doctors did, it made her evil. At this point, we were soaked with sweat as we walked home, looking behind us every few seconds. And yes, we had nightmares. Who wouldn't, after experiencing what we had? I'm not going to end this story by warning you not to explore abandoned asylums, as most people are just going to ignore me and continue to do so anyway. Simply warning you to be cautious.

Sometimes pursuing our hobbies can have unexpected results. On by the way, if it was any compensation, we did end up getting an A-plus on our film project. Urban exploration. My story began when I was 15 years old, living in the south of Wales in the UK in a town called Bridge End. Me and my friend that I'd known for a while will be known as Jack for the duration of this story, to protect his privacy,

developed a liking for derelict buildings that have been left to rot where they stood. We consider ourselves urban explorers. Now, for those who don't know, it's the act of exploring abandoned properties with no consent or permission. So, as you can guess, it was a pretty risky job in the first place. We've been to many, many extraordinary places that we found, well, interesting to explore. This was until we went on our final exploration. It was summertime, the perfect time to explore, and we hadn't done it for a while. Well, me and my friend Jack got together after finding this very creepy-looking building,

which we thought would have been our best outing yet. We thought. The place was an old run-down farmhouse-type building, which looked like something straight out of a horror movie. It was great. It was behind an old railway track that was also not in use, so to get there we'd have to cross the tracks. We were worried about being seen, but luckily no one caught sight of us.

We'd arrived at our destination, finally, and now we had to find a way in. We came to the large, white, sand-coloured walls that looked like they'd fall down at any moment. We knew this would be a dangerous job. We both looked at each other nervously. Neither of us was prepared for what was about to happen. We came to the old wooden door, it was lying on the floor, and it looked like someone had kicked it in.

We thought that it was just a group of podheads trying to find a good location to hang out for the night. We didn't think much of it at the time. We stepped through the old doorway, out of the sunlight and into the dark corridor of the old farmhouse. We were hit with the old, mouldy, grey musky smell that lingers in many, if not all, abandoned buildings. We were used to it by now. I switched on my flashlight and was ready to explore this beauty of a find. We started down the first corridor and came to a large dark room. This must have once been the living room.

It was a big portrait with mould growing on all four corners, making its way in over the years. It was of a woman in a huge, frilly red dress and a very pretty headdress, and she was beautiful. The rest of the room was just filled with small piles of rubble and trash. There was a broken desk with nothing on it but a small candlestick, with a tiny amount of dried A candlestick With a small, tiny amount left in it We continued into the next room Well, it looked like the last room, but smaller

It had a large amount of foliage Growing through the old wooden floorboards And moss and mould everywhere Most of the ruins were like this So we began to think that this wasn't what we'd hoped for Time was ticking on And we'd explored most of the house Finding nothing but moss, mould, rubble

And small leftover items such as candles a few items of clothing, and lipstick, and a sewing machine that no longer worked. But there were two more rooms in the house we needed to look through, one of which was behind a large wooden door.

It seemed to be the only door left standing in the house, and it seemed to be in relatively good condition compared to the rest of the property. We left that room until last. We entered the only other room left to explore and found a small box labelled Jessica's things. We seemed very intriguing.

We opened the box to, find nothing, nothing but a very small music box. Jack began to turn the lever on the side, and the box began playing Bar-Bah Black Sheep, which we both recognised pretty quickly. Well, there was something off about this music box. Maybe it was due to its age, but the tune sounded a little off-key and, in a way, distorted. We wondered why there was nothing in this big box, but a small music box. But we left it there and continued. to the final room. We stood there nervously looking at the old wooden door,

wondering why it looked how it did, in the condition it was in. We must have been there for about two whole minutes, just looking and arguing about who would open the door and go in first. Well, after I'd been chosen to open the door, I pressed my hand against the cold wood. The door wasn't lashed, but it wasn't far from it. It was opening enough for me to just push it open.

Well, this room was different to the rest. It looked the same, but there was something very, very strange about it. It didn't smell the same as the rest of the house. It had the faint smell of a woman's perfume. We didn't think much of it for some reason, maybe because we were really creeped out by the room itself. There was a closet at the back of the room and a few lit candles on the floor. Something wasn't right.

We were scared, but we'd found somewhat of a jack-up. pot for Ergburn explorers. There was nothing in this room but the closet and the candles. And the rest of the room was the same as the others, with the mould and rubble. I slowly crept towards the closet. I was very nervous and jumpy at this point.

And the floor creaked as I stepped closer to the closet. I didn't feel right. I'd come to the closet doors and reached out to grab the handles. I slowly and carefully opened the closet. and what we found there was not what we expected. There in the closet alone was a large, single, frilly red dress

hanging on an old broken clothes hanger. The inside of the closet looked clean, as did the dress. This didn't make any sense. From this point on is where things started to go horribly wrong. A few seconds after I'd open the closet, Jack and I was startled half to death by the sound of a screaming woman. We were only fifteen, remember, so we wanted out. I slammed one of the closet doors, leaving the other open, which shook the closet.

We ran out of the room and down the old narrow staircase, and we reached the living room but couldn't see the sunlight beaming in through where we'd entered the property. While this spooked and worried us, I shone my flashlight around in the room as there was barely any light in there at all. I shunned across the portrait we'd found earlier, and what I saw was unimaginable. There was a huge red symbol splashed on the centre of the painting. After a few seconds, I realised that this symbol was a pentagram. Well, now I was more than ready to leave. I just stood and stared at the painting, thinking of the worst-case scenarios of this situation.

As I stood there, Jack and I started hearing. a loud banging coming from upstairs. Neither of us wanted to check it, but as there was now no apparent exit, we had no choice. We slowly crept up the stairs, all the while hearing the banging getting progressively louder than louder. We discovered that this banging was coming from the closet room, and now we were terrified. I stupidly started to open the door. I don't know why I went in, maybe it was out of pure shock and not knowing what else to do, but I went in only to find the closet violently shaking with both doors closed tight.

I clipped over to the closet and touched it, and it stopped shaking. I looked inside to find the dress was gone. I took a few steps back from the closet and was about to turn back to tell Jack what had happened that we had to find an exit, and as I turned, it had the worst. scare ever right in front of me was a figure a female figure in a long frilly red dress i screamed a

walk backwards closing my eyes i was petrified the room was cold and i heard the door slam shut i screamed louder and then stopped everything was silent now i didn't want to open my eyes i didn't know what had happened to jack but i couldn't hear anything from him. Surely he could hear my screams and the door slam. My mind, however, was not on my friend at the moment. It was on the ghostly figure I'd just come face to face with. The room was still silent. I sat there for a few moments, and then I started to hear weeping.

I was spooked out, too scared to open my eyes again. I sat there quietly waiting for the weeping to stop. But it didn't. I knew that if I didn't open my eyes, it wouldn't stop, so I gained the courage to open one eye, and then the next. I couldn't see anything but the weeping soundly like it was in the room. I started towards the door slowly, and then, for some reason, I turned around. I guess it was instinct.

When I turned, I saw the figure again. This time, however, I just stopped and stared. I had my bearings this time, and I realized. that it was the woman from the portrait. I slowly opened the door without looking and ran out. I found Jack staring at the pentagram on the portrait. Emotionless. I tapped him and called his name.

Nothing worked. Well, I was in a rush, so I pushed him to the ground, and he sort of woke up. I pulled him up, and we both started to hear very loud, sobbing and screaming. We were terrified. We ran to the back of the house, where we found an open door, much like the one we'd entered through. We ran and ran until the house was in the distance. We just dropped to the floor and got our breath back.

We just sat there, looking at the house, recollecting the experiences in our heads, wondering what had happened to us. That night I couldn't sleep. I went online to research the house. It took me a very long time, but eventually I found it. I won't mention the name of the property. but I can tell you it was built in 1899.

I also found something that gave me the chills. There was a family that lived there in the 1920s. The wife and mother of the family that lived there was named Jessica. I was spooked out when I read this. It made me think about the experiences I'd had in the house earlier that day. Had I seen the ghost of Jessica Watson? Was I crazy? What happened there?

I kept researching and found that Jessica was murdered by her husband, Matthew. He stabbed her and slid her throat in the master bedroom. This must have been where the closet was found. No one has lived there since the last Watson, the son of Jessica and Matthew, Harry, who died in the house of old age. He must have been keeping his mother's dress locked away in their old room. It had been derelict since 1947 when he died. To this day I don't know if the dress is still there in the closet

I don't even know if the house is still standing One thing I do know is that I've not been urban exploring since Especially nowhere near the Watson property Urban exploring in rural Canada Rodney steered the van off the dirt path Listing to the Newcastor on the radio As the bizarre fungal infection spreads Woodwarden reports of cases in Texas

and other US states that border Mexico. This virus is believed to have originated somewhere in the Amazon, though its exact origins remain a mystery, she informed. Rodney switched the radio off as his destination came into view. Up ahead at the end of the trail, he could see an abandoned school, its imposing stone figure, not unlike a Middle Ages castle. Oh, look at that! I've seen internet pictures, but this place,

is downright terrifying up close, he exclaimed. Rodney had spent a great deal of money to fly himself and his five friends to rural Canada. Look spooky, stated Yusuf. Hey man, could you retell the story behind this place? I wasn't awake the first time, requested Corey. Oh, you always sleep, Corey. It's like you're some old man, complained Anton. Okay, it's like this, see.

this here is the Elf Hoof High School this place was only in operation for one day Tuesday September 18th 1997 on that day 17 teachers were killed by some unknown slasher the RCMP covered it all up

closing the school down for good it's still a cold case where with her witnesses reporting a woman in white who did some sort of sword, though the RCMP refuses to talk about her, informed Rodney. Well, we're here to solve this mystery, he announced. Hey, did you all remember to bring a camera? Raymond inquired. I got it. I'll be the cameraman for this fiasco, replied Kevin.

Why'd we waiting for? Come on, let's roll, said Corey. He stepped out of the massive grey van that they'd all rode there in. and the others followed him, beginning their ascent up the school's stone steps. Surrounded by a dense forest, with imposing mountains as a backdrop. The Elk Hoof High School was by far the scariest place Rodney had ever been. He ran a famous ghost-hunting channel on YouTube, Rodney's Pack, a brave ghost-hunting team, willing to do whatever it took to please their fans. All the school's immense front doors were unlocked,

a fact that greatly surprised all of them the six friends broke into the school closing the door behind them a long corridor faced them lockers lining the sides of the walls the school was lit by overhead lights a fact that made Rodney nervous everything in the school shone with a clean sheen as if someone were still living there this isn't right thought Rodney a sudden crash came from somewhere in the school. Rodney gasped. What was that? shouted Kevin. He rushed ahead with the camera eager to catch a ghost on film. The crash had come from down the hall in the cafeteria whose door stood ajar. "'Gu guys, I've got a bad feeling about this,' muttered Corey. "'Come on, we can't let Kevin just run off on his own,' said Yusuf. The five of them pursued their

friend. He'd run into the cafeteria, leaving them behind in his haste to get footage. When Rodney approached the door to the cafeteria, it slammed in his face. Someone had locked it. A person Rodney couldn't see, because the doors, windows were painted black. He pounded on the door to no avail. Guys, I can't get in, he shouted. I could hear Kevin screaming on the other side. something clearly being wrong with him his scream soon began to grow faint and the others pounded on the door there's no way of beating this down did any of you bring a pry bar Raymond inquired rodney was about to respond when a door banged open down the hall thudding hard into the wall

as it was tossed open with great force someone's messing with us I'm going to have to have a word with this prankster, growled Anton. He stomped towards the end of the corridor. Hey, enough's enough, he shouted, angrily punching a locker. His friends trail behind him. Step out here, now, he screamed, approaching the end of the corridor. Anton barredged into an empty classroom. As he steeped through the door, his foot came down on something. Moments later, he fell to the ground screaming. his four friends arrived to discover that Anton had stepped on a steel bear trap, his teeth buried in his leg. Oh, crap! exclaimed Corey. He reached down to try and free Anton from the trap when someone stepped out of a closet at the back of the room.

What an earth, stated Yusuf. A woman had stepped out of the closet. She wore a long white dress, with a sword hanging. from her sides. Her cold eyes had a deranged look to them. She sauntered slowly over to them, drawing her sword with a flourish. All four friends screamed, falling over each other to escape, leaving Anton behind, who sat quivering on the floor. Hey, lady, get back. I'll rough you up. I mean it, he shouted. The woman in white waved her finger in his face that's a terrible thing to say didn't your mother ever tell you you shouldn't hear women she scolded driving the point of her sword into his chest i'll need to punish you a little thug like yourself needs harsh correction if he ever hopes to be a real man she lectured

as she watched anton die as his friends ran for their lives the woman in one took a remote control from her pocket hitting a button that caused a building wide blackout inside the cafeteria kevin sat strapped to a chair he struggled against his bonds trying to escape before the crazy woman returned she'd vanished into the kitchen after which he had heard screaming Kevin wondered what had happened to his friends he could hear sprinting in the hallway as well as panic shouting Guys, I'm here. Help me. He screamed. The day ignored him.

The woman in white emerged from the kitchen. She carried something with her. Kevin recognized it with horror. The bottle of lighter fluids. What are you going to do with that? He gasped. The woman smiled. Oh, you know, up here in the frigid north,

one requires a fire to keep cozy at night. She informed him. Without warning, the woman sprayed lighter fluid into his face, burning Kevin's eyes and soaking him from head to toe. He gagged on the toxic fumes as the woman poured a trail of fluid across the floor. The trail led to a folding chair, which she sat upon. Kevin looked over at her. Why? he shouted.

You know why. You like a mad dog needing to be put down. replied the woman. She sparked a match, igniting the end of the puddle, and then watched as the flames crept forward. Kevin thrashed harder than ever, to no avail, screaming as flames engulfed his body. The woman watched him burn, and then rose from her chair, abandoning the charred body. Raymond dove into a locker while Rodney, Yusuf and Corey ran ahead of him. Yusuf tried to open. You one of the front doors finding them locked Raymond hardly dared to breathe shaking in his hiding place a woman hummed from down the hall her shoes clacking against the floor he could see her approaching as he looked through the slats in the locker as she neared him she laughed peering into each locker as she passed twirling her sword through the air he knew he should run, but fear rooted into the spots. They made eye contact, the woman letting out a twist

giggle. "'Found you,' she declared, stabbing through the locker door, straight into Raymond's eye socket. He hardly had time to scream as he fell from the locker into the waiting arms of the woman. "'You're it,' she cackled, dropping his lifeless body to the floor. Yusuf hid in the boys' locker room, along with Rodney and Corey. They'd run into the pool room, deciding to hide in a locker. Yusuf had been arguing with his friends, trying to decide if they should flee. Listen, we have to get out of here, we need help, stated Rodney. Okay, I agree. Let's make a run for it, Yusuf stated. All three men brace themselves to run past the indoor pool, and then down the long hallway.

Okay, ready, set, go! Scream Rodney. All three burst out of the locker room. As he sprinted past the pool, Yusuf felt a searing pain in his leg, sending him sprawling to the ground. His two friends glanced behind them. Oh, my God, screamed Rodney.

Yusuf looked down at his feet, or rather the lack thereof. His feet lay in a puddle of blood. having been sliced off. The woman in white rose from the pool holding her sword. She had slashed Yusuf from her hiding place. As he tried to crawl away, his fingers scraping the wet floor, the woman in white dragged him into the pool. He screamed and flailed. She poured him beneath the water with her. Yusuf choked on foul-tasting water as the woman slit his throats. turning the pool crimson. Rodney ran down the corridor. He and Corey barricading themselves

inside one of the classrooms while Corey panicked. Rodney grabbed a paperweight from what used to be a teacher's desk. Using it to smash a window, he said, come on, we're leaving, diving headfirst out of the window. The woman in white laughed when she heard the breaking glass, making her way swiftly out of a side door to pursue her prey. Rodney and Corey thought they'd escaped, accelerating down the trail. We're going to get help, Rodney stated. What good would it do? Everyone's dead. She killed them, shouted Corey. Rodney shook his head, turning the radio back on. Texas has gone dark. All U.S. military forces are withdrawing. Beware all who were infected. They are aggressive and will attack on sites.

Avoid eating any crops from South America. Inform the newscaster. Corey shook his head. Man, what is this crazy crap? First our friends get killed and we have some virus to deal with. He shouted. Rodney was about to respond when the woman in white stepped out from the tree line ahead of them. She aimed a crossbow, firing a bolt into Corey's chest, causing him to lose control of the car.

Rodney screamed as the car rolled towards the side of the road where there was a steep hill. His world was going black, as metal screeched. Ronnie awoke with a gasp. Sitting up, he was now upside down. With the grunt, he kicked out the car's windshield, the glass shattering under the heavy blows of his boots. The car's radio blared, playing Green River by CCR, evidently having changed stations in the crash. As he pulled himself from the car, Rodney winced. His leg ached. He was certainly injured. As he limped along, the woman in white slowly followed him.

No. Stay back, he screamed as he fled. Rodney then tripped over a rock, smashing his face into a tree. So then he felt something sharp hit his neck. Upon plucking the offending object out, he found it to be a dart. his vision swimming and blurring as he passed out yet again the shrill rock from the radio was drowning out of the woman's footsteps as she approached rodney felt something sharp tightened around his neck he groaned as he came to finding himself standing on a stool with a barbed wire noose around his neck terror filled him as he glanced around him finding his friends hanging from different branches of the tree. What did you do to them? he shouted. Yusuf's body hung to his left,

his bloody stumps dripping onto the ground. To his right hung Kevin, his charred body reeking. The woman in white stepped forward, holding a glowing branding iron in her hands. Oh, get away from me, beg Rodney, but the woman ignored him, pressing the burning steel into his chest. Rodney howled as the bran left its mark. burning the letter R into Rodney's chest. So this is how it ends. You can try begging, you can try screaming, she mulled. We all know you'll be doing plenty of that, she laughed,

kicking the stool out from Monday. Rodney tried to scream when the barbed wire tore his throat, nearly taking his head off. As he bled out, the woman in white washed, sipping from a steaming mug. Her pinky lifted in her. the year, enjoying a job well done. I am what you'd like to call an urban explorer. So yeah, I'm what you'd like to call an urban explorer. Well, this hobby usually entails traveling quite a bit and then

trying to find any abandoned structures or areas that are worth taking a look at. Sometimes I travel rather far from home, maybe even out of state, and then other times I go to other cities or go a few more miles away from where I live. This time, however, I didn't have. that kind of benefit of travelling so far away due to the fact that the economy had gotten so bad and my job wasn't paying that well. Because of this, if I wanted to explore any abandoned places, I'd have to keep to the more local areas. I started urban exploration a few years ago when I first moved into my current house. I'd just settled in and looked through every room in the house, including the basement. But it wasn't long before I noticed something strange about

the basement floor. In the centre of the room, there was a small square wooden house. I'd just hatch with a metal handle attached to it when i saw this i thought there might be some storage area underneath but what i found was much better than that i opened the hatch and looked inside there was a short metal ladder leading directly downwards to a room underneath it immediately surprised me but it also gave me great excitement at this discovery i didn't expect to find a sub-basement and such a thing isn't common in most homes the room was difficult to see into as there was no light source inside, so I went and grabbed a flashlight from upstairs. They came back and went down the ladder while shining the flashlight inside.

It was a small, narrow hallway with a storage closet, and there wasn't much else there. It was mostly empty, with a few bits of trash and blueprints lying around, but there wasn't any furniture or any other rooms. Anticlimactic, I know, but it didn't cease to amaze and excite me as this was a great surprise. The place looked dusty and rather old, as did the hatch. and I assumed that this was an unused part of the house. Ever since then I've been trying to find new abandoned areas

to explore and satisfy my curiosity. On a weekend I decided to prepare for my next venture, and when I got back from the store, I did some research on the surrounding areas for any new locations for which to check out. Most of the research yielded the same places that I'd already explored long ago, but there was one particular area which I hadn't explored yet,

and for good reason. It was an area I'd deliberately. avoided because it was poverty-stricken, filled with crime and mostly consisted of run-down buildings. It was the kind of place you would go several miles around to get to your job, just to avoid going through it. Normally I would stay away from such a place, and I actually did that for a long time. But I hadn't explored any new areas in several months, and I was getting anxious because my desire for exploration was at an all-time high. So I decided to push away any doubts or fears of this particular area, so I could

finally explore the remaining abandoned places that I hadn't been to before. The next Saturday I drove my car up to that part of town, which was a few miles away, and I drove slowly around the neighbourhood to see if I could spot any particular abandoned buildings that were both isolated and worth going into. The town was just as I'd expected. Most of the structures had barred or boarded up windows and closed off doors. Those that were not like this were few and far between, and pretty much all of these structures looked old and run down.

Some of these places looked like they'd been abandoned a long time ago, but I didn't want to explore them, considering they were surrounded by other inhabited homes and apartments. If I had decided to break into any of these places, there was a good chance that somebody from across the street or a neighbor might notice and possibly call the police. There was also the risk of running into some homeless people or some meth addicts living in these vacant lots. And this wasn't a risk I wanted to take, so I kept driving around hoping I'd find some abandoned places that were somewhat isolated from the rest of the rest of the rest of the room. the area. It took me a while, but I came across one particular road which led out from the neighbourhood into a large, but mostly empty fields. I parked my car alongside the road, not too far from this road, and I hope that my car wasn't going to get towed. I walked down the road for a long time, but it must have been just a few short miles from where I'd started, and the

surrounding field looked relatively empty. There weren't really any buildings for the first mile or so, and there weren't any trees either. The field was a little. The field was in the field. The field was in the went all around in the different directions for several miles and I kept going in a zigzag type pattern. It took me around half an hour before I reached a small abandoned house which was completely isolated from any other structures or people. The only thing that surrounded it was the large unkempt field and the few bushes here and there. This was a good thing because it meant that there was very little risk of me getting caught and since this house was further away from the local area I hoped it wasn't going to be filled with junkies or hobos. This would be unlikely however

due to the very nature of such places, despite my wishful thinking. I approached the premises very slowly and carefully as to examine if there was anyone else there. There was trash and evidence of inhabitants lying all around outside the building, but I didn't see anybody inside from the windows. I went around the back of the house and went in through the door. Once again, I carefully went around the home to explore and to make sure that there was nobody there at the time. Thankfully there wasn't anyone downstairs, but there was plenty of. of trash and debris lying around, just like outside.

There wasn't anything valuable though, as all the furniture and scraps of the home had most likely been taken long ago. Graffiti also littered the walls and various parts of the house, which showed that this was a popular spot for many other people. Once I'd finished searching the downstairs, I went around the back, where the staircase was at and went upstairs. The area up here was pretty much the same as the rest of the house, and it didn't take me long to finish my search. came upon the very last room which appeared to be some kind of an office according to the various

bits of paper and spare furniture parts lying around and i stepped inside immediately i was greeted by a disturbing sight in the far right corner of the room the person's skeleton had been lying on the ground and two things were in both hands in the left hand there was a handgun and in the other there was a note of some sort I was struck with surprise when I made the discovery, but after some thought I figured it was to be expected in such a place. I was surprised because I hadn't found a body or a skeleton of any kind in my previous expeditions, and this was the first time it found such a thing. But the surrounding areas, like I said before, were notorious for crime and poverty,

so finding somebody like this didn't seem completely out of place, but, well, some bit of surprise still took hold despite this. I tried taking a look at the note, but I couldn't read the vows. majority of the person's handwriting due to time taking its toll and poor penmanship. But I was able to read the person's signature, and that was really all I could understand in the notes. Believe it or not, that was the first time I'd run into something like that, but it wouldn't be the last time. At first I thought it was just a strange and unfortunate finding, but it was later that I realized it was completely wrong. It wasn't long before I went

exploring again, at another place, and it was here that I found another skeleton. This time it wasn't as clear as to their cause of death, but I wasn't so concerned with that as much as the fact that I'd found another dead person. They did have a note in their right hand, but reading it proved very difficult, and the signature was, once again, the only thing I could really make out. Now, keep in mind that this was just after exploring the last place, which had also had a dead person inside. That was the second time I'd encountered a dead person skeleton inside an abandoned area,

and it was right after I'd found that first one. I went on another venture not long after the first two and came across another abandoned structure which had a skeleton inside well that was more than once and I thought it was just a mere unfortunate coincidence oh how wrong I was every single other place that I've explored since then has had a dead person inside with a moat either on them or near them the means of death have been ambiguous at times and more obvious at others

The note would usually be virtually impossible to read, except for the signature, just like all the other notes. After a while it became too much, and I decided to take a long break from urban exploration. These discoveries were disturbing each time, and they never stopped. That's why I thought something paranormal or sinister was going on, and that it somehow involved me. And that's what really frightened me, and I couldn't continue exploring any longer. I still consider myself a rational person, so I tried to reason to myself that I was simply imagining all of this. I tried to tell myself that maybe all of this wasn't even real, and I just needed some medication or to see a doctor. But I haven't had a single issue in my past regarding mental illness, and I've never had any hallucinations before.

And there was no way that I could have just kept on stumbling onto more dead people, and a note, as there was no way this was just a coincidence. Well, that was just a week ago, but now something else has happened. I'd decided to use that sub-basement, though I'd found a long time ago, as a storage area. Or just an hour ago I went down there to grab some supplies for some work I needed to get done, and I noticed something immediately odd about the centre of the room. On the ceiling there was a rope tied around a loose wooden plank, and it was shaped like a noose. When I saw this, I felt fierce, striking the very core of my being, and I couldn't do anything else but to try and reason

why that rope was there. There wasn't anybody else in the house, and I had no recollection of tying that rope, nor was it there before, so how could it have gotten there now? I'm writing all of this down a few spare pages of paper, just in case something happens to me. I think something very strange and terrifying is happening to me, and I don't know what it is. Be careful with rural exploration. If you've ever been an urban explorer, you probably have at least one experience that scared you senseless.

For me, it was a few weeks ago. Oh, I've tried not to think about it. Tried to pretend it happened differently. Well, that and the fear of something else happening after the fact, kept me on edge for a couple of weeks. Oh, now I think I'm out of the woods, no joke intended. You see, I'm not so much an urban explorer as I am a rural explorer. I live in the deep south, far away from any large cities with old buildings. However, there are ghost towns and ruins and woods all over,

worth checking out if you're ever down here. On this particular day, I was driving home from a relative's house, and my GPS had turned me around. Well, I wound up on a one-lane, dirt road, looking for an opportunity to make a U-turn. It was after a few minutes that I came across what looked like a dirt driveway. It was surrounded by trees on both sides,

and a chain ran across the entrance with a bright red, no trespassing sign. I couldn't see too far in, but it looked like it had been unused for some time. Oh, I lit up. I got out and dropped the chain. From there I drove onto the path and re-hung the sign to help avoid, well, being caught. The path was overgrown with grass and vines, lined with thick forest on either side.

The ground was dusty, and the skinny brown trees provided a claustrophobic feeling. bushes and stalks of tall grass scraped against my car. However, at the end of the trail was a clearing. It was a large circular field of overgrown grass in the middle of this distant woodland. In the centre of the clearing was what appeared to be a large, desolate house. The house was two stories tall and clearly huge for the area when it was built. The windows and doors were all boarded up on the first floor. The whole thing had a nasty grey-brown stain from the years of elemental exposure,

but you could see that it was beautiful in its prime. I imagine the place had been abandoned for some time. There was no sign of electricity being run from the main roads. There was no sign of modern appliances being outwardly installed. And there was a rusty pump out front. From the architecture, it looked like a brothel one would see in old Main Street towns, but there were no other signs of any other buildings for miles. I approached the creaky and rotted front porch, looking for a way in.

I found one of the boards loose on the front downstairs window. I peered inside for a long time, before deciding to enter. The smell of rotten, musty wood blasted my nostrils. I'd smelled it enough times to be able to just ignore it. I was more concerned about chemical smells or cigarettes, indicating someone was there. But there was none of this. The entire bottom floor was bare. There was no furniture, no kitchen, not even walls apart from the necessary pillars.

The entire main floor was just bare wood with dust and what looked like mud and other, and the gunk in various states of decay. There was a main staircase leading to a second floor. It had several rooms and hallways going in both directions out of sight of the main floor. From the looks of it, this place may have been an inn. I pulled the board back as quietly as possible, since I always want it to be subtle. You never know if a cop is in earshot, even in the most abandoned places.

I crept through the window and dropped in. Dust was immediately kicked up, and I get a better view of the debris all over the floor. Wood and rocks and housing materials all shattered and scattered about. I looked around from my now better vantage point. There was some light trickling in from holes in the roof and the non-boarded upstairs windows. They faced the front of the house, and where a rich, marooned, stained glass. They cast a deep red tint in contrast to the beams of yellow. I then realized something about the house I must not have initially noticed. The bottom half of the staircase was gone.

It looked like it had been smashed away. The gap to the floor was probably the height of an average man. I could jump up there, but I wanted to see the downstairs first and make sure I was clear. I watched my steps carefully as I made my way to an alcove room, which was probably a sitting area. It was there. I saw something else that I'd missed. In the back of the alcove was a doorway leading downstairs. It must have been a basement or cellar of some sort. It was pitch black from the frame onward. I reached for my phone and cursed under my breath. Oh, it was still. still on the charger in my car. I guess because there was no service and that I stumbled on this place during the daytime that I didn't even think to grab it. I turned to go to the opposite

direction towards the empty kitchen room. I was almost there when I heard an unmistakable noise. Footsteps. It sounded like a pair of heels or dress shoes coming in rapid succession, growing louder as they reached the doorway. It was out of my line of sight as the alcove curved out from its own corner. There was no way to see it until it emerged. At first, my brain wouldn't comprehend it.

A dog? A bear? No. God, what am I seeing? Oh, God, I muttered. From the corner emerged a massive, hairy monstrosity. It was the tusks that gave it away first. This was a bore, a huge, black, rancid-smelling bore. By the looks of it, he must have easily doubled me in size.

His tusks were long, and bits of his matted, wiry hair gave way to deep scars. And then, it turned to face me. Now, if you've never encountered a boar in the wild, well, they can vary in size. However, they are all dangerous. They have sharp teeth, a violent charge, and will most likely consume you if they're hungry enough. These things are demons of the forest,

and I had never seen one apart from in tree stands, or mounted as trophies. This one towered above all of those. I sucked in air, waiting for a reaction. It bent, snorted hard, and planted its feet. In a split second I knew my only safe bet was a clean jump to the staircase. I bolted to the right as the beast charged. Its tusk nearly pierced my leg as I jolted away.

I took one running leap, my arms connected enough to pull myself up. I rolled up a few extra steps and heard its hooves slamming the wood below me. It was shrieking and snorting and kicking up dirt and debris in a fit of rage. And that's when I started laughing. It wasn't a good-natured laugh, but a panic attack manifested in the form of mania. It stopped after a short spell. I then took a deep breath and continued up the staircase. At this point I was going to have to wait until the commotion downstairs had ceased to be able to find an exit.

The banister at the top of the staircase extended to a wall in both directions. From there it was a hallway with rooms on both sides. I made my way to the right. I noticed some rooms had doors and then, But others didn't. I chose the first door to my right. It had a door that was cracked about the width of my body. Inside was old, rotting furniture.

Dresses, bed frames, doors and cabinets were all stacked haphazardly in a pile. Behind it all was a small gap in an unboarded window facing the roof, its bottom half missing. I was standing in the doorway when I heard a noise that made my blood run cold. A creek. A long, drawn out, ominous, creak. The mild scare was then punctuated with a nauseous fear by the sound of a muffled cough. It was coming from the end of the opposite hallway. I quickly and quietly made my way into the room and hid behind the room and hid behind the

the pile of wood and garbage. Thankfully, the boar was still slamming around downstairs, so my mistakes were masked. It had a small hole in the pile to see the doorway and slightly into the hall. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it was audible. My lungs were on fire, and I could feel my eyes moistened. The birds outside the window had gone completely silent. I then heard, and now familiar sound. I heard hooves. I heard the exact same clopping I'd heard just minutes ago.

Another one, I thought in a terrified moment. The clops grew closer. I strained my eye to see into the hallway, hoping the noise would stop or go the opposite way. It heard me laugh. Oh, it definitely knows I'm up here. It was in that moment of brutal tension that I saw it. The unmistakable snout led by two long tusks.

It kept moving, revealing fur and a snarling mouth. However, it then made my mind readjust again. It didn't have eyes, rather just shrunken, dried holes with nothing behind it. its skull curved in a way that boars don't usually curve. At the back of its head looked to be a leather strap, and then a different colour of hair, and then flesh. Then I saw the hoops, bloody and crudely detached above the base. The empty fur pulled up around a man's wrist like a rotten leather glove.

He was naked apart from the severed boar's head and hooves. He walked on his hands and feet. He made no noise other than a few hofs. Dryed blood caked the areas of his pale flesh where the body parts were worn. He was emaciated, but still large enough to easily be a threat. How to explain it. It was so weird, so vile, that I still can't wrap. my head around it. He moved his head into the room, but after a few seconds that felt like hours,

he turned around. His body, in a contorted curve, as he balanced his feet and hands in the severed hoods. He clumsily clicked his way down the hall and out of sight. In this moment I had two options. I could risk the stairs and the bore, or take the window to the roof and risk the mass psychopath being on my heels. Well, I had my mind made up for me. It was then I heard a shriek so inhuman that I've had nightmares about it ever since. It was sharp and high, but muffled and resounding. It sounded wet, but also weased. It was followed by rapid clopping on the wood.

it was coming right for me. I scrambled clumsily out the small opening at the bottom of the window and rolled out onto the roof. The drop was a risk, but it was the only way to get out fast. I heard the stomping enter the room, and I let myself down as safely as I could. By some miracle, I rolled onto the ground with nothing worse than having the wind not out of me. Without turning back, I scrambled to my feet and bolted for my car. As I opened the door, I heard the shriek again. I heard the monster downstairs slamming into the front door.

I heard the creature upstairs slamming into the window and screaming its putrid lungs out. Without looking back, I slammed my car into ignition and sped off. I skidded through the grass towards the path. I ripped down the post holding the chain. as my car burst back onto the dirt road. I raced back the way I'd come and found my way home in a shaking panic

that lasted for hours. I spent that night wide awake. That was the end of it, although I really don't get it. I don't get why a person would live in such squalid conditions to live out of fantasy that makes sense only in their mind. I just don't know. What I do know is if you do this stuff in the country, just be prepared.

You may not meet a gang member or a drug dealer or a junkie, but you may just meet something far more dangerous. You may meet something that defies all reason. You may meet something that would eat you alive. The sealed building. When I was a child, the school which I attended was peculiar, yet wonderfully interesting, whether it was the fact that it was surrounded in places by overgrown bushes and opposite a strangely crooked wood which ignited my imagination,

or perhaps the funny, eccentric, and sometimes fearsome teachers and kids which populated it, I do not know. I'm not sure of when it was built, but, It certainly stood out from the houses and quiet streets which surrounded it, covered as it was, in a bright, fiery red paint which drew your eyes to it immediately. There I went, from the age of five, up until I was eleven or twelve, and, like most children, I have both fond and cruel memories of it. Each day, with a rucksack on my back, I would wander past the crooked wood and wave, to the lollipop lady, Mrs. Collins, a kind old woman whose job it was to stop traffic with her bright yellow sign, letting us cross in safety, and, after meeting my friends,

walk through the rusted brown gates into one of two playgrounds. It was rumoured that in the past the two grounds existed to separate boys from girls, both an understandable and utterly outdated concept. By the time of the time of the time of the two grounds existed to separate boys from girls, both an understandable, By the time I went to the school, the first playground had been assigned for those aged five to eight, the second for those aged eight and up. In the older kids playground there lay a small red brick building which stood on its own, disconnected from the main school complex. It had long since fallen into disuse, and in fact had been sealed from prying eyes. Its doors and windows walled up with stone and mortar,

making it impossible to see what was inside. Its purpose seemed a bit of a mystery, as most of the teachers seemed to skirt around the subject entirely, but of course stories spread amongst the wild imaginations of children. And in my school, this fondness for outlandish tales of tragedy and forbidden places, often led to bizarre rumours and whispers, particularly pertaining to the sealed building. Obscurity is a fertile ground for the fantastical ruminations of youth. When my friends and I were in the younger playground, we would sometimes sneak down a narrow passageway, which would lead to the other, and peek around the corner.

There, we would see the older kids playing football. or just hanging around. It's amazing how younger children look to their older peers, thinking that they seem to be having so much more fun than us. But, before we'd be chased away by the janitor or a passing teacher, my eyes would always lead to that sealed building. There was something lonely about it, isolated, and while it was surrounded by the yells and vibrancy of a school yard, its appearance suggested a grave silence to me.

Some of the older kids liked to scare themselves and us, and told us dramatically that it had been used as a science department, and that there had been a hideous accident there, one which had produced strange and gruesome things, which had to be kept from the world. Even as a child of eight, I knew made up nonsense when I heard it. Then there was the account that it had been a previous and rather brutal headteacher's office, decades earlier, and that he had died there in a fire. His ghost obviously still haunted the place, and it was better that the vengeful old Sodby contained there, fuming at his desk as children enjoyed themselves,

and played nearby. Again, utter garbage. There was, however, one account of why the place had been abandoned, which seemed more plausible to me. The building was, in fact, a toilet. Yes, a normal toilet. No frills, no secret laboratories, no dead spirit of an overbearing head teacher. It had simply been sealed up when new facilities were installed in the school, to stop the children from climbing inside and getting up to mischief. But yet, despite this mundane explanation, there were still in fact tales to be told about the red-bricked, disconnected building in the older kids' playground.

Although I had heard the stories, it wasn't until I was in my fourth year with the school that I became, intimately and at the time, uncomfortably involved with it. The older kids playground was flanked on three sides by a rectangular section of the school itself, with the fourth side separated from neighbouring houses by a mouldy and dark red wall. It was isolated from the other playground, other than the aforementioned passageway, and, to further the feeling of imprisonment, was characterised.

by tall metal fencing, which rose up in places where a brave classmate might have attempted their great escape. Yet, there was one old gate which did allow access of sorts. But like prison guards, the teachers tended to check on it regularly. There, in the corner of the grounds, lay the old building. Its windows were indeed enclosed in brick. as were its two doors. But the roof seemed unusual to me, being flat in places and surely gathering puddles of rainwater during the wetter seasons. I was, at that age, and embarrassingly still to this day, terrified by heights.

And it was much to my horror when I discovered that climbing up onto the roof of the toilets was seen as a rites of passage of some sort. Don't misunderstand me. We weren't forced to go up there, but children can be cruel, and when someone new to that playground showed weakness or fear, this would often result in them being picked on. Over the coming weeks,

I watched as each of my friends climbed up onto the roof when the opportunity presented itself, dangling their legs over the sight. nonchalantly once up there, one by one, claiming their right to be in the older playground, while I succumbed to ever-increasing taunts about my fear and cowardice. Don't believe me when I say, I did try. Several times a ball would be kicked accidentally onto the roof, and my classmates would turn to me to retrieve it. I even made it up the side of an old drain pipe on a few occasions, far enough to reach my hand up and over to touch the root's surface.

Yet, each time I would fail. Fear would grip me, and with each admission of defeat, the name-calling and embarrassment intensified. I can trace back a curious and probably detrimental aspect of my personality to that time. You see, failure in front of strangers to this day does not bother me. But friends, family, even acquaintances, the very idea makes me break out in a cold sweat. Later in life I followed the stereotypical path of chasing fame as a teenager, and I would have no problem playing in bands in front of those I did not know. But put a familiar face in the audience. and my nerves would take hold. The stakes of failure will be raised that much higher, in my mind at least.

For this reason, I chose an odd time to truly face my fear. One day, after school, I waited outside the gates, watching as the other children slowly siphoned out of the two playgrounds, kicking their feet through the autumn leaves. parents escorted the youngest of my fellow students while those of an older age walked with their classmates some eagerly others not so making their way down the hill past the woods to their homes in the surrounding area

as the school became ever emptier and the teachers themselves began to leave I walked down the street entering the gardens at the back of the building I always found the rear of my school to be an interesting place. It consisted of shrubs, bushes and an old ash football pitch. Our teachers never seemed to use the area for anything, and we were actively encouraged to keep clear of it.

Again, there were stories amongst the students that a child had been abducted while playing their years previously. Whether that was true or not, I do not know. Once I was as certain as I could be that everyone was gone, I sneaked through the bushes, up a small incline to the rear of the playground. There, embedded in the wall, was the narrow brown gate, which the teachers kept a watchful eye on, but as far as I knew, was never used. I assumed it had served a legitimate purpose years previously, but for me and my friends, It was the place where we would climb over to run around the school grounds at the weekend when no one was there.

It was an exceptional place to play one-man hunt with so many nooks and crannies to hide in. As cautious as I was, I wanted to truly attempt to get up onto the roof of the old toilets. In my eight-year-old head, I had visions of sneaking up there in the morning and surprising my friends, or running up there to heroically retrieve a girl's ball. In childhood, we think that those around us really care about our actions. But in truth, they are of little consequence to anyone other than ourselves. Yes, I had been bullied a little for not being as strong or as fearless as those around me, and that sense of public failure, of insecurity.

while the potent sensation at a young age, while in hindsight completely exaggerated, was enough to give me the courage to at least attempt to the climb. I'd considered asking one of my friends to join me, as I was nervous that a teacher might still be there, that I would get into trouble, and so needed a lookout. But this would only have given me someone to fail in front of. I decided to attempt it on my own. After waiting for what seemed an age, I slowly climbed over the gate, which rattled unnervingly under my movements, echoing out around the playground. Then, after hesitantly observing the hundreds of windows

which dotted the school for movement, and happy enough with the absence of light emanating from them, I stepped silently to the sealed building. Even though I knew as little as an audience of one could affect my confidence, I partly wished that I'd not been alone, as the building and its deserted surroundings left me feeling uneasy. I knew, however, that if I just got up there once, that I would have conquered my fear

and would be able to climb up onto the roof with ease in future. Hopefully putting an end to the name-calling. I stood staring at the drain pipe, which would be my avenue to success, clinging as it did through rusted fittings to the side of the building. My mind back then was often clouded with the worst possibilities, focusing on the negative outcome,

And, as I began to climb slowly, I imagined that the drain pipe would wrench away from the wall, throwing me against the concrete ground at any moment. The truth is that it did not move, no matter how much I believed that it did. Without a witness, I was now, as far as I had ever reached, able to stick my hand up above me and touch the edge of the roof. My heart raced with excitement as I began to believe that I really could do it. That success was in sight. I then made the mistake of looking down to check my progress. The experience of height is something difficult to convey to someone who has no problem with it. While, in reality, I was probably no more than seven or eight feet off the ground,

I perceived this as a monumental distance. I felt my stomach chan, my heart beat erratically, and the world below began to spin and distort. Worse still, a loss of nerve permeated my body, leaving me feeling weak, and I could feel my grip begin to loosen. It is strange how the mind works, for just as I was ready to admit defeat once more and retreat, The insults and jeers of my classmates rang throughout my awareness, as if they were present, down there, taunting me. With what was for me a huge effort, I found myself continuing to climb upwards, my hands reaching out to the damp roof, and then, before I knew it, there I was. letting out a laugh of excitement, a sensation of relief washed over me. I could not wait for the next day.

To be up there on the roof, proving those who had been cruel to me wrong. Peeking over the edge, I still felt trepidation at the height, but nowhere near as much as I had done it before. My triumph quilling my anxiety. Still, I was not keen to remain there for long. there for long. So I decided to investigate my surroundings briefly. Then climb back down to the safety of the playground and head home. Ecstatic, the roof was painted in a similar fiery red colour to the main school building, but it had long since peeled and cracked, suggesting that

it had been a long time since someone had been up here to give it a new coat. Standing up cautiously, I felt my legs waver slightly as my stomach churned again at the thought of how high up I was laughable really as the height of the roof was probably no more than ten feet yet no matter how nervous I was the sense of triumph which I felt coursing through my body

was truly wonderful I walked slowly from one side of the roof to the other careful not to trip as I did so The short walk from the drainpipe to the opposite lech and back filled me with a feeling of conquest as of someone patrolling their territory for those brief moments on the roof that building was mine

just as I turned to finally make my way back to ground I noticed that in the middle of the roof there was a hole I'm not sure how I hadn't noticed it before although it was quite small big enough for me to fit my hand through and little else. Curious, I took a few careful steps and then knelt for a closer look. Yes, there was a hole, and the light from the evening sky passed straight through it,

illuminating what lay inside. I put my eye as close as possible to the opening without blocking the light and was surprised by what I saw. down there in the darkness like a perfectly preserved tomb the old-fashioned white tiling remained intact I could see the sinks where students years ago once washed their hands or flicked water at one another for amusement and three stalls cubicles with the strong dark brown doors lying there as if still used. The air inside was tinged with dust and age.

Yet, if someone had told me that the building had been sealed only the day before, I would have believed them. All but for one thing. A layer of stagnant water which covered the floor, no doubt accumulating there from rain dripping in through the opening in the roof. Then I became aware. of a strong smell, one which left my eyes stinging slightly and my mood apprehensive. Yes, there was no doubting it. Someone was smoking a cigarette nearby. My heart sank as I lay there

motionless, cursing myself for taking too much time on the roof to celebrate my victory. A teacher, or perhaps the janitor, must have stayed behind to work late, and was probably standing in the playground below. I thought they must have been close as the smoke smelled thick and oppressive. I lay curled up on the cold, wet concrete, waiting for whoever was there to leave. The now almost caustic smoke seemed to be increasing in strength, and several times I had to hold my breath. Frightened that I would cough and be caught.

I do not believe I exaggerate when I say that I lay motion. motionless for half an hour. Yet it took me all that time to make a simple yet unsettling observation. While I could smell the smoke, indeed feeling as if I was inhaling just as much as the unseed smoker themselves, I couldn't see it. I would have expected to have seen the smoke rise up and over the rooftop. But not even the slightest wisp was evident. The autumn sky was now dimming, and I grew frustrated as the cold, damp stone below me sent chills through my body. Wishing that I had never gone up there in the first place, I felt hunger approaching, and knew that by now my parents would be worried about me.

I persuaded myself that I could at least dip my head over the edge of the roof and quickly take a look to see who was there. Maybe, if they were on the other side of the yard, I could climb down the floor. unseen. I slid across the roof as quietly as I could and slowly peered downward, sure not to make any sudden movements to attract attention. There was no one there. The playground was empty, and the darkened windows of the main school building seemed as vacant as they had been before, yet the smell and taste of cigarette smoke still filled my lungs and stung my eyes. Then I witnessed something which rooted in. me to the spot. A single curling strand of smoke slid upward through the hole in the roof. Someone was down there. Someone was inside that room beneath me. This seemed impossible. As far as I was aware, there was no way inside. The building had been sealed off perfectly from the outside world. Yet there it was.

A puff of cigarette smoke Which escaped first from the mouth of someone unseen below And then through the hole in the roof To where I had been lying My triumph finally facing my fear of heights Seems a distant memory And now all I could think of was getting off that roof To safety down below

But the hole Lay between myself in the drainpipe and curiosity being as gripping a mindset as any, I decided to take a quick look inside before quietly making my escape and leaving the building behind. As I approached the opening, the smell of smoke grew stronger still,

and as I peered inward, the thought of, don't look, filtered through my mind. But it was too late. I had looked at first, There was nothing. The room below seemed darker than it had done before, but this could be explained by the dimming sky and my eyes adapting to the change. What could not be explained was the noise I heard coming from inside.

It seemed distant at first, indistinct and uncertain. Then it gradually took form. To me, sounding like someone choking. I smiled to myself, thinking it was probably the cigarette smoke, and that maybe some local kids had a den down there. But then, suddenly, in the gloom, my eyes were drawn to one of the cubicles. This door was closed, and yet I was not convinced that it had been before. I tilted my head closer to the hole, but my angle of view shrouded the inside from inspection.

As the choking sound increased in volume, so did the smell of smoke. Then sound and smell were joined by something which chilled my very soul. I panicked and let out a cry as the door quivered. it with impact as of someone violently kicking it from the other side. Smoke now fill my lungs and my eyes watered. I could barely see anything both inside the building and out. Then it stopped. The choking sound had disappeared and the smell of smoke had simply vanished.

For a moment I started to think that I had imagined it all. gasp air, drawing deep into my lungs, only for terror to take me once more. In the dark silence, in the cold, damp and forgotten room below, the sound of footsteps in the water filled the air. Then the cubicle door slowly began to creak open. I can't say entirely what took place after that. I believe I'd block much of it out from my memory. Apparently the headmaster, an intimidating yet kind man by the name of Mr. Mackay,

had been in his office, working late on the other side of the building. When he was disturbed by the sound of my screams, he rushed outside and found me on the roof, curled up into a ball, paralyzed with fear, sobbing. After some reassuring words, He helped me down and took me to his office where he once again guaranteed that I was safe, and then phoned for my parents to come and pick me up. I trusted Mr. McKay implicitly, and as I fought the tears back, I described everything which had happened.

The roof, the smoke, the cubicle. As I told him my story, the blood drained from my headmaster's face. I have long thought about what he told me in his house. that office after hearing my account. Perhaps he wished to fright me so that I and others would never venture up there again. And looking back, it does seem to be a strange thing to share with an already frightened child otherwise. But he seemed genuinely disturbed by the events I had conveyed to him. He told me that years before I went to the school, there had been a tragedy there involving a 12-year-old girl, one he refused to name. She had a reputation

for being difficult. The teachers tried their best, sympathising with her as she came from in a abusive background, but they found her almost impossible to control, as she often threatened violence and had been suspended several times for fighting with other students. One day she decided to skip a class and managed to persuade two other girls to join her by promising them each a cigarette. So, as the story went, the girl sneaked away when the bell for class rang and hid in the toilets. The details of what occurred afterwards were less than forecoming. But what was clear was that the poor girl had a seizure of some kind and died there and then. The other girls claimed that they had already left before this happened.

But there were rumours and accusations of which most only whispered, but many believed. It was suggested that the girl had been with her friends when the seizure took place. And out of fear of getting caught smoking and skipping class, they lifted their friend into the store, closed the door over and then left her there. they believed that she would perhaps recover or not was the subject of much speculation. The scratches and bashes on the inside of the cubicle suggested most definitely that she had continued to convulse while there, perhaps even in an uncoordinated attempt to escape and call out for help. In the aftermath, the building was closed off, and the school and

community attempted as best they could to put the tragedy behind them. Perhaps Mr. McKay made the whole thing up just to terrify me, taking what I thought I'd experienced, and using it to concoct a story designed to scare me away from ever going back to that place. Unfortunately, a few unwelcome things transpired after that. I did indeed avoid the roof of that sealed building at all costs. My fear of heights was nothing compared to the to the dread which that building then held for me. My schoolmates, of course, did not believe my version of things, accusing me of lying about the entire story

just to avoid being made fun of. As far as they were concerned, I never got up there. Lastly, I did have a recurring dream throughout my childhood, one which I would wait from in a cold sweat, curled up in my bed, screaming. I know that in it I would be lying on that roof, peering down through the hole, into that abandoned place. But the memory always seems vague somehow.

All that is left is an impression of a cubicle door creaking open and something staring up at me from within. the journal of Kaniyanau, Skateo, Blackwood. My name is Ricard Dunkelstein. I have a hobby that's more interesting than most stamp and coin collectors. I'm a bit of an urban explorer. In today's day and age, when most of the world has been investigated and mapped out, I instead seek to explore the abandoned and forgotten.

A reason that it was in these places where I could find the extraordinary. I enjoyed my forays into the disused and neglected, portions of the city. I'll have nothing more than to spend a Saturday carefully moving through the decrepit and derelict buildings in the southern side. It was on one of these Saturday expeditions this past year, I first came across the journal, Caneons Takeu Blackwood. I've been rummaging through an abandoned building on the industrial side of town when I discovered the journal. The first few floors were devoid of anything really interesting, but when I reached the sixth and uppermost floor. I found a soiled mattress and desk. Sitting on the desk was a

fountain pen and a paper journal. I ignored the saccharine sweet smell that flooded my nostrils and pervaded the uppermost floor. I sat down on what was the squatters' mattress and began to read. Blackwood journal entry, July 28th, 2011. My therapist, back when I had a therapist, suggested I write down all my emotions into a journal so I could go back and see how far have come. I guess that's true, but probably not in the aspect that she'd thought. You'd probably hope that I'd find enough emotional catharsis that I might make a breakthrough of sorts, but unfortunately she was wrong. I write and write, but nothing ever changes.

Now, I guess I should give introductions. My name is Kanyons Takeo Blackwood. I don't ask me how drunk my parents were when they came up with that name. My father thought it sounded tough, and my mother was too doped up on the epidurals to support or reject this name. I told my friends my name is Kane, and that went over without any problems. I was raised on an Indian reservation in the western part of America, but I left when I was 20 years old. I'm writing all this because my attempt to flee from home was met with less than desirable results. The plane stalled mid-air and crashed into a mountain.

Well, I weren't elaborate on what happened to me when I was stranded in the wilderness for over three weeks, without food, or about the wounded survivor who passed away named Jim Donna. It will only allude to the fact that it ended with me being tried for murder in court. I don't feel it necessary to expound on this. Shortly after my court hearing, my journal that I typed while awaiting trial was made public. Even though I was declared not guilty by the judicial system,

The release of my journal made me into a pariah. Couldn't live in one place for too long. As soon as the people placed my name and face to the tragedy, I had to leave. Their looks of disdain and harsh words were too much for me to bear. I was, and am a social exile. I only did what was necessary to survive. I believe that anyone who had been in my situation would have done the same. No one seems willing to step up to that challenge of being without food for three weeks and having to eat.

your only friend. I received a small sum from when I pressed charges against the airlines that had put me in that fiendish situation. Once my sentiments came out, their support and funding dried up. I found myself an outcast. I moved to New York. It was the only place where someone could be swallowed up in anonymity. I lost everything, my identity, my ability to sustain myself and my pride.

I'd once asked the gods for a new start. Unfortunately, I didn't know that the gods were cruel and sarcastic when I offered up that supplication. Yeah, I got my wishes in space. I live my life day to day on the streets. My frost-bidden deformities making begging a rather easy thing. Tips of my fingers and nose have gone black. Don't have any more sensation in them, which took some getting used to. It doesn't even faze me now.

I'm still gaunt like a skeleton, even a year after the plane crash that resists. resulted in my near starvation. I had enough begging to keep myself fed. It's not the healthiest situation, but it could be much worse. August 7th, 2011. I had that dream again. Appearing into the cockpit of the place. The only part of the pilot's body that I can see is his hand.

The impact crushed the cockpit. Now it looks like it imploded. His hand twitches and its death throes, but it's also beckoning. calling me forward like I should have died in the crash instead of surviving back away from the corpse and turned to flee but the stewardess is behind me her ribcage is spayed open from the cart smashing into her during the crash the ribs move and her insides pulse with every breath

gives me the impression that the ribs are teeth that are grinding masticating she lurches forward and the last thing I feel before I wake up are the bones piercing into me. I wake up with a scream in my throat. One of the benefits of living by yourself is that in moments like these, you don't have to explain yourself to anyone. I'm sweating heavily, and my throat feels raw. What disturbs me most about these dreams is the realization

that they're stirring up old memories and sensations. I can almost taste the coppery sweet marrow in my mouth. It isn't an unpleasant taste, but I know that it is that to Boothal. that resulted in my ostracization from the rest of society. My stomach growls at me. I lay back down and at the uncontrollable sobbing rack my body. September 1st, 2011.

My lights belong to my nightmares and my waking moments are now spent in fear. My therapist would probably chalk up the nightmares as my mind's attempt to process the horrible events. The other homeless people on the street are whispering of a gang going around abducting people, rudely beating them and leaving them in front of the police station. They say they are merciless and have been doing this for over 30 years. Witnesses are too frightened to report them to the police.

They call themselves the Pluto gang, and they have the citizens of New York afraid to go outside. They've even assaulted a semi-well-known science fiction writer. I've decided to take a fatalistic approach to the whole thing. Can't live my life in fear of the infamous Pluto gang. there is much I can do to stop them if they decide to beat me to a bob in the streets so he goes

September 8th, 2011 the nightmares continue and revolving when the cockpit and the hand of the pilot beckons me to come closer he motions me to embrace oblivion I turn my back to him and confront

Marge Reed the stewardess her rib-teeth gnash and grind at me but she turns and disappoints peers into the cargo hold. I begin to follow her, but another memory is standing before me. Jim Donner is grinning and fiendishly feral smirk. I want to scream and wake up, but I can't.

Jim moves closer to me. He's hobbling, and each step produces a sucking sound as he puts weight on his dislocated ankle. There's a tiny shout of glass sticking from his throat, and his neck is bent at an odd angle from when I snapped it. He lunges, and the second he comes into contact with me, my world explodes in a white flash. I launch myself out of bed and wince. I rub at my cheek and it stings. I must have bitten it during my dreams.

I prod the wound with my tongue. It's a small wound and it'll probably heal on its own. A taste of blood in my mouth triggers a memory. I'm kneeling over Jim's corpse and my mouth is on a wound in his neck. I'm licking and sucking at the blood trickling from the puncture my stomach rumbles inappropriately there's no way I'm getting back to sleep tonight

I'm going for a walk September 25th 2011 went to the clinic today I wanted a little something to supplement my begging allowance I heard from other beggars that if you're in good shape or at least not riddle with disease

you could get 40 or 50 bucks for an hour of time I waited in the lobby while the secretary stalled. I could doubt she didn't like the look of me. I can't blame her. I looked like I have some horrific necrotic wasting disease. When it became evident that I wasn't going to leave. She called my last name and I went into the office with the doctor.

She strapped my arm down and stuck the IV in and began to filter my plasma. It wasn't until I was physically tethered to the filtration machine, but I realized he was looking at me. my frost-bitten fingers specifically. I tried to explain that these were injuries I suffered from after an incredibly cold winter in New York. But the doctor recognized me from the high publicity court case. I didn't know my picture had been splashed all over the world by the media

while I was awaiting trial. I thought that giving the nurse the pseudonym Jack Fiddler would be enough to deflect suspicion. While I was stuck waiting for the machine to finish separating out my plasma, the doctor grilled me about my excitement. during my time when I was stranded on the mountain. I gave non-committal answers. Being stuck in a frigid environment was kind of shitty.

Spending three weeks without so much as a crumb to eat was pretty bad. It wasn't until he asked what it was like to eat another person to survive that I became agitated. I tore the IV out of my arm and stood up. I fled the clinic without receiving any money for donating plasma. But I just had to get out of there. September 29th, 2011. I was drunk today. I had no real reason for getting wasted, and just wanted to.

Never used to drink back when I was living on the reservation. Journal entry. The age is stained with a reddish-brown substance. The dreams are back. Well, that's not true. They never left. But I'd found myself lulled into a false sense of security by the repetitiveness of the nightmares. The beckoning hand of the savage stewardess and Jim were now all commonplace.

I'd seen them so much that it was like greeting an old and familiar dream. The dream I had last night was different. Jim appeared before me. He'd been standing in the nest of clothes that I'd made to keep us warm back then. He looked like he'd always looked in my dreams. He had the shadow glass sticking out of his throat and the deep purple throttle marks were on his neck. began to shambled towards me on his dislocated angle. As he got closer, I realised that he was completely covered in bite marks.

Part of him had been torn away, exposing the red sinewy muscles underneath. He shuffled up the aisle. I wanted to run away from him, but I found myself inexorably drawn towards him. Small amount of blood was dribbling from his throat, and his head lulled back and forth with every shuffling step on his broken neck. I stepped forward. I was only a few feet away from him. He smelled like rotting flesh and whiskey.

He lunged and the instant he touched me, I awoke from the dream. The memory of the taste of his flesh was fresh in my mind. My stomach wasn't growling. November 26, 2011. The Pluto gang is at it again, so it goes. Not only have they been abducting people, but now they can add murder to the repertoire. Words been going around that a man was recently found in an alley.

They've been brutally beaten to death. Police have been pretty tight-lipped on the whole deal, but rumours have been going around that he has been so violently stabbed and beaten that the funeral will be a closed casket effect. I don't know if it's really them, or if there are copycat gangs running around using their modus operanda. But I do know that it has me on edge. The building I'm squatting in is a few blocks away from any of the other squatters.

I don't play nice with the others, it would seem. They could assault me, and I could scream bloody murder, and not a soul would hear me. December 24th, 2011. It's freezing here. I mean, it could be much colder. I've experienced colder weather, but I prefer not to experience it again. That's why I have a can of sterno with me.

But a few at a gas station. Didn't even know they made it anymore. It's lit and the flammable gel is casting up. off a blue flame. As long as I stay within the heat radius of it, I'll be fine on the cold tonight. The gas station attendant asked me if I was going to drink it. I've seen a few of my older, more alcoholic neighbours back on the reserve, strain it through a sock and drink it.

They call it squeeze. It's a quick and easy way to go blind, though. I politely let him know that I was using it to fend off the cold. I wanted nothing more than to throw it in his face and set him aflame. But noticing lately, I've been getting agitated easily and without much provocation. January 2nd, 2012. I've had a bit of a revelation of sort.

January 3rd, 2012. Well, I guess I need to elaborate on that. The pieces of the puzzle were before me this past month or so. It wasn't until the dream last night that I began to reassemble the puzzle, though. The quickness in which I would lose my temper, the tonal change of my dream. the lack of hunger. I now know what's happening. I'll tell you of my dream. It began like all the other recurring dreams I'd had since the plane crash. I watched the convulsing

and clutching hand at the pilot. A sidestep the stewardess whose body was spread open and masticating like a mad dog. I moved down the aisle and confronted Jim Donner. Something was different this time. It didn't end in a white flash. As soon as I touched him, I was. was on him, my hands wrapped around his throat as he feebly beat at me. I watched him die. I began my macabre feast. Once I'd had my fill of him, I stood up and went to the door that led to the cargo hole. Everything was so clear and prescient. I knew what was going to happen next. It was more like a memory than a dream. Well, during the trials, I couldn't remember anything during my time in the cargo holes.

But now it was clear as day. The door swung open, the stench of week old death wafted in from the inky blackness. I stripped off my jacket and makeshift gloves. I wouldn't need them anymore. I was where I belonged. The memories.

I remember shoving my face into their cold abdomens and tearing at them. I buried my face into their ribs and gnawed at their hearts. It was tough to chew, but so nourishing. I had my fear of feasting on their flesh. It's difficult to chew due to the damage the cold had inflicted on their corpses.

I had beaten, broke their bones and labbed up their marrow. Salty and had the taste of iron. I remember the taste of their marrow, their blood and their flesh. I remember all of those delectable tastes. The pieces are all in place. I haven't been hungry because I've been satiating my urges. When did I become a somnambulist? Is the Pluto gang even a real thing?

I know the murders aren't theirs to claim. How long have I been sleepwalking through my nights? How many times have I woken up feeling oddly refreshed and full? I don't know how long for certain I've been giving in to my darkest desires. But I do know one thing. I'm so very hungry. The other pages have been stained at dark red. and are unreadable.

I set the journal down. I wanted to leave, but something was preventing me from doing so. I had some sort of unfinished business. His last journal entry was over a year ago. Could have you abandoned this place and set up another haunt? There was nothing to indicate that someone had been here. Dust and cobwebs had begun to form on everything. The thing that bothered me most was the smell.

What was that smell? It was a cloying, sickly sweet sense. I can't really describe the smell other than thinking of one time when I was a child and I ate a jar of honey and got sick. This smell brought back that memory and that feeling of upset. The smell was coming from the nearby bathroom. I wasn't sure if there was running water here anymore. At first I thought it was the smell of fetid water

that had been sitting in the bathtub for months on end. My attention shifted elsewhere when I saw the writing on the wall. It, of course, wasn't metaphorical writing. I'd already read the metaphorical writing that I should have gotten out of there at the moment I picked up the journal. This was actual writing. Scrawled all over the bathroom walls and the mirror

in a black felt-tip marker. When did I go? The words overlapped each other, and the ink had begun to bleed into the plaster of the walls. What could it all mean? When'd I go? Crazy. I assumed he'd gone crazy years ago after the plane crash.

When did I go? When did I go? When'd he go on his serial cannibalistic spree? Hmm. When'd I go? I was missing something. Couldn't see the whole picture. When'd I go?

Ah, the pieces clipped together when I said it aloud. When do I go? Wendigo. He'd gone completely off his rocker. He thought he was a Wendigo, a cannibalistic spirit prominent in Native American legends. I didn't care about investigating the smell anymore. I wanted out. I just turned around when a voice rasped,

Oh, my feet. My burning feet of fire. It wasn't his words that startled me, but the way he spoke them. somewhere between an inaudible noise in a whisper, but the sound of it ground into my ears like sandpaper. I think if I should live a hundred years, I'll never hear another sound that instantly raised the hair on the back of my neck and made my stomach do a somersault like the sound of blackwood talking.

It sounded like this was the first time he'd spoken in months. He was just outside the bathroom. He was waiting for me to show myself. I slowly exited and found him, standing in the doorway. He, no, it, because he barely looked human now. It exhaled a rattling gasp. He was bone thin, the tips of his fingers and nose were black and necrotic. His eyes were sunken sockets in his head, and they regarded me with a feverish fervor that reflected insanity itself. The blackened skin had drawn back from his nails, and it gave him the image of having claws.

He spoke like a radiator rattling a bolt around in its tubing. Did you read my journal? I nodded, too paralyzed by fear to speak. He paused for a moment longer than a standard blink and then asked, Well, did you like it? The thing didn't give me time for an answer. He took a step forward and I edged towards the window. I knew I was on the sixth floor, but I would have rather risked falling six floors and splattering on the street below than staying with this fiend any longer.

He saw me nervously glanced at the window and grated, I would prefer you home. I'm not a big fan of Sue. He dragged his tongue across his teeth. It was then that I noticed they were decaying, but sharp. His diet of meat had worn his teeth down to look like you. He'd fouled them. I could smell his breath from ten feet away.

It was the same sickly saccharine smell that I'd noticed when I first entered the room. How long had he been watching me? He lunged across the room faster than a blink and swung a cylindrical object at my head. I would later realize that his weapon was a bone, maybe a femur, and that it had notches on it where it had been gnawed down. And it would have brayed me had my body. not acted on instinct. I managed to duck the swing and fled towards the door.

He threw his weapon at me while I fled and hit me square in the back. I lost my balance and smashed into the wall with my forward momentum. I managed to shake off my days and kept running toward the stairwell. I'd later find a bruise

the size of a grapefruit from this assault. What was once Kenyonous de Kale, Blackwood, gave a hellish growl and proceeded to give chase. I knew that if he caught up to me, he would tear me apart and eat me. I ran down the stairs skipping two steps at a time. I could hear the soft slap of his shoeless feet striking the floor as he hunted me down. I could hear him gnashing his teeth and making guttural sounds behind me.

I flew down the flights of stairs and ran out into the lobby. The door was closed and I didn't want to fumble with the night. knob with him so close behind me, so I lowered my shoulder and rammed it, groaned in its frame, but didn't burst open. I frantically planted a foot and kicked it with all my might, but it still wasn't breaking open. The sound of him was getting closer by the second. It had one last desperate kick, was instantly relieved as it blew open and revealed the street. I started forward, but something jimper. jerked me backwards. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and was pulling me back towards his gaping,

rotting mouth. I was dumbfounded that such a gaunt, famished-looking man had the strength to pull me back by my collar. His rancy breath puffed on my neck and the sensation was so revolting that I gagged. I tore at my shirt and shucked it like a snake shedding its skin and wriggled loose. I took off down the street away from the abandoned building. When I hazarded a look back over my shoulder, I saw him on the street. He had a strip of my shirt and had brought it to his mouth. He dragged his tongue across the shred like he could taste my fear. Then he howled in a bestial manner and returned to his lair.

I didn't stop running until I was able to flag a taxi and vanish into the sea of anonymity that was New York City. Well, that was a few months ago. I went to the police, but they were able to fly a taxi. shrugged off my outlandish story. I can't say I blame them. Would you believe a story about a when-go squatting in an abandoned building and feeding his Chanel cannibalistic desires? You'd get laughed out of the precinct if you even decided to follow up. I lied to myself and pretended that it was an elaborate prank my friends had set up and hired a makeup artist to scare the hell out of me. Oh and I stopped my hobby of going out and exploring abandoned

buildings. I told myself that lie until it became the truth to me. But I can't lie to myself anymore. I found it outside my apartment door this morning. I was getting ready to go to work for the day. I opened the door and it fell into my apartment. I picked up the book and almost pissed my pants when I recognized it as his journal. A small white object similar in shape to a bullet slid out from between the pages. It was the distal portion of a human phalanche. It had been acting as the bookmark for a page. I flipped to the page and with trembling hands and quavering voice read aloud. You never gave me feedback on my journal. We should discuss it over a bite. Primrose Mall. Is everything ready to go? Yeah, my bike's ready. Got some supply. I've got some supply

upstairs and my watch is recharged. Excellent, my good man. See you outside your house? Bye, I said as I hung up, slipping the phone back into my backpack. I grabbed my helmet and bag and rushed out of my room, making sure to close my room's door behind me. Greg and I were going on what?

We called an adventure. That was last summer. Greg and I were 18 and 17 respectively. With this, I was a lot. last summer before university, we were trying to pack it full of things to do before our schedules got more serious. We'd been friends ever since ninth grade, and man, we were an odd pair. Greg Rockwell, the klutzy big guy with a heart of gold, and I, Gabriand Vasquez, the flimsy, nervous, flamboyant one. He and I met after realizing we both liked action movies, and at the same

ponchant for mischief. Plus, hanging around with a guy much stronger than you did wonders for the people who'd make fun of me for being delicate. But that's another matter. That day, we were headed off to Primrose Mall. Primrose Mall was considered one of the greatest business disasters in Saskatchewan, or maybe at least in our town. It opened in 1989 and stayed open for maybe a year, after which it was completely shut down.

The mall was boarded up and remained an enormous boxed eyesore on the edge of Regina City's limits. Nobody would take the land to redevelop it, but the police patrolled it pretty heavily for the first few years. It was closed down. Yeah, Greg and I had heard they'd begun to let up on it recently. Around 5pm now. I slipped upstairs and grabbed some granola bars,

avoiding the eyes of my father who was cooking something at the stove. I'm going out biking with Greg, I called out before getting out of the door. Dinner's at 6.30, my father said, as something sizzled loudly in canola oil. I headed outside where Greg was already waiting on his bike, a satchel in tow, the strap hanging over his shoulder. I waved as a rush to retrieve my bike from the garage. That was when old Frankie came up the street.

Frank Hollister, old Frankie, lived across the street from my family, with his husband and dog. He was a quiet little man in his late 50s. It was a lot like family to my family. He always wore fine second-hand seat. suits, his curly red hair laced with grey, a cane in his left hand. Greg was really not fond of him because Frankie had a habit of telling wild stories, but I trusted him quite a bit. Yeah, you lads going camping, he asked in his thick Liverpool accent, gesturing to our backpacks.

Greg looked away awkwardly. As I walked my bike to the curb, I said, yeah, Greg and I are heading down to check out Primrose more. Old Frankie's face suddenly froze over with concern, and after a moment of thinking, he turned to the ground and shook his head. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. A terrible idea. Things I've heard about that more.

Anything good? Greg couldn't help but asked. Well, I'm not sure what you mean by good, but, well, Frankie looked at us both then. The word is that it's haunted. Greg just shrugged. Oh yeah, that was what was making me want to go. But it's much more than you two are prepared for. Frankie rearranged himself, so he was leaning on his cane.

Went there once when the mall was open to the public, way back in the day. I always got the feeling that something was off about the place. The employees were so nice. It was that awful, awful forced kind of. at night. You know, when people smile, but their eyes aren't smiling. I bought myself some bedding at the zealous, got out of there

and never went back. Next thing I know, they're shutting the whole mall down. I tell you, I'm bloody glad. I glanced over at Greg, who looked entirely doubtful. After a second, I said, we won't be there for long.

We just want to explore. Take some pictures and then get out. while I even took some precautions Greg fished out a little white bottle from his bag and held it out My mom's friends were the priest She got this for me Well, that'll keep you safe Assuming the mall's not rotten to the core And the very floor you walk on claps is under you

Frankie was still disapproving Haunted or not It's still dangerous I shook my head But appreciated the concern Frankie, we'll be fine. Oh, look, if I don't see you two back up the lane in two hours, I'm telling your father where you went.

We'll be just fine, I reassured him, getting onto my bike. Frankie couldn't help but sigh as we began to bike off. I waved back to Frankie quickly and then turned back to face Greg. We were biking side to side. Greg had an MP3 speaker attached to the front of his bike, and he switched shit on, we biked along in a cloud of addicted to love. Primrose Mall was on the way out of town, so we had quite a way to go. Greg and I passed the time by pretending we were piloting robotechs, calling out attacks and command operatives.

The area towards the edge of town slowly became more and more shifty. The suburbs full of elderly couples and families eventually turned into hastily made brick apartment houses and little shacks. We passed a faded stripmore occupied I have a Vienn at me's restaurant A sex shop A loan office And two empty storefront

I was a little uncomfortable This was a bad side of town After all The sun beat down on us I felt one pronounced Trickle of sweat Rolled down my back Beneath

We weren't even there yet I already felt groggy and dirty The big box That was Prim Rosemore Was quickly coming into site, and soon enough we found ourselves just outside of the building. We stood in the parking lot, which definitely had signs of people being there recently. They were candy wrappers, beer bottles, even what looked like a used condo. Greg and I locked our bikes against a rusting, ancient bike rack,

Greg stuffing his MP3 speaker into his bag. We now had to get into the mall. The thick metal door, obviously an old fire escape door, was popped up against a against a crumbling doorway. The hinders obviously had given out years ago. Greg and I attempted to push it aside, but the door toppled over into the dirty, patchy grass at our feet. Dusty earth rose in clouds, and Greg batted it aside helplessly while I took a step inside.

We were standing in a corner of the mall, facing two different walkway options that would take us deeper into the structure. This part of the mall was fairly well preserved, but dirtied from where other teenagers, had come and hung out. I probably hadn't attempted to go in very far. Above us was a large skylight, shaped like a hexagon and matted with dirt and mould from the outside. The area around us was thick with the smell of decay. Very quickly took a picture of what used to be either a flower shop or a boutique. I kicked at some of the toilet paper at my feet, obviously discarded during a failed T-Ping.

This is so far disappointing. Greg turned and picked up a dusty glass object. A discarded water bomb. Hey, Gabbya, check this out. Oh, is this a magic trick? Well, sure it is. He hurled the bong by the neck into the wall on our left, and it exploded in a shower of glass, ash and water.

We laughed at it for a bit, but slowly, a laugh had turned to silent horror, as we realized a portion of the wall was coming down. Greg shuffled back as a door-sized chunk of the wall, slathered in graffiti and dirt, tipped over and shattered all over the floor. A cloud of powdered dry wall rose towards us, and I began to breathe through my sleeve,

shouting at Greg to do the same. The smell that filled the area was indescribable. It was beyond rotten, as if we'd just opened a grey. The stench of mould and decay surrounded us, dust settling over our hair and clothes. I shuddered the idea of 25 years of decomposition washing over my body. When the dust cleared, the first thing we saw was a mound of rotting insulation and... Something else. It was black and looked like beef jerky, soaked into the insulation,

maggots writhing out of the pink and black mound. I look back at Greg in horror. And his face matched mine. We've got to move, Greg said through a hanky, hurrying forward. I followed without a word. We had two options as far as corridors were concerned. One that led to another corner of the mall that was well lit with another skylight. One that took us deeper into the structure that was plunged into total darkness.

Well, we obviously chose the lit part. On the way there, Greg and I swatted drywall dust off each other, his reward. Under the second skylight were two things. The remnants of a shop and a structure Greg and I would later describe as the stairway to nowhere. The shop was surrounded in rainwater as a variety of holes had been broken in through its ceiling

with the letters of its former sign scattered all over the floor. Most of them were damp and visibly mouldy. I had no interest in the shop, but Greg snapped a picture anyway, and we turned to focus on the stairway. The stairs led to an upper platform, and then another row of stairs. And then, nothing. I, um, what do you think it could have been?

I asked after a second. Well, it doesn't seem to go anywhere. Greg craned his neck around the stairs. There were no signs of what could have been behind it, but there were piles of broken, dirty shelving units and ventilation ducts. Some of the ducts even looked like they dropped from the ceiling on their own. I started to walk up the stairs, gripping the banister tightly in my right hand. But Greg tugged me back.

Gabe, no, don't do it. That wall can come down from a little bit of glass. Hell knows if this thing will be able to support your weight. I'd rarely seen him so concerned. Why, you calling me fat? Gabe, come on. He gestured to the door beside the stairs. Yeah, I want to get a picture.

of inside this. Something feels laugh about it. We approached the door. Chunks of glass remained in what had been its window and it was absolute blackness inside.

At my feet was a sign that had probably been stuck to the glass ages ago, reading, management only. I picked it up, showing it to Greg, considered it for a moment before taking it from me

and dropping it in through the window. We didn't hear it collide with anything for a few seconds, and then, distantly below us, came a faint, wet, squel. Silence fell between us. White-eyed, we drew away backwards from the door,

walking quickly towards the rest of the mall. Our only choice of paths was to walk straight ahead down a corridor that was once lined with shops. The floor was dusty but clean, and it was clear that we were the first people to go down there in a while. It was getting darker, but we'd each brought forward.

flashlights just in case, and flipped them out, arming ourselves. Nothing interesting was down there, aiming the flashlights into the shop entryways, locked up behind security cages. We could see nothing worth worming our way into for. There were only a few shelving units and the occasional piece of discarded wood on the floor. Well, I could have sworn I was actually starting to feel bored. then it began to feel cold around us. At first I didn't notice. I was wearing a flannel shirt over another shirt. But Greg in just a t-shirt,

I needed to rub his arms uncomfortably. He bit his lip and turned to me, asking, He, you think it's because of the shade? What? The cold. Because of how shade it is in here. I was starting to feel it too. Maybe, but...

Doesn't it feel weird, though? It felt damp, too. The only other time I'd felt a cold like this was one spring day at school when it was raining heavily outside, but the air-conditioned was still on at full blast. It was a cold, wet, greasy feeling that made you want a hot shower, a cleansing. Greg was getting more and more irate the closer we came to the end of the corridor. This is bullshit, Gabe, he said between shivers. and uh...

You smell that? Smell what? Don't tell me you can't smell that. It's awful. How can you not smell that? Smell what? I searched the area around us for whatever was bugging him. Shit, Greg, don't freak me out.

We're the one of freaking me out. How can you not smell that? And it smells like expired marmine. He threw one thick arm towards where we'd come from. It's worse than that broken wall out there. Stop shouting, Greg. You're scaring me. He inhaled, a little reluctantly given whatever he smelled, and then sighed.

Okay, sorry, man. Let's figure out what to do. We were at the end of the corridor now. To our right, a dead end. What had probably been a security door was now boarded up with plywood. To our left, a piece of the outer wall was missing next to a hallway. The hallway was smaller than the rest of the mall corridors we've been through. I've never seen a place so devoid of light in my entire life.

No security lights, no holes in the ceiling like the rest of the mall, just nothing up ahead. A lot of light shone in through the hole in the building, letting us see one office door and a former shop down the hall, and nothing else. There could have been a flat wall painted in black ahead of us. I wouldn't have known the difference. Oh, no.

A turn to look at Greg. He was taking a few steps back from the hallway. His eyes buggy, arms held out in front of himself. No, he repeated. There's absolutely no way I'm going down there. Well, take a picture of it, I insisted. Something was fascinating me about the hallway. Greg flipped out his phone, took one look at it, and hissed in irritation.

Battery's dead. I could have sworn it was fully charged when I left my house. I turned to walk forward towards the hallway. Curious. Greg cursed loudly and ran in front of me. What are you doing? I want to see what's down there, I said. It didn't sound right as I said it, though.

I mean, the words came out in my voice, but... It was strange to my ears. Like I was hearing myself on a tape recorder. The... Greg looked back at the hall. Then to me, I'm back and forth. Dumbfound it. The hall smells like a garbage pile.

You still want to go into there? Well, I couldn't smell anything. Something's telling me to go in there. I swear, Greg, I'm going to be fine. That's what we told old Frankie. All what happened with the wall? I mean, the stairs are the cold. Greg pointed at the hole in the building beside us.

We're going out through there right now. I'm going to go into that damn hallway, I exclaimed. Greg just looked scared. I'd known him for four years, and never had I ever seen him this scared, even when he was in trouble. He dropped to one knee and dug through his satchel, soon pulling something out. He stuffed the bottle of holy water into my hand.

"'Take this, buddy. "'I'm going to be outside. "'If I don't see you in ten minutes, I'm calling the cops. "'I'm swallowed hard, "'slipping the holy water into the flannel pocket "'that was over my heart. "'Okay, man, I'm going to be just fine.' "'Reg pointed one thick finger at me,

"'stern. "'You commit to that, okay?' "'Okay,' I said with a nod and a grin. "'Regg nodded back, and then hurried. straight out through the opening to the field outside. I watched him leave and turned back to the hallway and walked forward. It felt like I was stepping into a pool, plunging myself into complete darkness. I kept on walking, my hands on my backpack straps.

They only sat around me with the grinding of my footsteps in dry wall dust. I kept on walking, and walking. And walking. was the hallway sloping down into the basement or something. I couldn't understand why it was taking so long for me to reach the end. I've been expecting to reach the opposite corner of them all by now, to turn and see light at the end of a pathway that would take me back to where we came. But I kept on walking through pitch-black darkness for what could have been three minutes at least.

The dingle on my skin made me feel more uncomfortable than I already was. There was faint electricity in the air, and even fainter. The smell of rock, decay. Like someone back in 1989 and strewn around pieces of uncooked meat along where I was walking. I suddenly knew what agony Greg had been in back there, and regretted whatever had possessed me to come down here.

What made me keep walking down that hallway with a blaze straight face was something my father once told my sister and I. He works on films as a props master, and during one late-night filming session at an old school, He had to go to the top floor to get some tools that the crew had left. He headed upstairs alone and began to feel an awful, awful, negative presence in the building with him, following him. He told me he'd retrieved his tools and all the while, perfectly calm, turned around and walked down two flights of stairs and out of the crew truck.

Because, as he said, whatever was in there wanted me to turn and run. I proved it wrong and got out just fine. He wanted to feed on his fear. Whatever was following me in that hallway wanted to feed on my fear. I swore I'd prove it wrong too. So I kept walking and walking.

I heard the faintest sound of someone exhaling. I bit my lip. My feet was starting to ache. How long had I been walking? There wasn't a single source of light be seen. Reluctantly, I turned back to try and see the light from the opening in the wall that Greg had gone through, hoping to see how far away I was. It was gone. I was alone, and submerged in total darkness. But I had to prove it wrong. I looked back to where I was going

and almost gasped. Up ahead was light pouring out of the cracks in a door. Probably found an emergency exit here. Breathing steadily. I walked up ahead until I reached the door. Carefully felled around for the knob, found it, and opened the door. What I saw left me breath. I was now standing in Primrose Mall, brand new and in operation. I had I gone back in time. The place was clean, bright, colourful, and bustling with people. A big stupid smile spread on my face. This place was gorgeous. I quickly closed the door behind me and looked around. I'd come out of that

strange door beside the stairway to nowhere, which was oddly still in its ragged, pointless state. But the messed up shop beside it was now a shoe store. A woman with a huge perm walked by me. I tried not to stare. I was so happy to be out of the darkness. I was just about giddy. I had no idea how I'd wound up in 1989, but it was. was beautiful. I could smell oil from a nearby Burger King. I stopped by a clothing store's racks and could touch the clothes. I went to a vending machine and bought a super ball for a quarter. This was no fever dream. This was real. Water alphabits, exploring the different shops, taking in the 80s fashions around me. Up ahead, I noticed a man coming out of a zealance. There's a quiet-looking

little man in his mid-twenties wearing a fine suit. His curly red hair shaved around the sides, a shopping bag in his left hand. The grin on my face only widened. He was old Frankie, but young. I hurried ahead to try and meet up with him. Something hit me. This was four years before I was even born. There wasn't any plausible way that young Frankie would know who I was. I made up a quick story in my head. I'd ask him for the time, and then maybe pretend I was new to the province and asked what shops he'd recommend around here.

I stopped beside him. I hastily cleared my throat and asked, "'Excuse me, sir, what time is it?' Young Frankie turned to me, smiling. And in that instant, I learned what old Frankie had meant when he mentioned that people were smiling, but their eyes weren't smiling.

young Frankie's face was slathered in six or seven chemical burns, the flesh of which puffed from his skin, crusty and frothing, in a nauseating mixture of purple, brown, and yellow. His left eye had been splashed by whatever he'd come into contact with, giving it a dull grey colour under a flat, brittle film. All the while, his eyebrows were cocked. His good eye wide, and he was wearing a big, bright smile on his face. He moved his whole head to focus on me, the scarred eye never moving, his mouth slowly stretching into a wider, goofier grin.

I couldn't move. He began to say something. Yes, sir? My voice cracked. His jaw lowered. Slowly a thick, black pudding-like liquid began to seep from his mouth, dropping into puddles on the floor. I could smell the liquid from where I was, and it wasn't unlike the smell of raw soup. I scrambled back a few steps, then turned and bolted down the mall, my eyes searching for an exit. Up ahead was a mall cop stepping out of an office room. I shrieked at him. Sir, sir, I need help.

He turned to me, saying, son, what's wrong? His face was a crater, a cave in of purple and black-scalded flesh, past dripping down his chin and all over his shirt. shirt. I turned on my heel and kept running through the mall, searching for someone else to help, maybe even Greg if he was here. More or more people turned to look at me, smiling, each of their faces or arms scolded in different way. I soon found the emergency exit that Greg and I had come in from. I flung it open, sending loud alarms through the mall, but disregarded them all and bolted out through the door. My joy over being freed was short-lived, though.

As I realized I was now standing in a six-by-six-foot room that looked like it was made of wet olive green rubber, with large drips and bubbles in its surface on the walls. I reached back for the door, first thinking it had locked on me, but no. It had formed shut into the wall, sealing me in. There was no way out that I could see. The room reeked of rotting meat and something acidic. I thought it was rubber at first glance. But as I focused on the walls, I realized they were moving, just eating.

What looked like a dripping face or a hand would occasionally try to press through the walls, each face twisted in agony as it attempted. I took a step and shrieked. I were paws in the floor, spurting some sort of translucent yellow paste when pressure was applied. It smelled not unlike Drano. Seeped in through the cloth sides of my sneakers, stinging the souls of my feet and my ankles. I clawed at the wall where the door had been, but only ragged shards of a tough, jerky-like substance came off in my hands. It was very much

the same as the stuff Greg and I had found in the wall. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a dry whisper came out. I dropped to my knees and buried my face in the darkness of my arms. A moment passed, and I was moving. Was I being carried? My body was on a cot. I let my hand try and feel her out. No, a stretcher. I nervously opened my eyes, finding one emergency worker at each end of the stretcher,

lifting me out of the dark hallway. I let out a shaky sigh of relief, and one of the workers seemed to notice. The boy's conscious, she said loudly. Other police officers up ahead seemed to notice, and they waved at us as we drew closer. I let my eyes fall shut, waiting as they escorted me back to the parking lot Greg and I had first been in. Everything smelled and sounded normal in the mall now.

I wanted to solve. There were so many cars in the parking lot now. I could spot my mother's car, and panic shot through me again. I had old Frankie told my parents where we'd gone. How long had I been gone? Out in the sun, they put the stretcher down next to where Greg had been waiting. I said the emergency worker's surprise. I got up and stood on my own.

Some of the workers were really surprised, asking me if I could or couldn't feel various parts of my body. When I felt perfectly fine. Passed out only four metres down the hallway kid, the emergency worker said again. We've got every right to be concerned. I passed out. I couldn't process it.

That's not what happened. happened a doll. It went all the way down that hallway, opened a door and the whole mall was operational. There were people in there. Things were clean. I saw... I... She sighed. It must have been a hallucination from the past contamination. My parents suddenly hurried into view, followed by an equally concerned old Frankie. My father asked, What is this? I heard about a contamination.

Well, the contamination should be at a minimum, if any traces still remain. A bulky cop with a thick moustache said, before the emergency worker could respond. I looked at Greg in horror. He looked at me just the same. Sputtering, I asked. Wait, contamination, what? The cop sighed and continued. Ah, supposedly around 85. Several hundred liters of little.

liquid industrial waste were dumped in this lot. Crab like runoff, unused solvents. God knows what. The mall was built here anyway. The provincial government claims that things were cleaned up pretty well. But... But what? Greg asked. Mall employees kept getting sick, he replied.

Most of them got seriously ill or died. I wasn't working in this city at the time, but supposedly a number of people went missing around. here too. More managers claimed that they had everything under control though, well, the cops poking around the emergency door began screaming and waving at each other, which caused some of the other

cops to go check out what was going on. So one officer stumbled around the side of the building and vomit. Another officer bolted up to the guy we were talking to screaming. Preston, Preston, you won't believe this! The moustached cop looked up. What is it? And the guy stopped. gagging, trying to catch his breath. There are corpses sealed into the walls.

What? They were rotten. I must have been in there for decades. The officer nauseously waved his hands around, trying to make a shape. Geez, they're barely recognisable. Greg looked right at me. And that stuff that we saw was... What about the stuff down the door by the stairway?

Yeah, that faint squishing that we'd heard when Greg dropped the sign in. We caught whirled around to look at me then. What stuff? What do you? The emergency worker just shook her head. It's no use talking to that one. He's still convinced he travelled back in time. But I did, I howled, feeling humiliated.

We began taking off my backpack, remembering the vending machine. I even bought something back then. It was a super bounce ball. I hastily unsit in my backpack and reached inside, feeling around for the ball. But my hand stopped, slowly recoiling from what I felt. There was a dark, greasy, stinking residue on my fingers. Breathing heavy, with the eyes of my parents, Frankie,

the police and Greg all on me, I took a look into my backpack, where my trip supplies and the ball had been, were now large portions of ragged, blackened chunks of decomposing flesh. I think I'm finally at the point where I'm able to talk about it. It's been several years since it happened. None of us, not me nor my friend, brother's friend who also experienced it, have ever told a living soul and rarely mention it to each other.

But I think it might help. to rise it down. And then, maybe, I can finally forget about it. When it happened, I was a teenager living in Cumbria, which is a region in the northwest of England. Specifically, I lived in the Lake District, an area of outstanding natural beauty, which is also very rural and very popular with tourists. Imagine lurching dark skies, grey brick walls and rugged scenery, mountains, fields, bodies of water, unfolding all around you, and you've got the lake district. In my youth, I would be out on a boat in the height of summer, blazing on the dappled wood in the beating hot sun. I'd hike up the toughest mountains in torrential rain to see some of the most beautiful

views that exist on this planet. I know I was lucky, and I tried never to be ungrateful. But, as a teenage girl growing up, I always felt a keen sense of isolation from the rest of the world. My family lived, well, and still live, in a tiny cottage, in a tiny village where everybody knows everybody, where there's no privacy at all, and no chance of ever getting away with anything. I went to the local secondary school, but, well, by local, I mean I had to take a half-hour bus ride to get there, and our nearest town was that far away. as well. Summers in my youth were always long and lonely. That's why it was such an incredible stroke of luck when a girl my own age moved into my village the summer I turned 14. My own family

consisted of my parents and my younger brother Tom, who, when I was 14 and he was on the cusp of 13, just seemed too immature for words and spending time with him would only occur as a last resort. By some lucky miracle, the girl also had a younger brother, and on the day they moved in, my mum sent us both over to her house to introduce ourselves and bring round some Kendall mint cake, kind of a Cumbrian speciality for those of you not in the know. The girl, Katie, and I became fast friends. She'd moved up from London after her dad had passed away from cancer, which obviously was a difficult adjustment for her for several reasons and I remember being acutely aware that I had to tread

carefully with her. It was just Katie, her brother Michael and her mom. The moment we met, I knew I'd like her. She was my age exactly, with a cool sense of style, small nose ring glinting from her nostril. A fascination to me. It wasn't even allowed to pierce my own ears. And she wore a t-shirt for a band I'd never heard of, its symbol, skull and crossbones. She didn't seem too put off by my own frumpy charity shop clothes and, well, over-friendly, desperate demeanour either, which was a huge relief. Her brother, Michael, a small, narrow-shouldered kid with a very pale skin and an awkward manner, and my own brother hit it off too after starting a conversation about video games and went off trotting to Michael's room immediately to play on his Xbox.

I sensed the family had money. Their house was bigger than ours and a lot less shabby, and so Michael would probably have a lot of the latest games. After a nervous introduction, Katie and I soon got talking, and we sat in her kitchen swapping stories

whilst her mum unpacked boxes around us. She seemed grateful that there was someone her own age in this strange rural land. I, of course, was ecstatic. the summer went by in a happy haze. Katie and I spent most days together, wandering down to the lake for a swim,

or hanging out in each other's bedrooms, barking about online or watching movies. Our brothers, likewise, found companionship in each other, and Katie's mum, who was from the area originally, made a friend in my own mom. When school came, Katie and I rode the bus together, and she assimilated effilacy into our friendship. group. Another huge relief, as I've been concerned that she might be a bit out of our league.

Spend a lot of my time trying to police her, making sure that she knew I was as mature as she was. Living in London, she'd experienced things I could only dream about, and the effort was sometimes tiring. But I didn't want her to move on and find someone more interesting. My story really begins in the week leading up to the October half term, where Katie had an idea. We'd been friends for nearly four months, and I remember that the two of us were in my room one rainy autumn evening, watching a scary film on my laptop. I don't recall which one. Whilst trying to decide what I should give Katie for her birthday the following week. She'd suggested concert tickets in London.

I'd suggested a rather more affordable bath bomb from a gifty place we both liked. My parents were out of the house for whatever reason, so we were in charge. As the film got to a particularly tense, almost silent scene, we suddenly heard peals of laughter coming from my brother's room, which regrettably shared a war with mine. I banged on it with my foot, telling the little pest to keep it down. My brother had reached a deeply troublesome, I thought, stage of development, where his teenage hormones had kicked in,

and he was no longer the sweet, docile, slightly irritating child I'd once known, and had turned into a moody, indistant, intensely irritating monster. Of course, my kicking the wall had absolutely no effect, and after a couple of minutes of threatening various abuses through the plaster, I decided that I would simply have to go next door and carry out my threats in person. I burst into his room, thoroughly cranky at this point, to find that it was in pitch darkness. There are a few street lamps in my village,

So when I say pitch, I mean pitch. Furrowing my brow, I strained to see through the gloom, and I couldn't hear a single sound, other than the whir of my brother's Xbox on the floor. What were they doing? I voiced this to the dark room, but got no response. Quickly, so quickly I wasn't sure I'd seen it. I saw a shadow dart across the room,

room. Even though I knew it was my brother messing around, I couldn't help but feel the scenes from the horror film still sticking to me. Was I sure they'd been in his room? Hadn't they gone for a walk in the woods at some point? Had it really been them laughing? I considered this as my hand fumbled around the wall for a light switch. When? Suddenly, something grabbed my wrist from nowhere. Another hand. I screamed, piercingly, and tumbled back into the hall, only to be greeted by the familiar peals of laughter we'd been hearing all night. Katie ran into the room and threw on the switch,

to reveal the little darlings huddled in black cloaks in the middle of the room, like acne-ridden demented, falling about in hysterics. That wasn't very fucking funny. screeched at them. But even Katie was suppressing a smirk. The horror film had got to me, and my brother and his friend had taken full advantage of that. The two boys were still creased over, bundled in their cloaks, as I took my brother's pillow and proceeded to hit him with it, which only encouraged the laughter. We were just trying to be like old Mr. McCreepie, Tom said through the force.

Who? "'Who's Mr. McCreepie?' Katie asked. "'You must have heard of Mr. McCreepie.' Tom's eyes were wide, and he nodded at his friend to clarify the obvious. "'Everyone's heard of Mr. McCreepie.' Michael sighed at two people he evidently considered imbeciles. "'He's that guy who owned the mannequin farm near Colby Village.' Katie and I looked at each other and shrugged.

Colby Village was 10 miles away I'd had no reason to ever go there and I didn't know much about it I didn't know anything about a mannequin farm either Oh He killed a whole load of people there Like 50 years ago Tom interjected

He was this really creepy guy who'd made mannequins for shops And probably other things And he lured all these guys to his house By pretending to be a woman online Then he bludgeoned them to death with an axe and then he made mannequins out of their skin, added Michael with the glee. Now, I'm going to pause here to explain that I'm not a fan of horror. I don't do scary stories, creepy pastures, any of that stuff.

I usually hate scary films. And I was only watching one that night because I didn't want to look like a wuss in front of Katie, who had a taste for those sort of things. Plus, there was a more than likely chance that my brother and his... friend were lying, and I didn't want to entertain this for longer than was necessary. Katie, on the other hand, was looking at them, intrigued. There was an axe murderer who lived ten miles from here. Yeah, and his name was Mr. McCreby. No, you two, Katie's brother sighed. His name was Martin McGreevy. That's just his nickname. Unusually, Katie let this insult slide without

comment. What was his kill count? She asked. Tom and Michael looked at each other. Less cocky now. Don't know. Loads probably. You could Google it. Haven't you googled it? No, we just heard it around school. I laughed, wishing to bring this conversation to a close. Oh sure. You guys just heard it around school. So it must be true. It really did happen, Michael insisted. Everybody knows about it. It's coming up to the anniversary of his first murder on Halloween. Oh yeah, the fact that it happened on Halloween makes it even more believable. I raised my eyebrows to the ceiling and then left them to it, returning to my own room and trying to shake off a strange, bubbling feeling in my stomach. For all the bravado I'd shown, there was a part of me, a small part, but had a feeling they might possibly be telling the truth.

Something had happened in that village a long time ago. I didn't think it happened how they'd described it, but the name rang about. The image of the mannequins was clear in my head. I could picture my parents at the breakfast table, talking in hushed tones. the word Colby and murder and dummies, bubbling from their lips when they thought I couldn't hear them. Katie came back into my room, and I had my finger poised on the play button on my laptop, ready to scare ourselves silly again. Actually, I'm not really feeling this anymore, she said, and I breathe a huge, internal sigh of relief. I'd quite like to look up that case

The relief quickly left me To be replaced by further anxiety What, the thing they were on about Katie, they're morons I said They'll be making it up Probably, but I'd like to check Just in case they're not

She slid onto the bed next to me And plugged the laptop from my hands before I had a chance to protest. She opened up a new tab and typed Colby Murder, Cumbria mannequins, into the search bar. Sure enough,

a whole swarm of articles popped up. Ooh, now there's a plot twist, she said, impressed. They weren't lying. I felt my palms growing sweaty as she clicked on the first article and a picture of a man appeared. The man was reasonably average-looking, about forty, with short, dark-cropped hair and a sallow face,

like he hadn't eaten in a long time, wearing a tartan shirt. But his hollow eyes, looking intensely at the camera, sent a chill of fear down my spine. I felt as though he was looking directly at me. This was Martin McGreevy, killer of nine. people who had once lived just down the road. His time active wasn't 50 years ago, as Tom had said, but a much close in 19, back in 1999, although anything pre-millium was all the same to my brother, and I remembered hearing the stories, still fresh to the residence when I was a child. I can't remember exactly which articles we looked at, but the story went like this.

Martin McGreevy was a family man, with a wife and a four-year-old son, who owned a successful home business making custom mannequins for shop windows. However, like a lot of people, he had his secrets. Unfortunately, Martin McGreevy's secret was that he liked to pose as beautiful women online, reel in gullible men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, get them to send nude pictures, then lure them to his house under the pretense of hooking up. These were the days when the internet was still relatively new, and people were less cautious about it. So he was generally successful in his invitation. Once there, he tied them up and committed unspeakable acts of torture

on them, before eventually killing them with a sharp implement he would make his mannequins with. his wife apparently was aware of the entire situation and may even have been an accomplice once he killed the men he made mannequins in their likeness though not out of their skin as the boys acclaimed and he treated them as though they were real nine mannequins were found in the cellar when the police raided the house once mcgrievey became a suspect in the disappearances he shot himself with a revolver along with his wife and son. He was dead before they could even put handcuffs on him. I think that most people, after reading this,

and reading the gory details as we did, which I will not relay here, would close the laptop and perhaps go to quietly throw up. Katie's curiosity, on the other hand, was piqued. She wanted to know more. She summoned the boys in, who said that, although they'd heard wildly exaggerated versions of this story at school, the human skin anecdote, for instance. It was basically the same story that they were familiar with, and it really had happened in a farmhouse near the village of Colby.

That's just vile, I said. Those men died at the hands of his sicko. I hope he rots in jail. Why did you say you were acting like Martin McGreevy when you put the cloaks on? asked Kate. Because that's what he used to do. His wife would let them in, and he'd be down in the cellar. He would lie in wait for his victims, wearing the clothes he dressed his dummies in, and then pounce on them before they could do anything. How would anyone know that? I demanded. Well, his wife survived the shooting. She gave the police a full confession. She's still alive today, in jail, Michael told me. Katie asked if anyone still lived at the farmhouse. Last I heard it was abandoned, said Tom. They say his ghost still roams the rooms, looking for

more people to kill. They both started prancing around the room, swaying their arms and making howling sounds. Surely, at 13, they were too old for this. I looked at Katie. to share a look of exasperation, but instead she was smiling. She'd taken in the news of the abandoned house without comment. Though I could see her expression changing, her dark eyes flickering with the formation of a plan. I didn't know if this was what happened to you after suffering grief at a young age, but my friend seemed to be abnormally fascinated by the dark side of life. Death, torture, destruction, abandonment.

It was and is, a part of her that I struggle to like, if I'm being honest, but I try to understand that it's probably because she's been through a childhood trauma. I don't like to think that anyone could be interested in these things just for the sake of it. After they left, she turned to me, the glimmer of a smile playing around her lips. I know what I want for my birthday, she grinned. I knew at that moment what she was going to say, and fear coursed through me like blood. Still, I needed to act nonchalance. When you're a teenager, image is all that matters. I want to go and explore the mannequin farm, said my friend.

I just smiled blankly. It was absurd. Our parents were going to a dinner party in the next village. where they were likely to be out until midnight. That was the night we chose, as it gave us plenty of time to get there and back. Unfortunately, in the midst of our planning, my younger brother overheard

and threatened to reveal everything unless we allowed him and his weedy friend to come along with us. Oh, you'll ruin it! Katie screeched at them the night before we plan to go, the eve of Halloween, the night before his first murder, Another thing that, surprisingly, my brother had got right. You'll end up telling the adults. We won't, Tom insisted.

We'll only tell them if you don't let us come. Oh, come on, we were the ones who told you about it. Go with your own friends, Katie said. Surely they're all going up there in droves if this story's so famous. No one's been up there that we know, Michael said. It's fenced off. it's really hard to get into my heart jumped a little

I was hoping this nugget of information might put her off wanting to go it only made her more determined to get in somewhere that others had not eventually they struck a deal the boys would come with us if they could help us figure out how to get inside hands were shaken

spit was proffered subsequently discarded and we were ready. We set off after our parents left for their dinner party under cloak of darkness. Katie had a rucksack on over her coat,

packed with torches, her map, and most worryingly, even a knife. In case we run into any trouble, she said. Her birthday had been two days prior, and she walked up the dark lane ahead of me, her new pink converse

shining in the moonlight, practically bouncing with excitement. My heart was full of lead. The boys had also packed supplies. A penknife? Because you never know, my brother said. And some rope in case we need to scale any walls. The place was an abandoned farmhouse, not a maximum security prison, but, well, I said nothing. The village of Colby was very pretty, dotted with thatched cottages and an old 30, the thirtieth-century church nestled in Parliament. We trod through the streets carefully,

not wanting to look too suspicious, and huddled under a street lamp to glance at the map. We needed to follow Church Lane, out of the village, until we passed a track on our left, which read, Pidcoat. If we walked a mile up the track, we would hit the farmhouse. At least, that's what one of Tom's friends at school had told him.

We could only see the road. the first bit of the track from Google Maps. The night was very dark now, and it was bitingly cold. We wandered up the road. We got out of our torches, and fewer and fewer cars marked the roads. Eventually, we were immersed by dark stretches of farmland, and could hear nothing but the hoot of an owl in the distance, and some far-off noise from cattle. I pulled my coat tightly around me, Fear beginning to set in. I wasn't even that afraid of the farmhouse itself, or of the legend of Martin McGreevy's ghost. I was more afraid of who might be living there now.

We were four vulnerable kids on a dark, lonely road. We could be putting ourselves in serious danger. The white, wooden sign, pit-coat, shimmered like a mirage under our torches. My brother stopped, staring at it. Um, maybe we should turn back, he said nervously. Katie and Michael turned to look at him like he'd gone mad. I don't know if this is such a good idea. I was amazed.

Out of the four of us, Tom and Katie had been the most vocal in wanting to go. Katie and Michael shot me a look, as if to say, He's your brother. You deal with him. I saw the fear flickering in Tom's eyes, the irritation flickering in Katie's. I had to choose. Either you come with us or wait here, I said, with as much courage as I could muster. We're not turning back now.

I saw my friend smile with pleasure, and Tom's expression hardened. Okay, I'm coming, he said, sogly. I just meant if anyone else wanted to turn. back. We trudged up the leaf-strewn track, mud claiming our shoes. I had a fleeting, gleeful thought that Katie's beautiful new converse would be getting muddy, then suppressed it out of guilt. Sometimes I felt envious of her well, and then remember that, well, at least I still had a dab. We saw a building begin to loom in the distance. Surprisingly, as we got to it, it was actually very easy to get inside.

The fence surrounding it was wooden and not high, and we simply climbed over, finding ourselves on the other side with no trouble at all. I didn't know what my brother had been on about. The farmhouse was a two-story affair, trees looming over it like hunchbacks. The windows boarded up so it looked vaguely monstrous, with metal panels for eyes.

We shone our torches around the premises, The driveway was submerged in leaves. There were, obviously, no cars in it, and I couldn't see any lights on in the house. Not that I was expecting to, of course, but I couldn't help the thought that perhaps there were people squatting inside, and the lack of light made me feel less uneasy. The place was clearly deserted, a ghostly relic of the past. The wind bristled, and I close my eyes. wishing us away from it.

Well, we made it, I said. Should we go back now? Katie looked at me as though I was bonkers. What? Go back. We're going inside. The words didn't come as a surprise to me. But I felt the full force of them even so.

We're going inside. The front door gave way easily. It was rotting and falling off its hinges. Inside, the house smelt musty and damp. I remember my grandmother's house smelling like this when we went in after she died, because she stopped being able to take care of it properly and refused to ever put the heating on. The room we were standing in was a hallway, doors aligning each wall around us, a decomposing staircase toward the back wall.

What I hadn't expected was that there would still be furniture in the house. The side table was standing by the front door. A picture of a vase of sunflowers were skewed sideways on the wall. Homely artefacts amongst the dirt, reminding any visitors of what the place used to be, whilst the floor hosted more leaves and mud. The wallpaper was peeling and smeared with graffiti. I wondered if the kind of people who'd written that graffiti might be thinking of joining us here tonight.

I felt a bit sick. I shone my torch to see the numbers six, six, six, scribbled in red on the once floral wallpaper. I realised that this would probably be the perfect location for dealing drugs. Cumbria was a boring place to grow up. Thus, the drug trade was booming. Teenagers just didn't have anything else to do. Let's split up, Katie said.

Oh, the three most dreaded words in the English language. boys you go upstairs we'll explore down here we'll all do the cellar together her eyes sparkled at this i could see tom looking less than comfortable but they nodded and headed up the stairs whilst i trailed after her meekly she pushed open one of the doors on our left and we trod into the room my feet felt like they were standing on linoleum we were in what was once either a kitchen or a bathroom. Together, we shone our torches around. And then, we froze. A woman was standing in the kitchen, turned away from us. She was standing over a space where the stove most likely used to be, wearing a traditional 1950s outfit, hair up, flowery apron,

floaty skirt. Every fibre in my body told me to run. But I was rooted to the spot, staring at this strange, stiff-looking woman, who had not moved upon us entering the room. I reached out for my friend's hand, but she was in the process of moving a step closer, cracking a twig below her foot.

The woman still didn't move. I couldn't take my eyes off her why wasn't she turning around what was wrong with her there's something wrong here hello Katie called out gently

hello she moved even closer to the woman before prodding her on the shoulder I couldn't speak waiting for it to turn around what was she going to look like it's a mannequin my friend exclaimed open mouth of course what i drew closer to it as well realizing as i brought my torch closer but it was indeed a mannequin the hair was too stiff the neck too

white i got close enough to see the other side of her and most horrifyingly the thing was faceless No features at all other than a large smile that had been drawn on with what looked like crayon. The rest of it, just a white, blank canvas. A figure with no eyes. Jesus Christ, Katie said. I shone the torch around a little more, and noticed that, on the floor, in the space where the stove should have been, there was a frying pan lying on the dirt,

with two plastic fried eggs and a sausage in it, the kind you might give to a child. She's cooking, I said. Of course, McGreevy had made mannequins for a living. But why was there one in the house now, all these years later? Some sort of sick joke by pranksters? Katie and I looked at each other,

unsure of whether to laugh or to cry. The sound of a scream from across the house meant we did neither. We ran to the sound, coming from upstairs, finding both our brothers huddled together in one of the bedrooms, pointing at the boarded-up window. We got closer to it to find a small bed, or what remained of a bed, rotten, smelly as it was,

with the dummy of a child lying in it. This mannequin was more detailed than the, the one in the kitchen. It had a face carved into it, a nose and lips. Someone had even stuck two of those goggly eyes you can buy for arts and crafts to its forehead, giving the odd impression that it was lying in bed with its eyes wide open. On top of his head was a mop of curly hair. What the fuck is that thing? My brother asked. His voice was quivering. Well, it's a man. It's a man. It's a mannequin. What do you think? said Katie. There's one in the kitchen too. There's more of them. My brother was really losing his shit. I felt a little embarrassed, if I'm honest. Michael remained

calm and composed, eyes fixed on the thing in the bed. His head cocked as though he were looking at a scientific oddity. I've had enough, Tom said. This place is too weird. "'It's obviously just a prank,' Katie said. "'Someone's probably done it to scare stupid kids like us off the premises. "'Or it'll be some of those serial killer groupies "'trying to recreate the family home.' "'That's fucked up,' my brother said. "'His face stark white.'

"'Yeah.' "'But Katie's expression didn't look like she thought it was fucked up. "'Instead, there was the trace of a smirk on her mouth. She looked like she was thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. I think I'd like to leave now, Tom said. He looked at me. This was my chance to be a supportive older sister. Well, maybe we've seen enough, I said.

This place is a bit freaky after all. But we haven't done the cellar yet, Katie exclaimed. That's the best bit. I don't want to. do the cellar. I've had enough. Tom persisted. We've come out this far. There's a bad vibe in this place. I feel like something bad is going to happen. Well, you can go home, Katie said. But I'm going to go and explore the cellar. You don't have to wait for me if you don't want to. This was a difficult situation. I really didn't want to choose between my friend and my brother, but it looked like I was

going to have to. I stood. staring from one to the other of them, Katie's face hard, certain, my brothers pale and anxious. And that was when we heard the soft, dragging sound, coming from beneath us, far beneath our feet. Like it was coming from the cellar. I've never felt four people stopped breathing exactly the same moment, but that's what happened. and then we heard it again a dragging sound like someone dragging something heavy across a concrete floor what what was that michael was the first one to speak for the first time he was looking scared to we need to get out of here said tom cautiously ever so cautiously we

tiptoed across what was Martin McGreevy's son's bedroom, headed out into what had once been his landing, and crept down what had once been his staircase. The dragging sound started to grow louder, more urgent, as if it knew we were getting away. I grabbed my brother's hand. He in turn took Michael's arm. We made a beeline for the door, when I realized that Katie hadn't moved. she was staring at the cellar door what are you doing I asked in a desperate whisper the boys headed out into the open air

but she remained rigid staring well aren't you curious she asked even just a tiny bit no my bloody well am not I am I want to see what's making that noise

I couldn't believe this. How could she be this stupid? As we were speaking, I noticed that the noise had stopped. What if whatever it was had heard us? Katie, it could be dangerous down there. You don't know who it is. I'll just be quick. She was trance-like, moving towards the door

as the sliver of moonlight from the front door fell across. her face. And even as I grabbed her hand, she pulled away from me, stronger than I was. Katie, please. She opened the door, and before I could stop her, she was gone, heading down the steps. God's sake. Nothing. Not heaven and earth moving, not a maze of chocolate, not pigs flying, could make my feet unstick from their place in the ground and make me go down there and stop her. Instead, I stood there, not even sure if I was breathing,

as Michael pote his head back round the door. What are you doing? He asked. Why are you taking so long? Your sister's gone down to the cellar, I said. We both shared a glance. A terrified,

helpless, awful glance. But neither of us could move. The dragging sound increased in volume again. The urgency amplified, filling my ears. And then we heard her scream. Her scream was even more ear-splitting than that of my brothers. It was the kind of scream a person makes when they're experiencing the last moments of their life.

Both Michael and I ran toward the basement door and stood at the top of the steps. The torchlight falling in shards across the stairs. I took in the sight below. Katie, running back up the steps, her expression like that of a person being hunted, but nothing and no one was behind her. I moved the torch around to see a group of tall, shadowy figures.

lurking in the farthest corner of the room. Nine of them, stiff as boards. Faceless, I felt my heart stop, but I couldn't understand why she was so frightened. They were only mannequins, like the ones in the rest of the house. And then, one of them moved. Katie's footsteps pounded up the final steps, and she pushed us with all her might back through the door,

back into the hallway. Get out of here, she shrieked. Get out of here now. We didn't need to be told twice. We began to run, out of the door, down the drive, towards my brother, who was also running. We ran to the fence and climbed it, and lost rucksacks and shoes,

and grazed our limbs in the process, but we didn't care, because all we knew was that we were running, running far away from that place, and that sound a most awful. Awful figures. I don't know what made me do it. Even now, when I look back on it, I'm not sure it was even real. It was probably the hysteria, but I'm sure that when I look back there, and I look back there only once when I was twisting myself around on the fence. I'm sure I saw another figure standing in the doorway. Another mannequin, a young girl this time. about 14. Its only feature a drawn-on mouth, a mouth wide with terror, and its long, bony arm was stretched out towards us, pointing. On her feet was a pair of pink, converse

trainers. I didn't look back twice. Katie never told me what happened to her in the cellar that day. she never told a single soul she refused to ever speak of the incident at all in fact and will get very upset when we mentioned it once I asked her if she saw the figures in the cellar like I did though I never mentioned the dummy wearing the converse she refused to engage with me her taste for horror waned

she never suggested going exploring again sometimes Tom and I will talk about it we'll try and make a joke out of the whole thing now must have been some twisted pranksters we'll say but deep down it scares us still and I've never been able to go anywhere there are mannequins again

which as you can imagine makes life difficult in a department store I don't know why someone chose to put those things in there I don't know if there were mannequins made by McGreevy himself or whether they were brought there after his death. And I don't know how they knew that one of us will be wearing pink trainers. To ask those questions means delving deeper into the horror of that night.

I've never been back to the farmhouse. Katie and I became less close when we went to university, though we still keep in touch every now and then, even after she moved away from the village. Michael and Tom are still close, though. Tom says that Michael even went back there about a year ago, in broad daylight this time. To get some footage, he studies film at university. He said that he didn't find any mannequins there, and all the furniture had been looted, too.

The cellar door was locked when he went there, oh. Whatever it was that lurked down there amongst the shadows was concealed away. And whatever it was that Katie saw that night, whether she saw the same thing as I did, or maybe worse, was hidden away and can only be left for you and I to speculate. Never go looking for urban legend. If you're looking for a story with a happy or otherwise fulfilling ending, I'd advise you to look elsewhere. Now, with that being said, if you need a stern warning why we shouldn't dabble in the unknown, listen on. The autumn of 1997 was an eventful time for me.

For the umpteenth time my life changed as I found myself ripped away from my friends when my family moved yet again. It was also the year I came face to face with the witherer. This time our destination was the suburbs of Pennsylvania. This was a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of city life. The first time in my life I could see trees from my window, not just trees lining a filthy street either, but an actual forest with animals. I was a happy child growing up.

I enjoyed all the perks of being from a wealthy family and make friends easily. The only common disturbance came when being moved from city to city on account of my father's work as a sales agent. We never stayed in one place for more than a few years. Despite filling in well, having to make new friends each time we move proved to be an emotionally taxing task. For years I anxiously awaited my scene. year only for disappointment to find me again I was just getting settled into my previous school in Virginia when my parents set me down to reveal we'd be moving again I wasn't enthused by the idea of starting over during the biggest year of my

life to date like clockwork I found myself being called the new kid once more being the new kid did have its advantages though the one I was always the center of attention at least for about a week until gossip and rumours dispelled the shroud of mystery surrounding me. You see, you're not the new kid when everyone learns your name. To my surprise and delight, I immediately made friends with the most popular guy in the school, Charlie Renick. Without fail, I found myself invited to all the best house parties every single weekend.

How Charlie loved party. So much so that it was the only thing he ever talked about. This made it even more surprising when he spent the entire lunch period nerding out and regurgitating an urban legend about a witch from the 1700s. Now, according to Charlie, the witherer was a soothsayer whose inaccurate fortune-telling got her beat to near death by local villages. The hate-driven mob didn't know or care that she was pregnant, though. After her inevitable miscarriage, the solemn woman locked herself away in her cabin to wither

and die. Charlie's agitation was palpable when he hurt me a laugh off his elaborate fairy tale as if it was a lousy joke. We'll see who's laughing after we go through the ritual tomorrow, Charlie said, clearly annoyed by my antics. A ritual? What? You're like twelve?

This is the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard, I retorted, still egging him on. Well, I've gotten him going by that point. Charlie spent the next 10 minutes describing the ritual he'd learned about from his stoner cousin Jerry in great detail. I didn't take his tale very seriously. Jerry was 37 and lived in his mom's basement after all. But in hindsight, I should have. According to Charlie, the legend says that if you drive for exactly 27 minutes on lost hollow road at 1.13 a.m., your car will storm. At that point, you need

to exit your vehicle and walk westward through the woods for three. miles. At precisely 244 a.m., you'll reach the cabin of the wither. Don't stop walking until you reach the dwelling. Once you arrive, you're to knock on the door twice before turning around the way you came, as if you were leaving. You don't actually leave, though. Instead, a voice will beckon you inside. Upon entering the witherer, we'll ask you to solve a riddle. If you answered the riddle correctly. You get to make a wish, and no matter how absurd the wish is, it'll come true. Marching through the woods in search of ghosts was not my idea of a fun Saturday night, but I didn't want to see Charlie getting mauled by a bear, either. I let out a

sigh, and against my better judgment, I agreed. Fine, I'll go with you, but only so you don't have to trek around the woods alone at odd hours. The obnoxious ringing in the world. The obnoxious ringing of the lunch bell cut our conversation short, and after shaking Charlie's hand to seal the deal, I headed off to my afternoon classes. I spent the rest of chemistry and physics day-dreaming about what I'd wish for if the ritual was legitimate. What I wish for an endless fortune, a movie star wife, fame, on the off-chance the wither had turned out to be real, she could grant me any of those. The next day flew by as I concocted my exact wish and read up on different riddles.

We also spent over an hour peering at various maps, trying to find Lost Hollow Road, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find it anywhere. I concluded that it must be one of the many unmarked gravel roads going up into the mountains.

The time to pick up Charlie finally rolled around. He emerged from his house with a bulky camera, presumably to take a picture of the fable cabin in the woods. Jerry said it was this one, Charlie said, pointing to a road highlighted red on his map. This confirmed my suspicion. It was indeed a mountain road and was also most likely private property.

We pulled up to the unmarked gravel road at 102am and cut off the motor to wait. Eventually we got talking about what we'd wish for. Charlie said he'd wished to be richer than Bill Gates and monopolised the next ten minutes describing how he'd spend. his billions. His rambling left me no time to tell him about my wish, but I let it go because mine wasn't anywhere near as interesting anyway. So at exactly 1.13 a.m., I began the drive down Lost Hollow Road. After around ten minutes the radio was cutting in and out. I chalked this up to the elevation and the dense forest canopy above. By the 15-minute mark, my headlights were flickering in and out, and I became worried that we'd have to turn around, or I could barely see the road.

Despite this strange mechanical malfunction, we pressed on down the ever-nowering road. After a few more minutes of driving, it was clear that turning around wasn't an option anymore. Can't say for sure, but each time the lights went out, I swear I could see erratic, jerky movements ahead of me. Charlie was becoming restless by the 20-minute mark. The condition of the road was getting worse at a rapid pace. It was crystal clear to both of us that nobody used this road anymore, let alone high school kids in Honda Civics. Maybe we should turn back, he suggested in a crestfallen tone.

Just where do you suggest I do that, you moron? Which side of the mountain do you want me to drive off? I snapped at him. After the harsh scolding, Charlie began smouldering quietly. in the passenger seats. Despite being mad as hell at the situation we were in, I pressed on, ignoring the reptilian-like sense of self-preservation ingrained in us all. I continued braving the winding, crater-ridden road, for a few more minutes before my car stored and came to a halt in the middle of the road. A quick check of my watch revealed that,

to my absolute horror, 27 minutes had passed since we started down the road. Charlie got to out of the car and began walking into the tree line. Something wasn't adding up. The ritual was working too well. Are you insane? I yelled at him, petrified at the prospect of following him. He didn't answer and instead continued to wander deeper into the woods. With great reluctance, I followed suit.

As we ventured blindly into the pitch-black forest, I could tell right away there was something wrong with the place. No animals or insects were making a noise. Instead, there was only an eerie hum that befell the entire forest. After what felt like forever, my heart sank as a derelict-looking cabin appeared in the maze of trees. The orange shield of a candle illuminated one window as we crept towards it. There it is! Charlie shouted. Charlie lifted his camera and snapped a quick photo of the cabin before, stuffing the Polaroid

in his pocket. Oh, it is real, I thought to myself, as I swallowed hard and tried to muster up every drop of courage in my body. This time it was me who wandered forward. Checking my watch yet again in the candlelight radiating from the window, I saw that it was now 244 a.m. It was now or never. Without missing a beat, I gave the door two firm knocks with my open palm before turning around to see Charlie staring onwards, slack jawed. You may enter. An ancient sounding voice hissed at us from inside. Charlie and I lurched through the threshold in abject terror.

The interior of the one-room cabin was plain and otherwise unremarkable, except for the single chair in the center. A dim, long candle stood next to the chair, illuminating all but the corners of the structure. For the life of me, I couldn't tell which corner of the room the voice was coming from. I couldn't help but wretch at the horrible stench. The smell of sulphur and rotting meat tickled my nostrils as the disembodied voice spoke again. Sit and answer well.

Before I could react, Charlie pushed me aside and sat in the chair. He scanned the room anxiously as a dark, thin figure emerged from the shadows. The figure that emerged and stood before Charlie was once human, but wasn't anymore. She was rotten, her flesh melted from her bones. What remained of her ancient skin clung to her fragile bones like plastic rat. Where her eyes should have been, there were dark, eyeless caverns. The witherer is real, I thought, overwhelmed by a sick sense of dread and anticipation. Make your wish, but do not speak it.

Answer true and I shall grant it, the wither rasped. The room froze in silence for a moment, before she spoke yet again. I am lovely in the sun, but wilt when left in the dark. what am I? Charlie looked onwards in shock before letting out a cackle and saying, Seriously, that's the infamous riddle? I took in the pungent air and breathed a deep sigh of relief. A flower, Charlie decreed proudly. In that instant, Charlie's confident sneer twisted into a look of sheer agony as he collapsed to the floor, writhing in part, pain as his teeth fell from his mouth. His nails were next to go as they slid from his fingers.

Then his flesh blackened with lesions that oozed pus and thick black blood. Finally, his flesh turned to a liquid and dripped from his bones in chunks. I froze and watched in horror as my best friend withered away into a heap of human sludge. I knew then that Charlie had guessed wrong. and I only hoped I could guess correctly. Within a few seconds, nothing remained of Charlie except a pile of gruel and bow. My heart raced as I prepared myself to die as best I could. The wither turned to me next and asked the same riddle that sealed Charlie's gruesome fate.

Or to this day I couldn't tell you what force compelled me to say it. But before I could even think of an answer, I blurted out. The wither! All the agonising death that I was awaiting never came. Instead, the world around me went cold and blacked. The force of slamming into the wooden floor woke me up, and I frantically scanned my surroundings. But instead of the wilderness cabin,

I was in a normal-looking bedroom laying on a hardwood floor. To my surprise, I wasn't dead yet. There was no pungent odor, no pile of remains or any whispering crones. I had no idea where I was, but I was thankful to be alive. Instead, there was the smell of freshly cooked bacon and the soft voice of a woman calling out from downstairs. Charlie, breakfast is ready. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered Charlie with his camera as I reached into my pocket

and pulled out a crinkled up photograph of a dimly lit cabin in the forest. And at that moment, I knew. I knew that I'd answered correctly and gotten my wish. I was now the most popular kid in school. To this day I'm not sure if the hardest part of being Charlie is actually living his life, or if it was seeing my own missing persons' posters plastered around town. So, take it from someone who's been living alive for the last 23 years. Never go looking for the wither.

My dream home won't stop bleeding. I grew up poor. No, two ways about it. My family did everything they could to get by, but it was rarely enough. When I was a kid, the other children bullied me no end. I didn't have many friends. My parents were never around either, on account of working at least two jobs at a time. I couldn't blame them.

They were trying to keep whatever shitty apartment we happened to live in at the time. It never worked, though. The eviction notices were constant. We could never seem to get ahead in life. The fondest memory of my childhood was when my parents bought their first home. I was 16 at the time I wanted nothing more than to belong somewhere. This was right after my father got a promotion to Foreman at the construction company he worked for. Well, I didn't live there long, not even two years, but for the first time in my life, I felt as though I belonged somewhere.

My parents were happy too, for once in our life we didn't have to worry about money. I left my parents home when I graduated high school to attend college. on an academic scholarship. I'd always done well in school, despite my unpopularity. I would later graduate at the top of my class and begin my career in finance. After a few years of working my ass off and living like a gloistered monk, I saved enough money to get a home of my own. I long for the feeling that I'd felt when my parents had bought their house.

In no time I found out that searching for homes was an abysmal disappointment. I even got to experience a very familiar feeling. Everything I wanted was well out of my price range. Demoralized, I was ready to consign myself to a dump of a place, so long as it was close to work. It'd be a step above my efficiency apartment, after all. But then I discovered a glimmer of hope. I had a gorgeous old home in my price range. The only unfortunate thing being its distance from my job.

I could live with that. It was a real steel. The house shown in the ad was constructed in a breathtaking Victorian style. He stood two stories tall and was painted in an eye-catching shade of crimson. There was an iron fence outside in a post where an old-timey sign had once hung. It was filled with long hallways, high ceilings and twisting spiral staircases. It even had a chandelier. It was everything that I'd ever wanted.

The events following my discovery of the ad at all, a blur. I closed on the house and moved in with her month of finding it. The seller was an elderly woman. She seemed keen on selling it as soon as possible. I bought the home for $40,000 under value. It was the deal of a lifetime. Moving all alone was a pain in the ass, but otherwise uneventful. I didn't even have enough possessions to fill the house.

Several rooms were left empty. For the first week I was in a constant state of awe. It felt even better than where. my parents have bought their house i basked in the warm feeling of homeliness that i was experiencing but then the strange occurrences started small things being out of place characterized these first incidents never an item that you'd expect to misplace though like car keys or my wallet they were strange things like the plunger ending up in the dining room or pillows turning up in the kitchen following these strange happenings i began double-checking

checking my locks every night. I suspected one of the neighbourhood kids had been pranking me while I was at work. Well, I admit this was a bit of a stretch considering that my nearest neighbour was half a mile away. To my surprise, it continued to occur. Over time, the situation got even weirder. Cabinet doors would open by themselves. The occasional tap would come on without warning. Sometimes lights would turn off. Every now and again, the thermostat would adjust itself. I didn't know what to make of this. I'm not superstitious, so I figured that someone was getting in through the windows, and this, of course, allowed me, but it was easy enough to remedy.

Upon inspection of the windows, I found some of them unlocked. I dealt with this in square fashion by installing locks on every window, even on the second floor. No one would get into my house now. Over the course of the following weeks, things got worse, much worse. The door slammed shut, footsteps roamed the halls, and I swear I could hear whispers at night. I hadn't considered the possibility of my house being haunted until one day, when the walls started bleeding. I was sitting at my kitchen table when it first happened. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a wet crimson substance oozing from the walls in the hallway.

When I turned to face it, I saw, plain as day, that there was blood. seeping from my wall. It wasn't a deluge of blood, though. It was as though the house had broken out in a steady, heavy sweat. In a state of shock, I tried to wipe it away, but as I did, it disappeared as the rag touched it. It wasn't corporeal at all. Instead, it was like it was an illusion. As I tried to wipe it away, the phenomena would begin somewhere else.

The blood collected on the floor and pulled on the hardwood floor before vanishing. I was never religious or superstitious, but I ran to my cell phone with haste and dialed up a local church. A man named Father Forelli picked up. The bleeding stopped while I was on the phone with a priest. Still I explained to him that something was wrong and that I needed help. He comforted me over the phone and showed up the following day to bless the house. It surprised me considering that I wasn't a member of his congregation, nor was I religious.

He didn't even know me. It turned out that it hadn't been the first time he'd been to this house. The old woman who'd owned the house before me had many similar complaints at first. This greatly reassured me, I now knew that I wasn't crazy. Still, though, I didn't like what he had to say one bit. He told me that there was something wrong with the house on a fundamental level, that a previous owner must have committed heinous deeds. This was a mortal issue, one that God had no whim to fix.

Despite Father Ferelli's reservations, he did as I asked. He went from room to room blessing the entire house. Upon completion of this task, he told me that moving was the only actual solution. According to the priest, my house was very sick. According to him, something truly horrible had to have happened here. In the weeks following the blessing, things only got worse. The whispers turned into crystal clear voices. They conversed with each other at all hours.

They ruminated over what sounded like outdated medical procedures. After a few weeks of pondering what Father Forelli had said, I decided I was going to move away. No harm had come to me, but I was unwilling to wait around for it to happen. My house was clearly haunted. Not long after deciding I began seeing people in my house, they wore Victorian-era clothes and they, like the wall. walls bled from every orifice. They always appeared to be mutilated in different ways. Some were missing

limbs, some had no eyes, tongue or teeth, while others were disembowl. And my what fate these beings met, they always had a hollow, emotionless expression. It was truly haunting, especially when I catch one in the mirror. The horrific entities would wander the halls around the clock. They never spoke me or even acknowledge my existence. The only thing they ever did was wander the whores as if lost. Not sure when it started, but at some point I would walk into rooms and see them doing abhorrent things. It would mutilate each other with a slew of tools, all while wearing blank expressions.

Once I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth, only to be greeted by the empty visage of one of these spectral men. He had long hair, a thin moustache, a scarred face, and wore a tall. black top hats. In his right hand he brandished a rusty, nab-looking haxel. I wanted to run more than anything, but instead of running, I stood there paralysed. It was if something had rooted me to the floor. I was aghast and horrified at what I saw what I saw happen next. He approached a woman in a long white dress who was kneeling over my bathtub. She held out a dainty hand to him, which he took to my horror, carved through from fingertip to wrist with his saw. He hacked through her flesh and bone,

his face contorting in an unnaturally wide grin. His grin became so wide that his mouth fell open, revealing that his mouth was slit from ear to ear. Despite his enjoyment, he remained silent as death. I was still in shock as the woman got up. Her face bore no emotion at all. Instead of writhing in agony, she turned and walked down the hall, allowing thick, dark blood to pour from her mangled hand as she descended the spiral staircase. The sadistic man then stood up, soaring hands. He made his way down the hall shortly afterward, walking directly through me. As his spectral form passed through mine, a visceral chill shot through my body. This caused me to shiver violently. He didn't even realize or seemed to care that I watched him commit this vile deeds.

At that moment, I found myself freed from my temporary stasis. I turned from my bathroom, sprinted down the stairs to leave this forsaken house. I couldn't take the never-ending horrors anymore. When I went to grab my car keys, I found only an ancient-looking photo where they usually sat on my kitchen counter. The sepia turn resembled old Wild West photos that I remembered from history classes. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I noticed. that it was the same man I'd seen moments ago. He was standing in front of my home, I dressed head to toe in all black.

He held the same rusty hacksore it used to split the woman's hands. Next to him was a wooden sign that said, Dr. Johannes, fleshman, general surgeon. Being so engrossed in the photo, I didn't notice that my keys had been sitting next to it. After snapping back to reality, I grabbed them and got into my car. While in my car I called the real estate company. I needed to figure out how to contact the old woman who'd sold me the house. She had to have answers.

I confirmed my theory when I got contact information for the previous owner from the realtor. After a several hour-long conversation, I found out that my house had been a doctor's office in the 1850s. It served as something much worse later on. Dr. Johannes Fleischman opened his priceless. practice in 1851. He worked out of the house until 1857. That was when the authorities caught him performing amputations without cause. He would give false medical advice and tell people the only way to cure them was to operate. Disgraced, Fleishman quit practicing medicine and instead

opened a new business. His new career was much more macabre than even what he did beforehand. Fleischman's new business was a parlour, but people go to to spectate torches. It's alleged that there are dozens of bodies buried on the property, but no one ever cared to look. The good doctor was cunning. He only ever took those who didn't have family in the surrounding towns. Still, despite his careful measures, one family did discover what was going on. The doctor had gotten careless in 1873 and kidnapped.

a young girl named Annie. Annie's father was an unhinged war veteran who long suspected the doctor's crimes. One night he broke into the home and legend has it, he caught the doctor in the act. Annie's father stabbed Fleischman almost one hundred times, but that was after cutting his mouth from ear to ear with a glass bottle. None of the crimes have ever been confirmed, though. According to the town records, Dr. Johannes Fleischman died peacefully in his home. No one ever asked question, seeing as he was loath by the townsfolk. The woman who sold me the home disclosed none of this for obvious reasons. She informed me that the apparitions are harmless, but they never stop.

She also told me that they would get worse the longer I stayed, and to prepare myself for that. It's obvious that these events were true. The doctor's victims have never left this house, and they never will. Instead, damnation and ceaseless torment await them in the house's haunted halls. Well, I'm trying to sell the house. It's been on the market for almost a year now, and no one's showing any interests. I don't care about losing money on it at this point. I just want it gone.

The only problem is that I can't bring myself to not disclose the home's sordid parts. Every time a potential buyer arrives, I tell them the truth. I let them know that the house is sick. So for now, the home remains my problem. The apparitions are only getting worse, and day by day, I can feel insanity creeping up on me. Made a horrifying discovery in my brother's basement. Growing up, my twin brother David and I were always very close.

Our parents divorced when we were teenagers, leading to our separation. I went to live with our mother while David remained with our father. During this separation, we did our best to stay in contact, but our parents' avoidance of each other meant that we didn't see much of the other. When we graduated from high school, we attended the same college and became close yet again, even being roommates for a few semesters. Oh, I couldn't take it after a while, though. he was always such a clean freak and had some OCD tendencies

my brother and I didn't share his OCD sentiments I'm not a dirty or crew person by any means but my brother and I have very different living habits eventually this led to me moving in with the girl I was seeing not my finest hour but it was a lesson learned David reached out to me last Thursday asking me to watch his new house while he was out of town on a business trip. Not a daunting task in the slightest, but it meant a lot to him. He just moved into a new house and was ecstatic about him. I agreed without hesitation. Additioned to his OCD. My brother has

always been a bit paranoid. A bit of a weirder. Because of his paranoia, he, upon graduation from college, moved into one of those suburbs where everyone's home looks the same. The development even has a neighbourhood watch made of a like-minded, paranoid carins. Trivial things like that reassured my brother to an extent. But he still had his entire property wired with cameras. Even inside the house, it took me several passes of the neighbourhood to determine which house was his. I really wasn't kidding when I said they all looked the same. Eventually I found his house.

I parked up my beat-up old car in the garage. I didn't want to leave it in the driveway. unless the neighbours determined it to be an eyesore and call the cops on me. Reaching for the doorknob, I noticed a handwritten note on the door. It read, remove your shoes, please. Combeiro, I thought. Upon entering his house, I discovered that it was in pristine condition, though even plastic covering still on the furniture.

The paint on the walls was pearly white. It appeared almost as though the house was unoccupied. In the kitchen I found yesterday, another note on the counter. There's a list of rules written on it. Russell, please make yourself at home, but please respect these rules. It'd make me feel a lot better if you did. One, please remove your shoes.

Two, please ensure the doors remain locked at all times. Three, please watch for any suspicious activity on the cameras. Four, do not remove any of the plastic, coverings from their furniture. Five. Please stay out of the basement. It's not finished yet, and the contractor says it's still a mess. We wouldn't want anyone getting hurt.

Still the same old date. Locking the door I'd enter through. I made my way to the fridge to get a beer. Well, I planned ahead. I made sure David picked me up a case of my favorite brew in exchange for me watching the house. A beer in hand. I made my way to the living room to find something on TV. To my surprise, there were two TVs.

The first one was small and mounted to the wall. He had several camera feeds displayed on it, including one that showed me sitting on the couch, looking at the monitor. God, I wish he could just be normal. Well, I admit it. It was weird watching myself on the camera feed, but Sir Phelence wasn't new behaviour on David's part. David's second TV is one of the massive,

curved 4K Ultra HD ones. The cellar was pretty sweet, and I had to admit, my goofy-ass twin brother had a nice place. The only annoying part about staying in the brand-new home was the fact that I kept sticking to his couch on account of the plastic cover. Everything was great. The beers were cold, and the TV was crystal clear.

That is, until that maddening, dripping sound started. It was so damn agitating. It was as though. someone was standing right next to me, slowly ringing out a sopping wet towel. Turning to the camera monitor, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I just turned the TV up to drown out the sound of the annoying noise. It worked for a short time until it got louder. I was getting tired and knew I wouldn't be able to sleep with that annoying noise.

After nearly an hour of searching the house for leaky pipes, I gave up momentarily. And I remembered that the basement was still undergoing renovations. Maybe he had a crap pint. If that were the case, it wouldn't be right for me to just let it go. It could cause some expensive damage if it was left unattended. The basement itself was a large, empty room with unfinished dry wall and concrete floors. I went to flick the light switch on, but it didn't work. I thinking the lights had yet to be wired, I pulled out my cell phone and turned on my flashlight.

Using it to scan the room, I noticed a dripping, exposed pipe right above an oddly placed porcelain tub in the room's corner. I've always been handy and I keep a set of tools in my truck at all times, so I decided I'd fix the leaky pipe for David's. Within a few minutes I'd fixed it and was ready to go back to binge watching TV. But as I turn round, I noticed something bizarre. In the far corner, there was a small box TV sitting on the floor. To my surprise, it had turned on on its own. Crackling static filled the screen and caused it to illuminate that part of the room. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I made my way over to it.

It wasn't like David to keep an old TV around at all, let alone in the corner of his basement on the cold concrete floor. There was no way he was actually using the thing. As I got closer, I noticed a VCR along with a stack of VHS tape sitting next to it. I wonder what that weirder was watching down here. Probably some kind of nasty 80s porn. The tapes were all unlabeled, and I was curious, so I slipped one in. It was just surveillance footage from around the house.

Bizarre as things go. I fast-forwarded through it for a while, saw it was just a camera feed footage from his backyard. It only was uneventful, but it still made me feel very uneasy. What would David possibly have to be so worried about? After fast-forwarding some more, I grew bored and flipped on another tape. God, I wish I hadn't.

This tape started off much like the first one, just boring surveillance footage of the back yard. Then a woman walked across the yard. Next thing I knew, a figure in all-black grabbed her from behind and forced her to the ground. He seemed to stab her in the neck with something and she quickly stopped resisting. The dark figure picked her up off the ground and walked right towards the camera. Heart sank into the pit of my stomach. The camera sits above the back door.

The tape cut to black, I turned to walk out of the basement. I was going to go home now to call the police. But as I turned my back, the TV screen lit up again, and the most horrifying shriek I've ever heard as sail of my ears. Spinning around, I saw a ghastly sight on the small screen. The camera pointed towards a naked, struggling woman, chained in a bathtub. She was badly beaten and cuts adorned her entire body. Moments later, the man in black came into the room and poured what appeared to be honey all over her.

And he then dumped a bucket of large, cockroaches into the tar. The bugs swarm the woman crawling all over her new body, as she screamed at the top of her lungs, begging for help. I sat there, peering mindlessly into the TV, both engrossed and sickened by what I was watching. The video then transitioned to a time-lapse video of the bugs eating her. The timestamp on the film showed that it took two days for her to stop twitching.

She screamed for a while, at least until the bug's eating her. crawled down her throat and began eating her from the inside out took four days for the insects to devour her flesh completely that poor woman was eaten alive by roaches and this tape was in my brother's house I was speechless unwilling to put two and two together I wanted to call the police right then but Macabra curiosity got the better of me as I slid the next tape into the VCR. Somehow the next tape was even worse, probably because it proved without doubt

that my brother was responsible for these horrific killings. The next tape saw him drag a woman from his living room into the basement's direction. The tape cut to black again, much like the first one. This time, I waited for it to resume. There was a woman in the same tub

as the first tape, bowed in the same way. Suddenly a man appeared, in the frame. It was my brother. He wasn't wearing a mask this time. After having his way with a poor woman, he started raving about how she was dirty and needed cleansed. Couldn't watch any more, but for some sick reason I couldn't force myself to look away. Like a zombie, I started onward as my brother dumped bleach all over the woman and scrubbed her with a steel wall. I'll spare the details of where on her body he started, but by the end of the end of her, he started. But by the end of her, he started.

end of it, her body resembled spaghetti. It appeared as though she passed out from blood loss when my brother began violating her again, smearing himself in her blood as he did. I had to hold back from vomiting as he did this. How would I call this lunatic my brother? And somehow the woman began screaming again. David screamed furiously at her, demanding that she shut up. When she didn't, he picked up a hatchet from the third.

floor and began hacking her apart with an anvil, a murderous glint in his eye. Finally, the crazed hacking ceased, and David began throwing her body parts into heavy plastic bags before rushing over to the camera to turn it off. Had he always been like this? A deranged murderer. Feverishly I slid another tape into the VCR, hoping to find the answer. The next tape was the worst yet. showed David yet again kidnapping a woman, violating her and torturing her.

But the way he did it still haunts me. He began by pulling out her teeth with a pair of plies. I could hear the cracking of bone and the twisting of gums as he did it. Next he took a small pairing knife and scout her before walking out of the room with his totem in hand. This woman continued to scream for at least 30 minutes before David entered the frame again. This time he was wearing her scalp and hair. The long black hair, partially obscured his face as he approached her while holding a drill. It kicked the TV hard, knocking it over and shattering the scream.

I couldn't take it any more. I could still hear the screams coming from the TV, even though the image was no longer there. I rushed up the stairs, not even thinking to grab the six more tapes still sitting on the floor, which would surely be damning evidence. I made it to my truck and booked it out of the garage and prepared to dial 911 but before I could my cell phone lit up with a text from David's leaving so soon it read I ignored the message and called the police right away they had to get a search warrant and that process took too long and as a result they never found the tapes

this whole piece of evidence retrieved was a broken tube television I haven't spoken to my brother in seven years. I don't plan on speaking to him ever again. He deserves to rot for the things he's done. I'm writing this because I just received a package in the mail. It was a tape. The footage I was of me sitting in that god-forsaken basement, staring into the TV, scrawled on the tape in Sharpie Woods. Seven years ago, today. 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.