• The Generally Just Creepy Stuff Thread V2: Hyperrealism, Content, or GTFO.
    2,555 replies, posted
Fairly long story coming up, but it's not serious. [quote]It always seems to start the same way. All the time, just me leaving the house with my son, telling the wife 'Don't worry, we're just going out for a bike ride!'. And it always ends the same way, those blaring horns screaming out and out to me, entering and bursting my eardrums. As soon as I start, as soon as I put my foot down on the pedal, I lose all control of myself. I'm powered by some unseen, unreal force that pushes me on and on until I reach the end, and those horns, blaring out, burn my ear canals once more. The terrain always seems so different every time I open the door, and sometimes it is truly not of this Earth. Sometimes I think I'm dreaming, but this is too long for a dream. It must be a nightmare. And most of the time, the environment seems out to get me. If I'm at a construction site, all safety procedures seem to be nonexistent and enormous but completely smooth wrecking balls, made of a blacker-than-black metal of some sort, swing back and forth endlessly, just trying to murder me or my child. Occasionally I'm in a labratory of sorts, and there are giant spring platforms that propel me farther than anything could, as if I was being flung by the hand of God. Sometimes, instead of a sky there is nothing but pure white, and endless drops await me should I fall off a platform held up by nothing but air. And in these areas, pressure-activated explosives with more than enough power to kill me or snap a log, but never enough to destroy the platforms, and giant pits of spikes in gaps seem more common than grass. Recently, other people have shown up in these hellholes, but they never talk to me or even move- they just stand there, completely still, unless I run them over or wait for fate to befall them in some supernatural way. Sometimes I can simply stroll past, as if they were ghosts. Often they die in horrific or gruesome ways, and I have no way to help them- in fact, often I am the one that leads them to their demise. And other times, I am forced to move onwards, look onwards, often with the end in sight as horrible things happen to my son, who otherwise sits quietly, completely unaffected by the horrors surrounding him. Many a time have I seen his arms, protected by nothing more than a t-shirt and shorts, ripped off, and he wriggles and squirms as his blood is drained from him. I try to scream, but all I can ever let out is an uncaring 'Dammit', as if he were some plush toy. Frequently I too am hurt, my arms blown off or my legs ripped away- screams come to me easier then. Sometimes I even witness my own death, but all that happens then is that I wake up, saying goodbye to my wife as I always do. I'm getting sick of it- I think it's been going for a year now, but I can barely count. Surely I've been driven insane by now, and I just haven't realised. Still, every single time I leave, and every single time I eventually get to that end, with its waving flag and its blaring horns, and it makes me sick. But still, I am happy. And so is my son. And so is my bike. I'm leaving for a ride now. Maybe it will be different. Often my wife calls me an irresponsible dad. But personally, I think I'm a happy dad, with my happy son and my Happy Wheels.[/quote]
[QUOTE=Viper202;29529385][URL="http://www.facepunch.com/"][/URL][U][media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6CQRVODln0[/media][/U] First hearing it from Afraid of Monsters just makes it all the more creepy for me :silent:[/QUOTE] I was listening to SAW Vol II just as I came in this thread. grass to be specific. :psyduck: Speaking of afraid of monsters the part with tambourine head made me die laughing but also shit myself (in a non-literal way, of course)
I could say this may be worse than the COD one. [quote]The story starts out on a ship in the middle of the day we were moving along quite well experiancing no real dangers it was a nice ship as well. I could see the ship through the eyes of who i would believe to be incharge of the food and such. I (I will just say I for the person to save time) was conversing with a creature that looked like charmander from pokemon about how It is going to be made into chips to be eaten it agreed sadly as i walked off to the next of the creatures. This creature Also was going to be made into food it would be the dips for the chips made from the thing resembaling charmander I would have to guess this was a bulbasoar. It Did not want to be made into a meal for the other patrons so it pleaded with me as i denied it without showing any signs of remorse or sorrow for its life even though it was sentiant and tears were going down its eyes. Later on I would find myself shearing the flesh from the still living charmander with a razor. There was no blood or gore most likely because I was five at the time and did not even know what it looked like but there were signs of pain and as I carved into its flesh I stil felt no sympathy for the creature begging for me to stop I may have even found it humorus. I beleive the making of the dip was a repressed memory but I can figure it involved my mashing the other creature into a paste and adding seasoning. The story would end with Me enjoying the chips and dip not feeling any regret at all. I believe this was a dream about cannabalism seeing as I was five and my mind would concept the eating of sentiant creatures over humans because I was young but that was probably what the dream was about. [/quote]
[QUOTE=TalonAran;29566506][/QUOTE] Used the tutorial kwk posted eh?
one time i was and then a skeleton popped out
[QUOTE=proch;29577703]one time i was and then a skeleton popped out[/QUOTE] Oh shit the same thing happened to me I was and then the phone and suddenly i BUT THEN WHO WAS
one time a skeleton popped out then a skeleton popped out of that skeleton
[QUOTE=milkandcooki;29581299]one time a skeleton popped out then a skeleton popped out of that skeleton[/QUOTE] BUT THEN WHO WAS PARADOX SKELETON?
I phoned the paradox and asked if it had a spare skeleton. And then a hyperrealistic WHO WAS popped out. Happy now? Edit: some content to keep you occupied: [quote]I’m doing this for you. And for Mike, too, I guess, though I don’t think there’s much I can do to help him at this point. I suppose I should provide some background information first. I’m a sophomore in a fairly good university in Boston – no, not MIT or Harvard, but still one that’s a bit of a chore to get into. My freshman year, I had the option to live in honors housing and decided to roll with it; after all, at least the people would be interesting. Whatever arcane algorithm they use to process roommate requests took in my preferences and spat out the name of my future roommate: Mike, just another random honors kid from St. Louis. The two of us got along fine for most of freshman year – my enjoyment of Miley Cyrus notwithstanding-and so we decided to room together sophomore year as well. Now, Mike had always been a pretty obsessive guy. He tended to bounce around in his interests; one week, he would devour entire series of anime, only to later start watching random online episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and then begin working his way through the archives of the hottest new webcomic. And, of course, like any real obsessive, he would keep me posted on his latest craze. I humored him; what else are roommates for? One day earlier this week, he started telling me random scary stories. You know, those random things you find on message boards-I think his main source ended up being some site called “creepypasta” (I never understood why pasta could be creepy, but whatever). I’d hear about a med student eating an arm, or someone being autopsied alive, or some random youtube video that will drive you insane. We usually had a good laugh about them. The third day of this obsession, however, things got weird. He threw a few more stories my way before hitting the sack, but something seemed a little off. His voice had a sharp edge to it. As the hour got later, his banter got more and more inane, as though he were talking just to stave off having to go to sleep. Eventually, I pointedly got into my bed and rolled over, effectively ending any further chance at conversation. I wish I hadn’t. I sleep like a log, and that night was no exception. I don’t think I even came close to waking. Usually I can’t remember any of my dreams, but the nightmare I had that night has been clear in my mind for days now. I dreamt I was trapped in a fog so dense I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. The damp air sent chills down my spine. I could hear muffled screams in the distance. There didn’t seem to be any words, just guttural shrieks of pain. Instantly (don’t ask me how), I recognized the screams as Mike’s. I tried my best to run to him, but my feet just slid through the fog; I couldn’t get any real traction on the ground, if there indeed was any ground. The screams got further away and more indistinct, though I could still tell they were Mike’s. Eventually, they faded to nothing and I woke up. And every last trace of Mike was gone from the room. Everything. His laptop, his sheets, the “Official Zombie Survival” guide poster on the wall, the heap of trash he let accumulate on his half of the windowsill-everything. A thick layer of dust coated his entire side of the room. Absolutely nothing on my side of the room had been touched-nor had any of his stuff in the bathroom, the kitchen, or the living room of our suite. Only in the bedroom had anything been taken. I couldn’t believe it. I prayed it was a dream. I pinched my elbow until the skin was red, until my fingernails drew blood. When I didn’t wake up, I dialed campus security, who quickly brought in the Boston Police Department. I was immediately kicked out of the room so they could go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I think I must have been in shock. I felt completely numb, like nothing around me really mattered. I’d left my laptop out in our suite’s common room, so I used that to distract myself-or to try to, at any rate. When I popped open the laptop, however, a word document stared at me. Its text was the following: ‘I know this is stupid. I can’t help but think how much I’ll regret this in the morning, but for some reason I’m genuinely scared and I feel like this is the only way I can tell someone why. So here goes: earlier, I was scouring the ‘net for short horror stories-you know, rituals, tales of scary places, and the like. I came across this…warning, I guess it was. I won’t say what, and I won’t say where, for fear of you finding it yourself. Suffice it to say it sent chills down my spine, something not much has managed to do. Still, as has become my habit, I just clicked on the next hyperlink, going ever farther down the rabbit hole. The warning stayed with me, though. In the back of my head, just nibbling away, waiting until I would focus on something else to rear its ugly head. This was irrational, I knew; my mind was just playing tricks on me. Some ancestral fear had been played upon, some age-old nightmare that was just that-a nightmare, no more and no less. But that didn’t make the fear go away. Only when I looked at the clock to see how long I had until you got back that it dawned on me I had passed the time alloted me by the warning to stop what was coming (any vagueness is out of concern for you, I promise). And then the real anxiety kicked in. My palms started to sweat, and my eyes refused to stay closed for more than a second at a time. All my hairs stood on end, and I could feel my heart rate start to increase. Instantly, I knew that the warning had been real. And I had failed to heed it. My time was limited. It was about then that you got back from the TV station. I was so glad to see someone else, I can’t imagine how I sounded. Finally, someone to fight off the dark with, a companion against the now terrifying night. But clearly you weren’t interested; your yawns were a dead giveaway. You headed to bed, and I (to stave off sleep a little longer) decided to write you this. Do me a favor – if I’m wrong, forget this ever happened. If I’m right…warn them.’ So that’s what I’m doing. I’m warning you. Just be careful. Next time you go on an archive binge at creepypasta, or start checking the horror thread of your favorite discussion board, or even just try googling “creepy stories,” if you feel a chill run down your spine at some warning you’ve never read before you might want to heed it. If you decide not to, however – if you just click on your merry way-please tell Mike I’m sorry I couldn’t get to him in the fog.[/quote] [quote]This journal was found in the attic of a fully furnished and abandoned town house in 2007 next to the last purported owner’s death certificate. I. My life is so perfect that it scares me. I see smiling faces from my wife and coworkers, my boss tells me that I’m doing a fine job, and the pastor pulls me up in front of the choir to set an example for the congregation. They know nothing of my desire. If my priest knew what I was meddling in, he would condemn me to the fires of hell. When my life was difficult, I felt more alive. Each day when I open my eyes as a successful family man, I feel as though I’ve slipped one rung further on a downward spiral of age, wrinkles, and systematic failure of my body as it repeats a daily crucible of perfection that most would envy. I know some are jealous of my life when they see me on the street, and yet I would trade life, limb, and soul to live in their shoes for one day. I crave INTENSITY. The easy life is mind numbing. II. Routine, routine, routine. Every day is exactly the same as the one before it. There are a few minor details that I barely have a measure of control over. I can order a ham and swiss instead of a turkey and pepper jack for lunch, and I can scratch my dog’s left ear before his right. Coors Light, Michelob Ultra, Budweiser Select, Sam Adams Summer Ale. It doesn’t matter if I fuck my wife from behind, if I finish up on her glasses, or if she swallows. Drunk is drunk. Pussy is pussy. Everything is always the same. Soon, I’m going to try it. I’ve waited long enough. III. This is the last week I’m going to keep myself locked in this prison of endless repetition. I have all my affairs in order. I’ve written a note to my family and provided for everything and everyone. In case I get senile, this is a typical morning in my life on a normal day. I wake up at five thirty on the dot because my bones have internal timers in them, and my hip catches on fire at around five thirty four. I take a swig of mouthwash on my way to the toilet to save time, and I spend a three minute stretch swishing Listerine through my mouth and managing to squeeze out inconsistent bursts of urine. I’ve had to prop my hand against the wall since I was fifty. Standing straight up to piss is beyond me these days. My third young trophy wife Margerie can only make decent eggs over easy, and sunny side up is out of the question unless we go out. The bacon is microwaved for two minutes and thirty seconds because although her rack is perfect, she can’t cook to save her life. She spends every morning breakfast session explaining to me that my children from previous marriages are ungrateful and deserve to be cut out of my last will and testament. This all comes while I’m chewing spongy bacon and drinking cofee that tastes like engine oil. By seven thirty, after I’ve shit, showered, and shaved, I’m in my boring Saab, puttering twenty minutes to work on economy cruise control. This twenty minute window is the highlight of my day. There’s no traffic, the morning show I listen to is sometimes funny, and I take my first valium as soon as my rear tires hit Nutwood Street. For the record, my life was once gritty and unpolished, but also glamorous in a way that it was poetic. I miss being piss poor, living paycheck to paycheck, and not knowing what the next day would hold in store. I miss my first marriage, when everything was new, including some positions that I can’t do anymore because my fake hip would crucify me with pain for trying. I miss my 1970 Oldsmobile 442 that got six miles to the gallon. It was a one fifty five big block with a superstroke and a twelve second ignition top out. You felt like you were going to die if you lost even a smidgeon of control on a country road. I was young then. It all comes back to age. Old people all go out the same way. Heart attack, stroke, brain aneurism, cancer. I want to be different. It’s still sitting on my mantlepiece, but it doesn’t have to beg me anymore. I’ll soon be determined to take it down and use it of my own free will. IV. I did it. I’ve been carrying it in my jacket pocket. I can feel how cold it is through my shirt. In case I lose my mind, let me describe a normal work day, more for myself than for you. I am the second in command under a tyrannical office crone by the name of Jana. She runs a tight ship and she’s only been in the business for five years. She inherited the company from her father —- my old business partner. Soon, she had the support of everyone else, and I became the sideshow with some measure of plastic authority. She still wields the iron rod. I usually sneak a second valium in for the morning meetings, and I smile and nod more than anything else. I make Jana feel like her ideas are good, like the employeees actually care about what she has to say. When we break for lunch, I use my hour to go to one of five places. I can’t go anywhere the costs more than eight bucks. I made one hundred and sixty two thousand dollars last year, but Margerie doesn’t put out for me if I eat expensive food without her. She IS a trophy wife, after all. My choices are always limited to the Taco Bell Pizza Hut two in one, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, or the China Spring. The best deli in town is open before three, three blocks down, and I get to eat there once a week when our meetings cut short. They always have to put the meat back out because I stroll in at two fifty eight, and they glare at me with the utmost loathing. There’s no telling how many pastrami and loogie sandwiches I’ve had, courtesy of Jana’s rambling motor mouth. When I get back from lunch, Jana is always gone, and I spend three hours walking around the office and telling my employees how good they are at their jobs. The truth is, some of them really ARE good, and they know they deserve a raise. I have to tell them that I need more out of them because Jana is too much of a tightwad bitch to pay them higher salaries. She saves the extra cash for botox and the newest Corvette every year. No matter how good my day at work is, it ends in absolute frustration. I live eighteen miles from my office in the city, but in five thirty traffic, it takes me ninety minutes to get in to my driveway. The best day at work I ever had was the last day for one of our interns, Sally. It was about ten years ago, but I still remember when she unzipped my fly, pulled out my cock, snorted a line of cocaine off of it, and then drained me dry. It took me two hours to get home because of a jack knifed tractor trailer that day. Work always ends on a bad note, even when Sally is there for your afternoon delight. I hope my wife doesn’t find this diary if something goes wrong. I never cheated to hurt her. I just like to feel intense. This fucking crazy thing is so cold in my pocket now that I have a red spot on my chest from where my skin is chafing against my shirt. I think I’ll sleep with it under my pillow tonight. I’ve had enough of normal. When I wake up tomorrow, I’m opening it. V. For such a long time, it was a smooth, hard stone, not unlike something you’d pick up out of a creek and throw through Jana’s front windshield. It’s been that way since I was ten. When I was young, this town wasn’t much more than a church, a gas station, and a diner. I rode my Schwinn to service on a normal Sunday morning. He wandered in after the offering prayer, and I know most of the Methodists thought he was a homeless vagrant, sliding from town to town with three handles of whiskey inbetween. He wasn’t. He pulled me aside behind the cemetery graveyard in broad daylight before I went home because my folks weren’t at the service that day. Everyone talked and gossiped and I got plenty of warnings about talking to strangers afterward, but he was different than anyone I’d ever met. He didn’t have much to say, and he had to be at least a hundred years old, but one thing sticks in my mind, seventy one years later. “You’ve got the blood to use it, boy. I have none left. It’s someone else’s turn.” he said with dry, cracked lips. I wasn’t interested in his gift at first. Here’s an old man waving a rock in front of me and gibbering on about some lost art called “necromancy.” I told him I wasn’t interested in any work that was not of the good Lord’s. I was brainwashed. To persuade me to take the rock, he used it on my bike. As of right now, you’re the third person to know about this. I watched a clumsy, rusty contraption that had been handed down from poor kid to junk yard to dirt poor kid transform before my eyes. The stone glowed almost digital green, like the display you’d get on a high tech wilderness watch or something. The problem is, back then, digital didn’t exist. Neither did color television. I watched rust melt away in liquid red flakes, and dents faded like the metal was made of silk. In a few seconds, my bike was brand new. “I’ll be dead soon, boy. Use it on something that breathes.” he said. He looked to be in such ill health that I was scared by the prospect of his death. He dropped the stone in my pocket, and I fled. Back then, I thought honesty was the best policy. I told my parents an old man fixed up my bike for free in the graveyard with a rock. They kept me locked in the house for the next three months and told me it’s not nice to lie. I never told them about the stone. I kept it hidden in a safe place. It stayed in the back of my mind, but I ignored it for a long time. When I was fifteen, my dog Becky got caught in the wheels of the neighboring farm’s tractor because she liked to chase things. It was an accident, but she lost an eye, broke both her back legs, and she was on her way out. It was horrible. Of course, my father wanted to spare me the pain and grief with a blast of buckshot. Everyone told me it was the easiest way — that Becky would die an agonizing, slow death if my father didn’t end her life now. An hour before he got home from work to put an end to it, I took the stone and wrapped Becky in a blanket. I still remember her crying from the shifts in weight as I carried her broken body to the graveyard. Every footstep was painful to her. It took me six hours to figure out how the thing worked. I had to cut myself and give it some blood. As soon as my blood touched the surface, it opened up and became soft, like a fleshy sponge opening its mouth. The more droplets I gave it, the more it glowed, and the more frozen it became in my hand. My skin was numb with the cold — I couldn’t even feel my pocket knife. I know I didn’t do it the way he did, because I ended up with a puppy with both eyes, but two broken legs.I couldn’t bring Becky back to my family as a pup without them asking questions, so I gave her to a gypsy trying to hitch out by main street. My father tanned the living shit out of my backside when I got home, but luckily, he was the type of man who would beat you and stop asking questions afterward. He considered the matter finished, and I was grateful for that. After feeding my blood to the stone, I felt a few years older, and my body showed the signs of it. I shot up to six foot three, got hairier, and started looking at girls more often. I can never say for sure, but I think giving that time back to Becky cost me most of my adolescent years. I went through high school as a twenty year old pretending to be a teenager. My birth certificate said otherwise, but for all intensive purposes, I was older than everyone around me. I’m not asking for sympathy. I just want to pull you in to the sad affair that has become my life. My past is interesting. The present? Not so much. If I don’t explain all of this, then you’ll think I’m a horrible person for what I’m about to do. The future holds the most potential of the three. Maybe these words can put you on my side. The only explanation I owe the world is “why.” I don’t want sympathy or forgiveness; I only want you to understand. VI. I always had an inkling that my own blood wouldn’t work if the target of the stone was myself. It’s much worse than I imagined. Here’s the last part of my daily routine. I know you have no interest in it, and that by now you’ve certainly heard enough of my babbling about how terrible normal can really be. I need this from you, and you can skip ahead to the end of the grimoire if you’d like, but it will help me to write it down. I feel so old that I can’t keep it straight in my head anymore. When I pull in to the driveway on Nutwood Street, Margerie meets me when I open the garage. She tells me whatever concoction she’s left in the oven for me. It’s a game of mundane surprises. Tonight it’s meatloaf. Before I can open the door in the garage that leads to the kitchen hallway, I have to shell out some cash for my darling wife. She’s most fond of Ulysses S. Grant and Bejamin Franklin, but today, Roosevelt will have to suit her. To this day, I truly have no idea where my wife takes that money, or what she does with it. I’ve never asked, and I never will. This is possibly why I’m in my third marriage, but the intensity in life that I crave does not come from prenuptial feuds and accusations of infidelity. She shows me the movie tickets and provides better reviews than Ebert and Roeper. I’ve grown quite fond of her cinema rants. After I pay my wife and she leaves, I spend a brief moment of time at the dinner table. Usually, I attempt to eat the food as quickly as possible, and I rarely finish half of it. Mostly, I’m looking forward to the after dinner valium and a glass of wine. When I finish dinner, I watch recorded episodes of Jeopardy on the DVR with my new mutt, Sasha. I have her trained to bark in time with the bells when someone hits the Daily Double. Usually by Final Jeopardy, I’ve fallen asleep, but sometimes I keep my eyes open long enough for the Skinemax porno. More often than not, I fall asleep with my cock in my hand, and Margerie wakes me up to escort me upstairs for a goodnight romp. You think these nights of the routine don’t sound so bad, but after so many years, it gets vicious. You can substitute Margerie for my first or second wife, change the house, and put new cars in the driveway, but the routine will never, ever change without something drastic to pour in to the mix. Tonight, after forcing half of her dry meatloaf down my throat with a generous helping of Heinz 57, I opt to place the rest of the scraps on the kitchen floor for the dog before I lock the house. I grab this grimoire of my darkest confessions, and then I get in to my Saab and start the engine. I rarely see the dashboard lights and I’ve driven the Saab after the sun goes down less than a dozen times. Driving on the open road with a dying sun rehabilitates my sense of danger and excitement. Not a single human soul knows where I am right now. My first destination is the vast library at my country club. I haven’t used my membership in three years. My second destination is a back alley by the corner of Norfolk and Phelps Avenue, where the railroad tracks intersect the city between the haves and the have nots. There, I will surely find a soul in desperate need of my resources. I’ve read enough, researched enough, and toyed with this stone enough. I should have known you can’t drain yourself to make yourself younger. It’s like moving money from your checking to your savings and saying that you have more money, when really, nothing changes. Eventually, if you do it enough times, the bank will get pissed off at you. It won’t go from soft to hard again. It’s sitting here in my pocket, gaping wide open, expecting what it knows it’s eventually going to get. I need someone else’s blood to make the magic truly potent. VII. She looked vulnerable enough. I never would have imagined that she was packing a Smith and Wesson. The struggle was brief, but exciting. I didn’t open with a ruse or story. I told her that she looked hungry and down on her luck, and that I would like her to accompany me to dinner at the Cajun Kitchen, a short distance away. She ordered a shrimp po-boy with red beans and rice and devoured it with an intensity that I truly envied. I’ve never suffered the pains of true hunger. I paid the tab and we left to walk a few blocks back to her alley. She pulled the revolver from her torn coat around the same time that I shanked her with the dinner knife I swiped from the back of the restaurant. I waited until the train passed through at nine, and thank the heavens I did, for someone surely would have heard the gunshot otherwise. Her eyes bugged out around the same time that her finger depressed the trigger, but the shock of being run through with a butcher knife overpowered her sense of depth, timing, and perception. She didn’t have time to aim the weapon and shot herself in the stomach. She made it easy for me. I tried scooping her blood out with the stone, but that wasn’t enough. I used mason jars to store it in my trunk. When I got home, I went straight to the attic to give it what it needed all at once. Margerie wasn’t back yet. I was able to retrieve large sections of the Munich Manual of Demonic Magic, despite the odd stares of the librarian hussy and her ill repute towards my interest in the subject. I learned about the power of circles and the danger of using the stone without standing in the middle of one. I learned about fire and ash and the requirement of sacrifice to complete any true necromantic ritual. My sacrifice tonight was the neighbor’s cat —- or its organs, if you want to be specific. Kiss my routine goodbye. Nothing will ever be the same again. Do you know how it feels to stand side by side with the spirits of eternity? With each new drop, I saw the lives the stone had consumed. I could only guess which ones were victims of the old man who possessed the artifact before me, or how far back the lineage of sacrifice went. My homeless vagrant was last, and her stomach still had a gaping hole in it. She gnashed her teeth and tried to lash at me like a demon, but the barrier of the circle impeded me from harm. If I’m going to be alive forever, I need some form of companion, and Margerie won’t cut it. She’s a terrible cook. God, just the thought of eating her eggs for eternity makes me want to find a random sewer rat on the street and give it a brand new lease on life at the cost of my own. I used the blood of the homeless woman to rejuvenate my dog. Sasha growled at first, but once she was in the circle with me and the stone took its hold over her, she seemed to enjoy it. Even animals aren’t beyond the lure of eternal youth. I still don’t know whose soul I will use to make me youthful again. A few names come to mind —– it’s choosing one of them and not the others that really challenges me. The ritual ran in to the early hours of the morning, and Margerie was wary of my secrecy in the attic. How many owners has this thing had? I doubt I will ever know the answer to that. VIII. Sasha has been bouncing off the walls when I get home and she paws at the locked bedroom door when Margerie and I have sex. She hasn’t done that in five years. The term I’ve coined for the accuracy and power of these rituals is “necropotence.” The sacrifice, the environment, the time of night —- these are all factors that determine the extent of your success. These small details could be the difference between your body evolving in to an eternal medium for the dead, or shaving decades of wear and tear off of your lifeline. The line I walk is so very thin. I’m lucky I didn’t unleash something by mistake when I was younger. Sasha turned out halfway good, and halfway possessed, but at least she’s not human. If she becomes dangerous, so be it. All spirits serve me now. I’ve realized that this power makes me greedy, and I’m ashamed to say that it feels wonderful. I won’t relinquish this for anything. I don’t seek revenge on them for letting me lock myself in to a lifetime of mediocrity. Instead, I will use their lives as an apology. They will become part of something greater. They don’t realize who they have become or how miserable they make the rest of the world around them, but I do. I have a duty to find a meaningful purpose for them. I have seen the dead face to face, restrained from consuming my soul by nothing more than a line of chalk on the hardwood floor. Their rotting smiles form insidious and leering grins at me when I funnel the blood of my subjects through the stone. I call them subjects and not victims because they become a part of the kingdom of the dead when they pass in to my prized artifact. This is above and beyond anything they could have hoped to achieve on this plane, because I have chosen them by the very classification that their lives are pathetic. As of right now, I am no longer a man of the routine, but a necromancer. IX. Sasha and I didn’t have to sleep last night. We went for a walk. She helped me chase down another vagrant across the railroad tracks. Something tells me that it’s not exactly Sasha inside anymore. Whatever’s behind those amber eyes is in this with me for the long run. She’s better for it. I concocted an impromptu ritual in the woods and used most of the old bum’s blood. Right before the sun came up, I fed the last of what I’d gathered to the stone. I was back in time to take my morning piss at five thirty five, and guess what? I can piss standing up now, and I flushed my valiums. Soon, I’ll be on my way to work. X. I made my own eggs and bacon and I told Margerie that she’s never been good at it. I also told her I was donating my entire estate to the local funeral home and cemetery. I found it fitting. The owner and I run in close circles. When I got to work, I quit on the spot and told Jana I hated her more than I hated her old man. I spent time writing checks to various people around the office who have never received a Christmas bonus, but earn more for the company than Jana does herself. People told me I looked good —- ten years younger, even. I waited in the parking lot until she left and I followed her to her condo on the other side of town. I wasn’t surprised to see her whip out a bottle of Early Times as soon as she hit her living room. Jana won’t have a drinking problem anymore, and if I were to approximate the years she gave me, I’d put myself right around thirty years old. When I got home, I told Margerie that I dyed my hair and I’ve been exercising. She’s threatened by my new outfit I have going here, but she also can’t resist the urge to fuck me. I waited until she was riding me reverse cowgirl, and I thought myself a warrior poet as I slid the knife inbetween her third and fourth ribs. The sheets did a marvelous job of soaking up all the blood. I was able to wring them out in to the circle. I should bleed more people out in bed. I feel like a teenager again. XI. Those were all my changes. Maybe you’re sitting in my attic and you’re the first person to come across this monumental discovery. I can’t give you any more of the names on my list or reveal my plans for the future. You understand, I’m sure. Although I have the forces of the underworld on my side, I can’t have anyone meddling in my affairs. If you’re the detective type and you have some great sense of right and wrong, I can imagine you’ll probably be on your way out the front door of my empty house to contact the authorities. Maybe you are the authorities. My place has been condemned for so long that society has been forced to notice. In that case, good luck. You’ve never seen my old face, much less the face of my youth. Will you take this dirty journal to a precinct and place it in a folder where it will grow cold over the next twenty years until the statute of limitations expires? Or, perhaps there’s a chance that you’ll change your routine. Look around. I’ve left the stone in the basket of my old Schwinn in the corner of the attic. To have any chance of chasing me, you’re going to have to reject mortality. Will your magic be potent enough to find me? How much are you willing to bleed? Will you bleed for justice, or become one with the dead like me? Do your research. Without enough necropotence, you’ll be nothing when you finally face me. //[/quote] [quote]The power does it to everyone. It corrupts us all, or at least those of us who embrace it. Although we dive right in to be swept away by the black waters of necromancy, it’s not easy for us to stay afloat. Our humanity is the coastline, the palm trees, the dry land itself. You put your humanity side by side with the fact that you’re a wizard of hell, coastline next to infinite expanse of ocean, and you decide being a wizard is more fun. It appeals to you. You can’t get away from it, so you dive in and swim out in to the ocean to get a bigger taste. To feel it all over your body, instead of just staring at it and dipping your toes in. The first time you swim in the ocean of the dead, the waters are electric to your soul. They shock you, show you things that you can’t possibly understand but eventually DO come to understand. One day, it just so happens that you might decide you’re tired of swimming, so you try to turn around, but the coast is gone. You don’t swim back. You keep being swept out. To the sharks and an unknown abyss below you. The only place you can go is down, and that leads to a place that no man has been before. That is my family’s struggle, and they have devised a society and a code over the years. If I have the right person, then the man in front of me has trampled our ideals in to the ground. Our traditions, our laws, our fellowship. In truth, we necromancers are afraid not of the dead, but of each other. We know that one of us might become too potent somewhere down the line because we stumble across the right demon with the right power, or because we sacrifice a particularly powerful spirit to the underworld. We know that one day, one of us might rise up and try to assert a kingdom of the dead on earth. The Chomhairle believe this is the man who poses that precise threat. They sent me to find him after we found his diary. When my father learned that his own brother had deserted the coven and handed over a bloodstone to a random child due to a disagreement, he put a death sentence on this man’s head. We couldn’t begin to search for him until he left his bloodstone behind. A trace of his power that we could latch on to, that we could follow. The man shuffles past me to the urinal with a mumble of “excuse me,” and he shies away from looking me in the eye. He seems tired and drained. This is a good start. It could be him. I linger by the sink, lather my hands, and rinse them off, hoping that he will finish in time for me to see his face in the mirror. To strike up a ten second, meaningless conversation. Anything. It’s been such a long road here. I’ll take what I can get. I have to know. I can’t walk out of this place now, even if I’m on the brink of death. I might have to teeter here for awhile. He is so very, very familiar with the spirit world; he might know it more intimately right now in this very moment than I ever will in my lifetime. If this is him, then his guise of deception is stronger than any in our history. We know some of what he is capable of. But not all. I hope one minute spent in this bathroom will be the conclusion to the longest wild goose chase in the history of the Chomhairle. If this is him, then I’m initiated as a council member. If it’s not, then I’m at least another hundred years out. My ambitions within the council are nothing in comparison to the thirst for power. The bathroom is fritzy, five star, and new age. It’s deep in the heart of Soho, of course. A cesspool of youthful rebellion. The green light in this place is too strong. That’s hint number one that I have the right man. Let me go down the list for you. When he shakes it off, he spends an extra five seconds scratching his testicles, and then he rubs them a bit as he stares at the ad for the after hours swinger’s club in the corner above the urinal. Even if this isn’t the guy, he’s still a pervert, and I’ve decided to sacrifice him if he’s my sixth case of mistaken identity in a year out of simple frustration. I wash my hands a second time, waiting on him, trying not to be disgusted. He finally zips his fly and moseys over to the sink. So there’s hint number two. “You spill something on yourself?” He asks me. I’ve never heard his voice. It sounds different than I expected. I know how this dangerous sorcerer sees the world. He’s made a mistake, sharing his most intimate confessions with me. He never should have written them down. His ego may be his weakness, if I’m strong enough. Maybe. This has to be him. I say it in my head a thousand times in a split second. “Crawfish bisque. Good as hell, but I can’t seem to finish a bowl without spilling it all over my sleeves.” I say, squirting a fresh batch of soap on to the paper towel and scrubbing at my perfectly clean fisticuff. “Aren’t you a little old to be dining here? I’d think you would be at the Mesa or the Palm.” He says, and he makes a valid point. I do feel out of place here. I’m the only person in the building over the age of twenty five. He’s bold. He thinks he’s invincible, and I know that this is hint number three. He says the first thing that comes to mind with impunity, and he always has. That explains the four ex wives and the masculine decorations in his town house. I stare at his eyes in the mirror, and he’s too busy focusing on my pocket. This is hint number four, and this is the best of them all. I know this is the rogue necromancer. His eyes have a green twinkle in the backs of them, something that normal humans can’t see. He feels the stone, burning with ice fire in my pocket. He knows it’s fucking on me, and he’s stood next to me for less than half a minute. That’s because he can’t ignore the pull. It shows. This is him. Before he dies, I have to hear his story. I have to know how he uses blood magic without the artifact, even if my own father kills me for it. I can feel it reaching out for both of us. Begging to be used. It’s not easy to say no, even for me. I’m not surprised that he has become this in such a short period of time. He hasn’t had anyone to hold him in check. Despite the flawless haircut and the twenty year old face, I know I’m staring at a demon in a human’s skin. I reach in to my jacket, and his eyes widen as he realizes the magnitude of this small encounter in a men’s restroom. The stone is frigid and cold at my touch, but my fingertips delve past it to a pack of gum. When I place a piece in my mouth, I offer the pack forward. “Freshen your breath? Got a date out there, I’m sure, you being so young and successful and all. I bet she’s even younger than you.” I say with a smirk. He stammers and tries to speak, and it takes him a long while to gather himself. It’s probably the first time he’s looked unsure in decades. “It’s alright. Don’t say anything just yet. You know, that diary of yours sure was a fascinating read.” I say, biting in to a fresh explosion of spearmint goodness. He’s taking his time, searching for the right words. I think part of it is fear, part of it is excitement, and part of it is just complete bewilderment. He can’t believe someone has done it. Maybe he’s been waiting for this day, or maybe he’s been dreading it. More than likely, he’s always considered it an impossibility. He’s conceited enough. No one can do what he has done, or so he thinks. “You have something that belongs to me. It’s been a long time. I hope you found good use for it, but I’d like to have it back.” He says. I oblige him and place the frosty construct of eternal youth in his palm. “How did you continue to perform the ritual without the stone? That’s impossible.” I tell him. I have my own list of questions, and my father wants me to bring him back to our Gaelic homeland alive. I care little for my what my father wants, or his tired old code. I know this man has real answers for me, because he has no limits. He’s gathering something inside. Something powerful. If he decides to duel now, I am dead. Guaranteed. “If you were practicing the art before you found my house and the things I left behind, then you should know by now. Your necropotence is weak.” He says, and he laughs at me. “Are you disappointed?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond immediately, but instead, he places his hands flat against the swinging bathroom door. The polished wood glows with a vibrant, undulating energy, until the crease between the door frame and the wood no longer exists. He’s created a containment field of sorts. By sealing off this room from the real world, he’s made it a theatre for the macabre. He pulls a thin fragment of white chalk from his blazer pocket and kneels to the travertine. I watch him sketch a makeshift circle of summoning, but I stand purposely on its circumference, blocking it from being completed in its entirety. “Move.” He says. “Tell me how. I’m not here to turn you over to them. I won’t kill you if I don’t have to.” I say. I’m bluffing. I hope he doesn’t know it. “I’m not going to ask you again.” He says. “I’m not leaving without answers.” I tell him. The next moment , I see a cold, crimson colored glow erupt around his hands, and my body and mind are incapable of processing the nature of his attack. I feel a shockwave of impact on my chest and forehead. I feel like the back of my head has melted away from a voltage of death magic, and my blood and brains are leaking out of it. There’s a hard surface against my head. I moan and feel a hot rush of coppery wetness in my mouth. I finally realize that I’m on the floor, sprawled out like a corpse. I go from standing in the middle of the bathroom to a crumpled mass of broken bones without knowing how to defend the cause of it, and I know I am outmatched. I have no chance. My mouth is broken. I can’t speak. I see another glow, blue this time. I feel bones mending, and flesh melting against flesh, coming together. I feel every scrape of my body’s parts against each other. The pain is immense. Worse than anything I’ve felt in my life. I don’t even realize how shattered my body is until he puts it back together in reverse order, when I feel my bones break and re-break to accommodate each other until the spell is complete. When the incantation is over, I gasp inside the circle of chalk, and I want to beg him for mercy, but that would be a mistake. A fatal one. Although my body feels whole again, he has me contained within the summoning circle, enchained by the an impromptu force of binding. I can’t move anything except my lips. I have a voice again. Although he is directly responsible for my affliction, I manage to whisper a “Thank you,” for mending the damage. He ignores me and lowers the frigid stone to my forehead. In his other hand is a blood stained kris. I feel the edge of the snaking, curved blade bite downward in to my wrist. He’s draining some of my blood. I feel the hold on me weaken considerably when he waves his hand over my face. He is being somewhat merciful. “Marbh kala.” He says. I know that hissing tongue. The old language. I find myself amazed that he knows the words, as I have learned them from my father and the tomes of the coven. My body begins to levitate in to the air, and blood flows freely from my wrist like a crimson waterfall. It collects in a pool below me at the center of the circle. He slashes my other wrist, and my carotid as well. I’m draining at a rate that tells me I won’t survive. She appears in what seems to be no time at all, but I’m unable to trust my own senses, as delirium is seizing them for its own agenda, one by one. I can’t focus any longer. I hear her voice, and then his. I think he has summoned her from the dinner table in to the restroom to cover his bases. She doesn’t know what’s happening. She’s losing her mind by the second, when she was on a perfectly normal date only moments ago. I hear a loud “NO,” and a throaty, wet gargle. He suspends her body in the air beside my own, and then he starts a chant. I think she’s already dead. The hissing accelerates in to a flood of syllables and archaic sounding phrases that I wouldn’t understand even if I was completely awake and aware. He speaks it more fluently than my father ever has. As I watch her blood spill in to the lake on the floor, joining my own, I realize that this man is beyond anything we’ve ever done or accomplished. He makes me think that real power is found within the self, within a single identity of self-discovery and learning, and not within a circle of conceited death magi who have clung to the same spells and traditions that have limited their progress for centuries. Her eyes are empty, blank seas of hazel. As he waits for her to stop bleeding out, I realize that I have stopped bleeding myself, and shouldn’t be alive. He’s keeping me breathing when my veins are as dry as death valley, and again, he shows me something that I did not think possible. I am content to float and observe, and I realize that even if these are my last moments, I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve any of the dark gifts that he has put so prominently on display before me in this private niche of the nether realm. I breathe, and there is no air. I don’t need to breathe. I am alive in my deadness, augmented in a stasis of a ritual that I have never witnessed before. His objective is beyond me. I can only observe. He stops chanting. The spell is complete. The blood on the floor seems to hum with a possessed life of its own as it separates. Eventually, two puddles of scarlet rest at either border of the circle, and one hums with an emerald taint to it. I can feel traces of it in my mind. It is foreign. The glowing blood is not my blood. It is hers. The pool begins to rise, like a spire of flowing vitae, commanded by the necropotence of a true master. It takes on a savage, beastial outline, but it is not an animal that exists on the earth. It is some screeching demon spirit, summoned to exist within a temporary liquid body. “ARDMHAISTIR.” The blood creature speaks. The thick, rich burden of Gaelic pulls down the words. He has trained demons to speak in words created by the human mind, and I only await the next event in which he will impress the depth of his power upon me. I am watching, and I think the word he has spoken means “thank you,” or “master,” but I’m not sure. “Glac eisean.” He says. I know what these words mean. My father said these words to the spirit of my mother when I was stalled in her womb. I was lodged head first. The cause of her pain, suffering, and eventual death at the violent hands of child birth. Before she could be swept away in to the nether, he summoned her spirit. He asked her how he could go on without her love to keep him tethered to a mortal life. She held one response. Glac eisean. Take him. I was meant to die like a human being, but I was a son of one who lords over death like it is their personal playground. That makes him a diabolical father, and an excellent necromancer. The demon blood figure obeys his command. It hovers through the air slowly, like an eel of liquid, until it splits off in to three lesser streams. It halts at my open wrists and my slashed throat, and then it rockets through my veins with the authority of the one who holds the circle. The return of blood to my body and the completion of the ritual bring me strength. When my hands and head stop twitching, I find that I can move my arms and legs. I sweep my legs over the precipice of the circle and step to the floor of the bathroom on feet, as if getting out of a bed of air. “What did you do to me?” I ask him. The answer is something that scares me, but it is also something that I have to know. “The youth ritual, without a stone. Now you see the type of sacrifice that you require. Each time, every drop must be replaced. A new soul. The most expensive and taxing necromantic ritual of them all, except for one.” He says. I turn my head to look in to the mirror, and indeed, my face is as young as his own. I am no longer in my late thirties, but twenty something again. “I’ve tried so many times. Even with the bloodstone. I am nothing, compared to you.” I tell him. “One day, I thought someone might show up and show me that stone. I had no idea it would be a member of that old man’s family. I never knew there were others. It was only a challenge. My life was once so simple, so mundane, so terrible that I wanted to die. How many of us are there?” He asks. “Twenty three, including me. If they knew what I know now, they would send their best. I am nothing. They think you a fledgling, toying with powers that are beyond your control. But you have mastered death beyond anything that I have ever seen. They are no match for you.” I tell him. “Necropotence is not studied. It is not learned. You practice it, and you sacrifice. You sacrifice, again and again and again. You will destroy so much life in the search for a method to extend it.” He tells me, and his expression is somber. “I have been tasked with destroying you by my father. If I return to him and this task is not complete, he will kill me himself.” I say. “Do you have more of a chance against him, or me?” He says. “Him.” I say, and my cheeks flush scarlet. I am ashamed that the head of the coven, who is also my father, is so weak compared to this mastermind. “Do you want to know why I wrote that diary?” He asks. “The same reason that you left a death certificate with your memoirs of your human life. To taunt those with a sense of justice.” I tell him. “You’re not the first to read it. There was one rogue detective that they suspended because he was cracking up, finding about some of the things I had done. He never took the stone. He tried to use the law.” “How many years did you get out of him?” I ask. “None. The time went to Sasha.” He says. “Your dog? Still around?” I ask. “Not much of a dog anymore. More like a hell hound. But yes. I’m very fond of her.” He says. “Then why the trail, if it’s not conceit? If you feel you are not above anyone else?” I ask. “Power. Has your father ever spoken of the Cogath dar Marbh?” He asks. I feel sick. In this moment, I know what he desires. The legendary aspiration of any necromancer. The war of the dead. “Please, no. Not me.” I tell him. “I left the trail to find someone who has stood within a circle because I need two of us to complete it. I’ve waited all this time, doing nothing. You will not leave this room until you’ve completed the ritual with me.” He says. “No. I can’t. Why would you want to unleash…” He cuts me off. “Yes. It has to be you. Someone who has felt the touch of the nether.” He says. “How do you know the legend?” I whisper, fear in my eyes. “You may have spoken to the dead. Your father, too. But you have not listened to them. You haven’t asked them what they want.” He says. “We don’t serve them. They serve us.” I tell him, but I know my words will be hollow and empty when they sink in to his brain. The tone in his voice terrifies me. He seems so drunk with power. “The dead have given me the gift of eternity, and I have commanded them for long enough. It is time to give them what they desire.” He says. His eyes are on fire like a madman, and I know I can’t stop him. He’s so god damn ambitious that he’ll stop at nothing to bring the dead back to earth. “You are already the most powerful lord of the dead. Why submit yourself to the cogath? You don’t need the power. You are uncontested.” I say, but then I think of my father and his blind conceit, and I think that this man will certainly be the death of my old man, and relatively soon. “You don’t understand, little Chomhairle. They’ve told me ever since I first saw them in my attic that I was their man. That I would bring them back to roam the world, like the loyal subjects that they are. That I would become a lich — a living embodiment of power, merged with death. Do you know how long I’ve waited? It’s not about me anymore. It’s about them.” He says, licking his lips and snapping his fingers together. I can’t move. My legs are stone. “You need two. You thought you were the only necromancer alive on earth, so you left the stone. To see if someone would dabble in the art and become a novice, so you could sacrifice them in the ritual.” It all makes sense to me now. It’s not his ego. It’s not the power. He only wants to complete the one ritual that has never been completed. Cogath dar Marbh. The shackles blast out of the bathroom floor, sending fragments of travertine shrapnel around the room. Wet, tightened strands of pulsing, veiny matter coil around my wrists and ankles. They’re like blood vessel tentacles, trying to drag me in to the black pit under us that they sprang from. His face is changing. The walls of this room have melted away. We are in a tempest of the nether. Under lightning strikes and hissing shades, I see the bones in his visage. I see the human-turned-demon for what he really is, and despite the terror that amounts within me, I am awestricken. The bones in his face, illuminated snowy and pale by arcs of lightning —- they are beautiful to me. I want to become what he is now, standing in front of me. He rakes the kris across his chest violently, shedding blood on to an island of dead rock where we stand, suspended in the nether. His necropotence is too strong for the demon to resist. It obeys him, a gargantuan mass of black flame and swirling, gaseous chaos. The voice booms in my ears, sounding nothing of the earth or any spirit I have spoken with in my lifetime. Here, on the home turf of the dead, they are not forced to communicate with us in our manmade languages and tongues. We hear them, and we understand. He tells the demon that we are about to be at war, and to deliver a message to the spirits to gather at the soft places. For their invasion. Before he departs, the demon tells him that he can’t complete the ritual without two necromancers. He grows angry, and points at me. The demon shakes its head and fades away in to nothingness. He screams with rage, drawing the kris once more. He sends another shockwave of green force, knocking me to the ground, although it doesn’t break my bones this time. The curved blade is vicious against my throat. “ONE OF THEM!? ONE OF FUCKING THEM!?” He repeats it over and over, delirious, slashing at my hands and forearms as I try to stop the point of the weapon from sinking in to my eye. “Please, stop. What are you…” I stammer. The blade is so sharp, so painful. “You were dead three months before you came from her womb. Your father performed a ritual and gave you the breath of the spirit before you were ever born. When you came in to the world, barely breathing, a shriveled fetus corpse, he bargained with the underworld. They took your mother’s life instead of yours.” He says. And then I realize it. I realize that I’m not human, and that I have never held power over this man, or any other. I realize that I am of the dead, and his indomitable power over me stems from the precise fact that he is a necromancer. I laugh at him. When he finally gathers himself, I realize that he stares at me with a sort of longing, and I know that he respects me, as I am a dead spirit with a human body. I will be part of his kingdom on the earth. I will stop at nothing to fulfill his dreams. His clenches his fist tightly, and in the middle of this summoning circle, he slowly reconstructs the bathroom until everything is back in place and the seal on the door is broken. He restores me to what I was before I walked in to this sanctum of eternity, except that I am now a twenty something spirit, walking among the patrons of the restaurant, a chameleon of the underworld. When we hit the sidewalk, the night air is luscious and graceful with my skin. The point of the blade in my back is not. “Take me to your father.” He says. And I begin walking. Eventually, a feral and twisted animal joins us, with eyes like hellfire. Sasha. Held hostage by the greatest praetor of Hades and his pet, I quicken my step, and I know the war of the dead has been stalled for one more evening. I also know his patience is infinite. It is my war now, although I am only a foot soldier of the lost. I will not rest until the murderer who traded my miserable life for my mother’s receives justice. Then, I will find the other twenty two of them, and punish them for being weak, if he doesn’t do it first. For I was dead before I was brought in to the world, and that means he is not my father. Only a manipulator of spirits. I am now with the one. One who serves me and the rest of his kingdom ever so faithfully. A warlord of skeletons, cadavers, blood, and bone. A bringer of salvation, with enough necropotence to bring our dreams to fruition. I am with my true master now, and he will never cease his efforts. Not until the last of the living are gone from the face of the earth. //[/quote] I haven't found part 3 yet. It might not exist.
That's a lot of hyper-realistic content :v:
[QUOTE=Shostakovich;29584547]I phoned the paradox and asked if it had a spare skeleton. And then a hyperrealistic WHO WAS popped out. Happy now? Edit: some content to keep you occupied:[/QUOTE] So is there an ending to this set of creepies?
[img]http://img197.imageshack.us/img197/5535/hyperrealism.png[/img]
Imagine this: A hyperrealistic statue of a man painting a hyperrealistic painting of hyperrealistic fruit. WITH SKELETONS!!1one!111!
Ah yes, I remember the necromancer story...
Here's an interesting local story. Blue Bell Hill lies between the M20 and M2 motorways between Maidstone and the Medway towns in Kent, England. Running down the hill is a dual carriageway linking the two motorways which are about 5 to 7 miles apart. I travel down the road frequently as its one of the routes I take to travel between Paddock Wood, Tonbridge and Canterbury. I know the road well, for an A road it's quite steep and it twists and turns. The road is infamous for the fact it is dangerous. I personally haven't seen anything on the road, including the one time this winter some friends and I went looking. (And getting lost on a dirt track about 8 miles long leading from the infamous Mill Lane to the Village of Wouldham when everything was frozen, knee deep in snow, and fog that reduced visibility to about 10 metres for our trouble.) The site has long been associated with ghost sightings, these date back many years and have been the subject of national TV programmes. They are frequent and well known enough that the police stations in the area are familiar with the stories and allegedly blame the ghosts for the cause of accidents. Anyway, [url]http://www.roadghosts.com/blue%20bell%20hill.htm[/url] enjoy.
[QUOTE=milkandcooki;29585899]Imagine this: A hyperrealistic statue of a man painting a hyperrealistic painting of hyperrealistic fruit. WITH SKELETONS!!1one!111![/QUOTE] Near an omnious looking cave ?
I tried to find this video somewhere else but I couldn't so... [url]http://motherless.com/AEFD403[/url] Its only about the video.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rxrYKODrdQ&feature=share[/media]
[QUOTE=Wizard of Ass;29594468]I tried to find this video somewhere else but I couldn't so... [URL]http://motherless.com/AEFD403[/URL] Its only about the video.[/QUOTE] You expect any of us to click on a video link to MOTHERLESS... Much less from someone named "Wizard of Ass". Not to mention the fact that your avatar is linked to one of the most gay threads on FP since the custom forums were deleted. Oh Ghostwork, you silly, silly thing! Stop rating all my posts boxes just because you're sad that Raiskauskone didn't make the thread!
Writen by me [url]http://pastebin.com/Ev6bU5Ct[/url]
[QUOTE=megafat;29560630]Source?[/QUOTE] [media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chOfSxh9Yq4[/media]
[QUOTE=Wizard of Ass;29594468]I tried to find this video somewhere else but I couldn't so... [url]http://motherless.com/AEFD403[/url] Its only about the video.[/QUOTE] I posted that here before.
[QUOTE=XZXk;29599501]Writen by me [url]http://pastebin.com/Ev6bU5Ct[/url][/QUOTE] You've been in the sleep & dreams thread, haven't you? EDIT: Speaking of which, the idea isn't bad, but the grammur and speeling ruin it. And as a lucid dreamer, I can say that I've experienced real things in my dreams worse than that.
[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISBeBuVKXL0&feature=player_embedded#at=48[/media] It's like something from Silent Hill.
[QUOTE=Wizard of Ass;29594468]I tried to find this video somewhere else but I couldn't so... [url]http://motherless.com/AEFD403[/url] Its only about the video.[/QUOTE] What the fuck is it? :scared:
[QUOTE=Big Dumb American;29611880][media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISBeBuVKXL0&feature=player_embedded#at=48[/media] It's like something from Silent Hill.[/QUOTE] At first I thought this was just weird, got to the end and shit my pants :byodood:
Matt Thomms was found dead 6 weeks after finishing this document, in front of his computer, with only one application open, Minecraft. There was an investigation into the games creator, Markus Perrson, But there were no leads. Matt's cause of death is unknown, but could have something to do with a small piece of metal on the floor next to him. A friend of the boy, Anna Loccs, told us that he was having strange computer problems, she wouldn't tell us anything more. After the story was featured on the news there was one anonymous caller who invited us over to talk about the boys case. When we arrived she invited us in and made coffee. She started talking about matt and how she only met him once, she was starting to talk about Minecraft and suddenly fell to the floor, dead. Her death was the same as Matthew's. With our last lead gone, the case was put into the unsolved file. To this day Matthew Thomms' case is unsolved, and whatever killed him remains a mystery. A .avi file was also found in Matt's computer, but has been confiscated as evidence until the case is closed or deemed unsolvable. ~ Officer Brian Thaw, SUPD :laugh:
[url]http://pastebin.com/czf9VWuA[/url]
[QUOTE=znk666;29613311]Matt Thomms was found dead 6 weeks after finishing this document, in front of his computer, with only one application open, Minecraft. There was an investigation into the games creator, Markus Perrson, But there were no leads. Matt's cause of death is unknown, but could have something to do with a small piece of metal on the floor next to him. A friend of the boy, Anna Loccs, told us that he was having strange computer problems, she wouldn't tell us anything more. After the story was featured on the news there was one anonymous caller who invited us over to talk about the boys case. When we arrived she invited us in and made coffee. She started talking about matt and how she only met him once, she was starting to talk about Minecraft and suddenly fell to the floor, dead. Her death was the same as Matthew's. With our last lead gone, the case was put into the unsolved file. To this day Matthew Thomms' case is unsolved, and whatever killed him remains a mystery. A .avi file was also found in Matt's computer, but has been confiscated as evidence until the case is closed or deemed unsolvable. ~ Officer Brian Thaw, SUPD :laugh:[/QUOTE] The only thing creepy about Minecraft is how much time people sink into it.
[QUOTE=Big Dumb American;29632796]The only thing creepy about Minecraft is how much time people sink into it.[/QUOTE] I dunno about that, first time I played it I was creeped the fuck out when night time came around.
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