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Henry sighed, with a faint quiver in his raspy, smoker's voice. A deeply wrinkled chain smoker, whose salt and pepper beard that touched his outward set collar bone, smelled of smoke and failure. Henry had children, yes he did, but his children didn't want him. They would rather not have anything to do with him. Any attempt to make contact comes to a dead end. His children, all grown up and hardened to the world, stopped caring for Henry after the divorce he and his wife had a few years back. Henry, who had lost job after job, finally snapped. He lost his head. No fragile object was left unbroken, and a few bruises came of it in the process. After a year-long legal spat, Henry lost just about everything, except the money he had kept away in a bank account he almost forgot existed. Imagine his luck, remembering that bank account.
"Imagine my luck," Henry managed to say to himself, before his voice gave out underneath choked tears and a quivering voice. Henry was always second best. He never made a varsity team in high school, never had that promotion, never had a fulfilling life. His kids hated him. His ex-wife hated him. Most of his friends had fallen out of touch and family was practically non-existent.
With his head reeling, Henry barely managed to catch his breath. He inhaled quickly. His thoughts immediately began to race again.
My kids hate me, my ex-wife hates me, I feel alone in this world. No one gives two shits about Henry. Henry is a failure, a loser, a bum, a mooch and a tramp. Why should anyone care?
You hear them, on the other side of the door, moaning and scraping. You look at the gun, and remember what you had to do, who you had to kill to survive for this long. (No, not who. What. Those…things…weren’t your friends, weren’t your family, wasn’t the one you loved. They might have had their faces, but they didn’t have their souls. Right?) Was it worth it, you wonder. You’re probably going to die soon, anyway. There’s probably an army at that door, and it won’t hold forever. And even if it did, those things won’t go away. You’re stuck here until you starve to death. What a terrible and undignified way to die. And having those things come in and eat you is no better. Hell, it’s probably worse.
There’s an easy way out though. The gun.
The gun can provide a quick and clean death. No pain.
Just one shot.
So a week ago it was my birthday, I just turned eighteen and I decided I wanted to fuck around and look for ghosts (I would’ve hung out with friends but I wasn’t in the mood to be a third wheel). If only I just sucked it up and dealt with it… Instead I shoved my phone and a flashlight in my hoodie pockets and snuck out my back door.
I really didn’t expect to find much or I would’ve brought a proper weapon with me too, I guess it’s sort of dumb to think about it in retrospect. I remember glancing at the clock; it was around eleven or twelve at night when I left. It was pretty fuckin’ dark because there was a new moon and I figured if I was gonna see anything cool, it was now.
Now, I wasn’t just walking around in the forest herp-a-derping. There’s actually a pretty sketchy cemetery about a ten minute walk from my house that’s been around for the past couple of hundred years. It’s also a spot that practices a “green burial”, where they put the body in a bio-degradable casket and send it on its way in the dirt.
Well, my uncle owns the plot of land the cemetery is built on, and being the cheap bastard he is, most bodies buried there end up thrown in there by itself. I figured there must be some kind of ghost pissed off about having such a shitty resting place who roams around the cemetery at night and I guess I was thinking I could point him out to where my uncle lives, start a haunting, just for shits and giggles. It probably doesn’t work that way but I wasn’t expecting to find something anyway.
I finally made my way there and I was about to go through the gate to the cemetery when I see some humanoid grey-colored…thing in the nature trail next to the cemetery (and yes, I shit you not, my uncle thought it was a great idea to put a nature trail next to the cemetery). I’m a little nervous at this point, because I can’t think of anybody other than me crazy enough to go to this place at night. There isn’t even a car around so whoever the fuck it was walked there just like I did. I shout out to this dude thinking maybe it’s some stoner smoking there or another ghost hunter.
Well, they didn’t say anything; all I could hear was this sickly sound of wheezing. I thought maybe they needed help and were out of breath from running away from something so I take a deep breath and start walking down the trail. I whipped out my flashlight to light up whoever’s down there only to stop dead in my tracks: whatever the fuck this thing was, it had no arms and no clothes on.
Basically I NOPEd the fuck out of there, ran the whole way home and locked every door in my house.
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Those who have encountered them, willing to try and recount what they saw, have given many descriptions, but something that everyone could recall was the solid, pitch black eyes staring right at them. And a weird feeling of loneliness coupled with content. A few seconds later, the content loneliness turns to absolute dread, a type of dread that they have never felt before.
Frozen, they just stand there as the creature walks around them looking them up and down before, with a flash of light, the creature disappears. The next thing they know, they wake up feeling strangely empty inside. This feeling lasts anywhere from a few hours to a few days. The whole time, they don’t talk much and just sit staring into space. Once they recover, they're never the same, but the one thing they always make sure to tell people is, whatever you do, don’t follow that urge.
Two weeks later, there was a sound. There was a humming. It came from that place on the carpet, the spot near the corner. His spot.
I’m getting concerned. I guess I was a bit distracted before, but my mind is clear now. They’re gone, and I am frankly growing more concerned by the minute.
A chalk-white amorphous thing. A hideous, absolutely hideous thing. I saw it. I saw it on the rug, and it scared me. It looked at me, grinning with half-formed white eyes filmed over. It writhed towards me. A heat, some sort of sickening heat radiated from it, and it saw my disgust and thrived upon it.
I had hoped it would live in one of the closets, but it was content to ooze about my home, leaving trails as it went. I am quite sure that if I had not put the towel under the bathroom door it would have tried to come in and join me while I bathed myself.
Today it has appendages. I am not sure if they existed before, but now they most certainly do. It has two, with one on either side, and it crawls haphazardly along like some sort of horrid lopsided insect. It tried to follow me out through the door, but I kicked it and it did not try any longer.
It thumps around as I try to sleep, dragging its body everywhere and leaving residue all over the house.
I took my cat to Daryl’s. The thing didn’t follow me. I’m glad. It may get me, but it will not get my cat.
It now has four appendages and is beginning to form a skull-like dome under its pulsing skin. It has a mouth, a crooked little mouth, and I am afraid it will begin to make sounds at me. Three of the appendages are longer than the fourth, so it mostly wobbles around in crooked little circles. It is getting bigger, and it never stops changing. I was hoping it would stay and become some sort of indiscernible monster, but now I am sure that it is becoming a person, or at the very least something similar. I would like to kill it. I wonder if I could.
The appendages are even now. It’s disgusting, with abhorrent little limbs forming perfectly. They’re currently flippers and nubs, cartilage and bright blue veins under translucent white skin. It sits and stares at me as the cat did, but instead of curiosity it looks on with a hunger and a disquieting energy. Just as the cat’s did, however, its eyes reflect the slightest light in the darkness. They’re omnipresent and wide and green and yellow as I try to sleep. The eyes are not (yet?) the same size, which only serves to make the thing more unnerving.
It sits at the top of the stairs, waiting for me, smiling down at me with crooked reflective eyes and a small mouth full of small black teeth. My bedroom is upstairs. I am afraid to go up.
It also has hands and feet now; the nubs gave way to small, slender fingers and toes. It is beginning to walk and climb about, and there are small white hand prints smudged on all of the doorknobs. I think at this point towels will do me no good.
It can open doors. I’m sure of it now. It’s androgynous in anatomy, but for him I think it male. It still smiles at me and stares, but says nothing. A small mercy.
Last night I picked up a favorite old anthology and decided to read it while resting in the rocking chair next to my bedroom window. In response, the accursed thing stood in my doorway, leering at me, intent to ruin any escape. It succeeded. Frustration and fear gave way to rage, and I pushed up the window, ripped a hole in the screen, and flung the book outside into the night.
The thing ventured down the stairs, in and out the front door, and brought the book back- an arm snaking against and over the arm of my chair, depositing the small book in my lap, complete with bony hand print. That was the closest it had ever gotten to me. I became frightened.
I stared at the thing and then tossed the old book to the carpet. To think; to only have to deal with a beating beneath the floorboards! This thing mocked me and tormented me and lived and breathed and watched. It looked at the book for a moment, then curled up in the corner and stared at me, large uneven eyes with skin pulled back around. It stared at me and smiled with its little teeth.
The thing has started polluting my food or hiding it or both, and I found that shampoo burns my scalp and razors jut from the pages of my books. No longer content to mull around and lurk in corners, it is now actively making my life miserable.
Eventually, I had no choice but to venture out to the local supermarket and replace my now useless toiletries and food. I had become accustomed to it staying at my home, content to violate my private space, but I always held a suspicion it would begin to follow me. My fear was confirmed.
I drove to the store, did my shopping, and checked out. Nothing unusual happened. I walked outside. Nothing! I approached my car and believed to have seen it, but had not. I then glanced up and saw it.
It was far away. I do not know if it was making an attempt to hide, but it was there; it was there, looking at me, half-hidden behind a tree. Our eyes met, and I shivered. It appeared pleased, then it crawled its thin body back behind the tree, paused, and stuck its head out to continue watching me. The eyes were even, but they seemed to be getting larger, and darker, and more vacant; even from the distance between the two of us they stood out much against the bleached skin that surrounded them.
It smiled, but showed no teeth. I suppose it did not want to show them in public. I wondered what it had planned for me. I blinked and it was gone.
I paused for a moment, worried it would appear somewhere closer, but nothing happened. I then packed up the groceries and returned home. I stopped, retrieved my mail, pulled up, parked, got out, glanced up, and a light happened to catch my eye; I saw a foreign light my bedroom window. Faintly silhouetted against my window was the thing, staring intently down at me, shuddering against the glass, violating my room. I’m sure it had been watching the entire time, waiting for me to notice. In silhouette it looked so much like a person now, though was really little more than a lumpy childlike skeleton with enormous dark eyes.
If I killed it, would the authorities come back and blame me for killing a person, I wondered? I wondered. I wondered if it would try to snake a hand through the hole in the screen and reach for me.
Last night I sat on the couch flipping channels, desperate for any distraction or escape. The phone was next to me, but I was too afraid to call anyone for help, lest what happened before be found out. It must be said, though, that the pressure was becoming unbearable.
It sat in his corner again, sat in a sphinx-like position despite looking so human now, and just as I hit the one channel with static for the umpteenth time the thing in the corner began to whisper. I ignored it and changed the channel, hoping it would shut up. Its whispering merely grew in speed and intensity, and while it did not move, its eyes reflected the television screen and widened and its small chest heaved as it rattled off. I turned up the volume and began flipping rapidly, infomercial then sports channel then a cartoon, then suddenly his face was on the screen, tongue lolling out and blue face gasping for air and mercy and the thing was in front of me and in front of the television, facing me, gibbering and staring and I screamed over it and the television and the room went dark
This is too much, and I understand now the extent of blind terror the idea of certain death instinctively brings about in people. I have known the thrill of killing and the fear of being caught, but neither the idea of retribution nor of my life itself ending were ever real to me.
The mere thought of this thing, however, drives a black and bleak and cold and nearly unbearable fear to my core, let alone the feeling that I get when I feel it mulling about my room at night or when I awake to find small bruises, cuts, and white chalky smudges on my person.
I want to kill it, but I don’t know what would happen if I tried. I don’t know what to do.
I’ll say it here. Maybe it will help. It has been a while, but
I murdered him.
It’s all clean, but I did it. He looked at me and looked at me and looked at me and would not stop. I should have known he would never stop. I knocked him down and strangled him until his throat collapsed under my thumbs and I dumped the body somewhere far away.
At first I had nightmares about him screaming then wheezing then his eyes and skin bursting like blood and confetti. I had them every night.
Then the police left, and I was left to read in my warm bed with my cat sleeping alongside me or pawing at the pages. The investigation ceased, the nightmares ceased, and I was at peace. Then the humming started.
The humming and the warmth all over and I can see its reflection in my computer monitor
My home, my bed, my person, and now my dreams. I’m having nightmares again, but they’re much, much worse. In my dreams it’s there. It has no eyes, but it stands tall and with its wide mouth and talks to me and laughs at me and screams and looks ready to devour me. Sometimes I understand its words and sometimes they’re incomprehensible, but whenever I wake up I cannot remember their precise nature. The dreams feel dark and hot and cramped and I wonder if anything worse could possibly happen to me if I die.
I wonder what it would depend on if it killed me or if someone else did.
Maybe I will do it. I have a pistol in a box in my bedroom closet, and if I were to fling the thing from its watching place down the stairs it would give me enough time to run and grab the gun.
I just wouldn’t be sure who to use it on.
I have worried about the thing reading these entries and figuring out my intentions, but I have not seen any evidence of it examining the keyboard or monitor. I comfort myself in regards to this matter by believing that its form of comprehension is much too primal and hunger-driven to allow for much complex thought.
Maybe I’m a fool.
Maybe it knows everything.
Regardless, it’s in my dreams and my brain and every waking moment and I am determined to end it.
I found my solution. I purchased a shotgun. If we’re both within range when I pull the trigger, it should do the trick. Wish me luck.
Why didn’t I die
Why didn’t it die
I don’t understand
I cleaned the carpet after before but now it’s soaked with blood
I wonder if with the way my head is, looking at it is like a mirror because
I bled like a person and the thing bled black and it’s all everywhere and I haven’t looked in the mirror but I blasted half of its skull off and there are bits of red and blue flesh everywhere and it’s still looking at me leering at me smiling at me spurting and bleeding at me
the keyboard is covered in my blood and I don’t know how long I can keep this up
I only have one idea left
I think I am going to go
Written above are the journal entries of Christopher Young, found dead in a rock quarry next to the mutilated, partially decomposed, and recently moved remains of Shaun Dawes, his young neighbor and (former) friend. Dawes’s death was one of head trauma followed by strangulation, but Young’s cause of death is as of yet undetermined, though he was malnourished and his hygienic state was in vast disrepair. In fact, thanks to his physical and mental state leading up to his death, it is uncertain how he managed to drive the relatively great length from his home to the quarry in which he ended up.
It is also worth mentioning that neither fresh blood nor any of the firearms Young, mentions in his writing were found in his home; all our forensics team found were older traces on the carpet and mantle corner that likely belonged to Dawes. We’re currently probing autopsy reports for any information they can provide on Young’s mental health from Dawes’s death onward and requesting further investigation by every department involved. All we have to go on in regards to Young apart from his cadaver’s physical state and these entries is virtually nil; as of my writing this, we haven’t come up with a single witness or piece of evidence outside of what I mentioned above, apart from an interview with “Daryl”, Christopher’s brother.
To be frank with you, even said interview with was fruitless; he was distraught at the death of his younger brother, but said that Young seemed perfectly content and had claimed he was going on a vacation and that his cat would only need to be taken care of for about a week minimum. The two bodies were found five days later in the quarry, meaning that if the older of the Young brothers is being truthful (and isn’t afflicted with his brother’s psychosis), Young’s physical and mental deterioration happened much more quickly than we had first assumed, and much more quickly than should have been possible.
I’ll keep you updated as we learn more, of course. It’s all very strange.
I remember waking up in the hospital, the smell of the disinfectant they used in there and the screams of joy from my family as I awoke. It was three days from that point that they told me what happened that night... the passengers in the car were dead, we had hit a tree and I was the only one to survive. When they told me that it felt as if knives were stabbing me in the gut, it only seemed like a few nights ago I was with them, but in reality I had been in a coma for eighteen days.
I do not expect you to understand what the feeling is like when you miss your friend's funerals, I do not expect you to know what it is like to have killed your friends. The police had told me that it was mechanical error that caused the crash, but I don't agree with that I took my eyes of the road, I might've been able to correct it. I remember on my last night in the hospital I heard a whisper, not loud, it was barely audible out of the four or five words that were said I only heard one, 'you'... As I turned to where I had heard the voice coming from I thought I saw a shadow sprint across the room. I tried in vain to stay awake, but eventually the darkness enclosed me and I slept.
The next day I asked doctors about what happened and they told me that it could be from the injuries I had gained from the crash and not to think much of it, just to get rest and make sure I stay hydrated and eventually they will go away.
When I finally got home I felt comfortable and decided to check out my Facebook page. I had forty two messages, most of them were abuse due to what had happened, although some of the people had also sent apologies for what I was going through an tried to be empathetic. I was just about to log off, but a message came up, it was from Andrew! I took a deep breath and had a look at the message, it simply said, 'Because of you I am dead!'. I yelled for my dad and he rushed in he saw the message. He cursed and went off his head about how much Andrew's dad couldn't deal with Andrew's death and clearly he was trying to scare me. It never went away, it stuck with me, it never went away. If scaring me was his intention, he did a damn good job of it! A sick joke, but I understand why he did it, to everyone but the police, it was my fault.
it was days before anything happened again, I was walking to the servo (Australian slang for gas station) to go get a Coke. There was something watching me. I couldn't see it at first, but I could feel it. I was filled with a coldness, I didn't know what it was. My shoulder felt the coldness the worst. I realised, it was a hand, I turned around to punch it, but there was no one there, the only person was on the other side of the road. They looked familiar. I noticed who it was, it was Sophia! She pointed and screamed at me as blood dripped from her mouth, I froze. I didn't know what to do, then she vanished.
I wish I had died. I was trying to sleep that night, all I could hear was whispers until there was a high pitch whisper! I woke up, but I didn't dare get out of my bed. They were all there, Tim, Sophia, Andrew and Mark! They looked normal, until Andrew looked at me and said, 'Because of you, I am dead!' He then proceeded to pull shards of glass out of his face, blood gushing out of the wounds, but there wasn't screams from him, only laughter and that was all. Then once again they disappeared.
It is my fault they died, so as the bible says, an eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
Jack Glieson was found in his room, this was the last thing he wrote before he killed himself. Six shards of glass were found on his bed.