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Practical Explanation ( For Example ) :- `1st of all can you tell me every single seconds detail from that time when you born ?? ( i need every seconds detail ?? that what- what you have thought and done on every single second )

can you tell me every single detail of your `1 cheapest Minute Or your whole hour, day, week, month, year or your whole life ??

if you are not able to tell me about this life then what proof do you have that you didn't forget your past ? and that you will not forget this present life in the future ?

that is Fact that Supreme Lord Krishna exists but we posses no such intelligence to understand him.
there is also next life. and i already proved you that no scientist, no politician, no so-called intelligent man in this world is able to understand this Truth. cuz they are imagining. and you cannot imagine what is god, who is god, what is after life etc.
for example :Your father existed before your birth. you cannot say that before your birth your father don,t exists.

So you have to ask from mother, "Who is my father?" And if she says, "This gentleman is your father," then it is all right. It is easy.
Otherwise, if you makes research, "Who is my father?" go on searching for life; you'll never find your father.

( now maybe...maybe you will say that i will search my father from D.N.A, or i will prove it by photo's, or many other thing's which i will get from my mother and prove it that who is my Real father.{ So you have to believe the authority. who is that authority ? she is your mother. you cannot claim of any photo's, D.N.A or many other things without authority ( or ur mother ).

if you will show D.N.A, photo's, and many other proofs from other women then your mother. then what is use of those proofs ??} )

same you have to follow real authority. "Whatever You have spoken, I accept it," Then there is no difficulty. And You are accepted by Devala, Narada, Vyasa, and You are speaking Yourself, and later on, all the acaryas have accepted. Then I'll follow.
I'll have to follow great personalities. The same reason mother says, this gentleman is my father. That's all. Finish business. Where is the necessity of making research? All authorities accept Krsna, the Supreme Personality of Godhead. You accept it; then your searching after God is finished.

Why should you waste your time?
all that is you need is to hear from authority ( same like mother ). and i heard this truth from authority " Srila Prabhupada " he is my spiritual master.
im not talking these all things from my own.

in this world no `1 can be Peace full. this is all along Fact.

cuz we all are suffering in this world 4 Problems which are Disease, Old age, Death, and Birth after Birth.

tell me are you really happy ?? you can,t be happy if you will ignore these 4 main problem. then still you will be Forced by Nature.

if you really want to be happy then follow these 6 Things which are No illicit s.ex, No g.ambling, No d.rugs ( No tea & coffee ), No meat-eating ( No onion & garlic's )

5th thing is whatever you eat `1st offer it to Supreme Lord Krishna. ( if you know it what is Guru parama-para then offer them food not direct Supreme Lord Krishna )

and 6th " Main Thing " is you have to Chant " hare krishna hare krishna krishna krishna hare hare hare rama hare rama rama rama hare hare ".
If your not able to follow these 4 things no illicit s.ex, no g.ambling, no d.rugs, no meat-eating then don,t worry but chanting of this holy name ( Hare Krishna Maha-Mantra ) is very-very and very important.

Chant " hare krishna hare krishna krishna krishna hare hare hare rama hare rama rama rama hare hare " and be happy.

if you still don,t believe on me then chant any other name for 5 Min's and chant this holy name for 5 Min's and you will see effect. i promise you it works And chanting at least 16 rounds ( each round of 108 beads ) of the Hare Krishna maha-mantra daily.
Here is no Question of Holy Books quotes, Personal Experiences, Faith or Belief. i accept that Sometimes Faith is also Blind. Here is already Practical explanation which already proved that every`1 else in this world is nothing more then Busy Foolish and totally idiot.
every `1 is already Blind in this world and if you will follow another Blind then you both will fall in hole. so try to follow that person who have Spiritual Eyes who can Guide you on Actual Right Path. ( my Authority & Guide is my Spiritual Master " Srila Prabhupada " )
if you want to see Actual Purpose of human life then see this link : ( triple w ( d . o . t ) asitis ( d . o . t ) c . o . m {Bookmark it })
read it complete. ( i promise only readers of this book that they { he/she } will get every single answer which they want to know about why im in this material world, who im, what will happen after this life, what is best thing which will make Human Life Perfect, and what is perfection of Human Life. ) purpose of human life is not to live like animal cuz every`1 at present time doing 4 thing which are sleeping, eating, s.ex & fear. purpose of human life is to become freed from Birth after birth, Old Age, Disease, and Death.
In The Style Of... / In A Forrest And In Terror
« Last post by Ben Fugman on March 21, 2019, 11:33:09 AM »
When I was young, my mother was a priestess of Shub Niggurath. My youth was fraught with queer occurrences, resulting from my peculiar upbringing.
     -Tior Raimath

This is a story written by Benjamin Fugman in 2018 based in the classic Weird Fiction style. The original summary paragraph is in the voice of the first chapter's narrator, the chapters pass off between different narrators, and an effort was made to give each an individual voice, while maintaing an overal linguistic writing style of classic American weird fiction

Chapter 1: In Terror In A Forest

I bounded through the verdant sylvan expanse weaving between pine and sycamore trees loping over low brush and crashing through hangings of ivy. I fled as though for my very life, though I was sure it was not in danger, but perhaps my soul...

It was an early Tsathogtog morning, 10th Hasturdan, 9th year of the 3rd Yig Cycle, those who have marked well their history and are familliar with the olden way of marking time will know the significance of that date, others may not be able to reason it. In those days my mother was a priestess to the great mother goddess, something that was meant to be a high honour for our family. I was only a child then and could barely grasp the concept of honour, or the olden ways.

Looking over my shoulder I caught sight of a grayish flash which must have been the fabric of my pursuer's garment, receding behind the trunk of a tall lodgepole pine. Although our village had been here for centuries, a bastion of the old gods, our way of life was under seige. A colony of prigmatic, tecnophobic puritanical foreigners had settled nearby. The foreigners, by their account, had fled their homeland for greener shores, because their king had forbidden the practice of their religion, they believed they would have the freedom to practice their religion, the execution of which, apparently includes the persecution of all other religions, here in our land. The foreigners reject the old gods and despise the olden ways. Being a precocious youth, I was naturally curious about our strange monochromatically clad neighbours, a curiousity vehimently discouraged by my mother, and the rest of our clergy.

I slipped on a slimey pig's ear mushroom and nearly stumbled headlong into a blackberry bramble, fortunatly my head wasn't quite long enough to collide with the spineffrous succulents. As I scrambled to my feet I beheld clearly my dogged ferreter's form, only a single, solitary sojourner had taken up my trail, I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad, but I knew it would probably be best not to lead my lone pursuer back to our village, this I could handle alone. I'd gone out by the mill early that morning. The mill is the furthest structure from the main part of the settlement, and, I had observed, the miller's daughter arose early each morning to see to a number of the menial tasks which the miller himself avoided on the excuse that he needed to keep his hands clean for his trade, and the miller's wife avoided by excelling at kittchenry. The daughter being stuck with such tasks as she was suited my aim just fine. There was a supple grace about her exertions which held a near mesmeric charm to me. I was especially entranced then, on that particular Tsathogtog morning, watching her draw watter from the miller's cobblestone well by pulling the thick hemp rope across a hanging pully, wrapping each length about a carven spooling board.

Of a sudden a flock of whippoorwills rose out of the wood some ways to my left, converging on the center of the foreighn settlement, a detail which would have escaped my notice, if not for the reaction of the miller's long eared basset hound, who gave a stark and resulute alert at the passing of the birds. "Bawoooo, yawp yawp yawp!" Echoing across the supernal gulfs of the Naisance sky the hound's baying was in the classical learnt language of man's canine counterparts, "They go, look, look, look!" The miller's daughter, heedless of the flocking birds, looked about for some more terrestrial source for the beast's call of alarm. I knew the hound was unlikely to bark at me, I had long since purchased his allegiance with some venison jerky and dried roasted potato slices. The miller's daughter though, I doubted snacks would buy her loyalty. Her eyes, sharpened by the state of hyper focus brought on by the dog's alarm, scanned the tree line, where I lay crouched in the bushes. Then she stopped scanning and stared, directly, intently at the bush behind which I was but poorly concealed. I did not know if she saw me or not, but the wind picked up, suddenly and the mill shrieked with indignation as its five great arms were spurred into unnatural animacy. Afraid it would wake the miller I stood bolt up, and I knew the miller's daughter saw me then. For only a breif moment, I stared back at her, then I turned and ran wildly into the great wood.

Scampering over roots and stones, shaken up a bit after my little tumble. She was gaining ground behind me much more rapidly than I would have expected. She seemed to be the only one following me, nor could I detect anyone following her. The Miller's daughter was nearly a megalithic foot taller than myself, and her resultant speed advantage was staggering. A litte over a week before that, on the Azatog before last, the last day of Yog Sothdan I had sneaked up to the hilloc around the olden temple, not that I was really alone at least half the youngsters of our village had crept up to those old stone apertures to behold, the rites of the holy mother goddess, Shub Niggurath. As I have said. My mother was a priestess, as such she wore about her head the many horned mask of The Black Goat, that being her singular item of attire. Likewise her duties as a priestess also required her participation in every facet of the rites, with every adult in our village, rites wich were simultaneously public, and intimate.

Bursting through a furrough of crisscrossed branches I found myself in a small clearing. Surround on all but the side I had entered from with thick growths of switchwillows making exiting the clearing a trickier proposition than entering, I had reached my destination. The hairs on  the back of my neck pricked like the heckles of a trapped boar, the the taste of a copper oblation ladel permiated the surface of my tongue. With a crash my solirary huntress shot through the veritable door of crossing branches, then with a hop and a skip she leapt at me from behind, tacking me into the switchwillows ahead which sprung back in resistance flinging the both of us on our backs, side by side in the soft grass and dandylions.

"Why'd you chase me?" I demanded.
"Why weret thou watching me?" Retorted the confident golden haired grey mantled girl.
"You folk are different. I's fascinated how you go to all that trouble pullin' up buckets and wrappin' that rope, instead of puttin' in a tap and hand pump. We done it for nigh on two cycles now out my village." I hoped that this elongated display whould help hide the threadbare nature of my excuse.
She smiled at me, you might call it a knowing smile. "Knowest thou not? Idle hands are the devil's playground."
"Well," I scratched my head, "I aint never met no devil. So I couldn't say where they spend their time, but if they like idle hands there can't be none on yours."
She leaned close to my ear and whispered, practically breathed, "These hands are less holy than thou might suspect." After that I stared long and intently into her eyes, as deep and as blue-green as the ocean.
We both were silent for a time, then the whippoorwills rushed past above us zigzagging and cavorting in a pseudofluid mass, more akin to a river rapid than a flock of birds, darkening the sky above the clearing for nearly three seconds.
"Tell me," she broke the silence, "is it true what they say about your people?"
"Is what true?" My experssion of shock must've made my face the very characature of old Tsathogua, eyes bulging, chin drawn back and my mouth pulled into a terrapinean frown, all framed by my, I was sure, massive, somwhat poined ears. The other youths in my village often called me donkey ears, so they must've been large.
"You know," her right eye twitched as the right corner of her mouth raised in a momentary smirk, "how you're all savages?" This last word seemed to fill her with some taboo sort of thrill.
"Well I wouldn't know what a savage is." I blurted out, "But when I think about it, it don't sound like the nicest thing to call folk."
"You know." She smirked again as if she really expected I knew. "It means you eat raw meat with your bare hands, wear the skins of animals, all that sort of thing."
Those two things were true, I had eaten raw meat on many occasions, and my clothes were made primarily of leather, "Well sure, but I don't see how that makes me a savage." I tried to mimic her thrill, I'm sure it came across as sarcastic. "Anyway," I added, "whadda you figure your shoes are made of."
Her face was flush as she glanced downward and pointed her toes skyward.
"And they say you chant blasphemous intonations to false gods." Her thrill remained, but her words were beggining to drudge up offense from the dark corners of my soul.
"I never heard worship called blasphemy before," pivoting off my knee and elbow I swung myself over, above her, not touchig her directly, but effectively blocking her ascent. "And what do you figure makes your new god more real than the old gods?"
"They.." She squeeked, "also say that your people practice indiscriminate acts of deviancy."
"What are you getting at?" I indignated as I drew back to a crouched posture before her.
"I think you know." She smirked again, higher than before, this time winking her right eye and raising her left eyebrow. Then she sat up first supported on her elbows, then on her palms. Leaning forward until the gap between our faces was less than it had been when I was slung over her. Slowly she pursed her lips into an o, brought them just against mine quikly made a pop with the inner part of her lips. And she sank slowly back wrapping her hands about her chest. If this was a kiss I'd never seen its like amongst my people, but perhaps it passed for a kiss amongst hers, because she appeared as one in the throws of extatic bliss.
Her hands slid from her chest apart and down to her hips which she momentarily supported above the rest of her body, then spread her knees as she slowly lowerd her hips back to the ground. Then she slid her hands 'round her hips into the middle of her thighs, pressing the fabric into the space between her legs, joining her hands in a mudra of prayer, and creating a Y shaped depression in her dress. I was filled with a hunger beneath my stomach such as I had never fealt. She began walking her fingers in place, bunching up the fabric of her grey dress and white skirts. Once she had the last skirt gathered, she rapidly pulled them up, then pushed them down again. Quickly I caught sight of the same vibrant gold which reathed her headstrong confident visage. Slowly she pulled the lot up again, revealing a total absence of undergarments, save for her thigh high cotton socks. I fealt saliva welling up around my tongue and teeth looking back to her face I saw her eyes widen, and her lips parted in a beconing grin. I gave in to my instincts, and I ate the miller's daughter.

Chapter 2: Terror In The Forest

I made my way slowly back through that ancient and secreted wood, slowly and carefully, though I could feel the hot acid breath of Kerberos on my back. Slowly becacuse it is easy to becomeme disoriented in the unfamilliar and suddenly cold woods. Slowly because I knew I had commited a mortal sin. I needed time to think of what I would say if my absence were noted. Though even moving slowly I tried to hurry, because each minute I terried longer increased the likelyhood I would be missed. It's easy to go fast when you're following someone going fast who know's the way, easy to dash and dive when filled with the energizing folly of youth. Not so easy when returning guidless and humbled with guilt and contrition.

An owel called out from a treetop. "Hark! Wrongdoer abroad!" A chorus of owels in nearby trees responded, "Who?! Who? Who?!" The one above me answered promptly, "Autlander!"

Then a black mockingbird landed on the branch directly ahead of me spread its wings, and in Pastor's voice it cried, "Below!" Then discharging the burden of its breakfast the wretched black imitator flitted to a higher branch and declared, "Below lies hellfire!"
I quickened my pace. What did those avian busybodies care what I'd done, oh Thazzos! What had been done to me... For me... With me! That I had betrayed my honour, my family, my God! I passed by the silk things I had left by a tree trunk, I was on the right track bits of moss clung to them so I left them be. Father, Pastor, everyone! They were right! The were right about the savages about their depravity, about their indiscretion. Worse yet they were right about me, I am a wicked creature filled with lust and devious fancies. I committed a mortal sin and loved every minute of it. In the moments following our iniquitous encounter, my new savage friend and I resumed to conversing.

"So," the other stared inquisitively into my eyes, with disarming attention. "Is it true what they say about you folk." This in clear mockery of my earlier inquest.
"I know't not. What do they say?" I couldn't imagine what savages would have to say about sojourners.
"How y'all only read one book, only pray to one god, never wear colours?" The questions came in rapid succession, much as I had done moments before.
"Well, yes but..." I trailed off. Somehow at that point I fealt that the straight and narrow way I had been taught to respect seemed utterly indefensible.
My new friend looked more grave, suddenly. In a hushed and graveled voice asked. "Is it true you folk kill your own if they don't do like your book says?" A chill wind picked up russling the switchwillows that surrounded us.
"I don'..." I started to try to say somthing to object, but how could I? I'd seen it happen. Then I heard the screech, the low distant rumble. My father's mill coming to life again. "I must return home!"
"Yeah, I better head out too.." My friend reluctantly agreed.

I reached the trail we'd turned off of, towards the clearing. I looked first down the way homeward, then up the way to the heathen village. And I saw it! A bull moose, tall as a house, as wide from antler to antler as father's mill. The moose pawwed the ground before him with a forehoof as wide as a literal dinnerplate. Then stomped hard and shook its massively antlered head, snorting forth clouds of tangible vapor. And with a thunderous declaimation it bellowed. "Boar-oak! Due-wall!" All thought left me for a moment, I sprinted down the homeward path like a possessed infidel.

Thought returned, however, as it is wont to do in moments when it is least welcome. "Baroque dual..." Why whould a moose say such a thing? What could it mean, such pointles notions, Moose don't talk, he was only bellowing. I became cognizant of a rythmatic thumping, dadadump, dadadump, dadadump, dump, dump, dadadump, dadadump, dadadump, dump dump. God above how pitiful must I have looked to the moose, how ridiculous? Hurling myself forward at what I was sure was my top speed whilst he, with his long legs, was gaining ground rapidly, at a mere trot. As the voluminous drooping snout,  entered my feild of view from the right, I was forced to reevaluate my top speed. Both feet left the ground with each stride, the snout and the consistent thumpig receeded to a more comfortable distance. Th path curved ahead a fallen log lay along the side, supported by two stumps the ground beneath padded with dry needles. I saw my opportunity, and grasped it by the proverbial antlers. I dropped to my knees and slid under the raised log, bending backwards to fit. Then, Carrump! Carrump! First the forehoolves, then the hind hoolves clomped down on the log and he launched himself over me, sailing through the air, as smoothly as the Lilly White had sailed across the ocean, conveying us here. Then came a thunderous, Carrump! Carrump! As the bull moose landed ahead of me. He trotted off into the forrest, self reliant as you please. I looked back at the log, it had buckled out at the bottom two long thick splinters crossed where my neck had been moments before, forming a more than suitable guillotine for the likes of me. I crept around the log, back to the path home. My joints ached, my muscles burned, salt water poured forth from the creases of my hands, never the less I spurred myself into a wholehearted jog. At least I'd gotten an idea what to tell my father.

I emerged shaking from the shadowed vale of the wood, my father stood beside the mill with his thumbs hooked into the corners of his black apron nearly white down the center with the collected dust of flour. My mother stood halfway out the door of the house, with a glance from father she retreated tacitly within. Like the moose, he bellowed, "Cornelia! Where hast thou been?!"

"I-I-I--" I stammered at the total reality of the inqusition I knew was coming, but could never prepare myself for the severity of. "I beheld a moose in the wood." Tears were already dampening my cheeks. I had committed a mortal sin that morning, and then I commited another sin by lying and dishonouring my parents, but they could never know. "It was s-s-so majestic I longed for a closer vantage, so I entered the wood, but..." I could feel him seeing through my fabrications like light passing through a cheesecloth. "It chased me! Oh father I was so frightened!"

There was no sympathy in his eyes, no empathy, no humanity. He was like his stone grinding wheel incarnate. "You see?! The lord thy god has punished thee for neglecting thy duties!" He scowled a scowel which radiated ill humour as the sun radiates light and warmth. I trudged through ankle-deep liquessent regret to the side of the well and finshed drawing the water I would need to rinse the chamberpots.

Chapter 3: In The Temple An Upheaval

I sat on the black sheep skin covering of the big stone chair in the center of the old stone temple. I shifted my position trying to find some semblance of comfort. The black goat mask I wore for rituals sat to my right upon the broad carven arm rest, I wore the blackbird down brassiere and black hog loincloth which constituted the expected daytime attire of my office, for the Naisance season. Coal braziers burned on either side of me, each around two megalithic yards removed from the position of the chair, serving practically no purpose, as the morning light streamed in through the broad apertures in the upper part of the temple walls, and neither the sunlight nor the fire were doing much of anything to combat the chill in the air. I suspect the seasons may have undergone some migration of patern, since the formation of the olden calender, Hasturdan always fealt like part of Fridgidation, to me. Even the ignorant outlanders set the seasonal transition in late Nyarladan upon the day and night of equal length, yet, for reasons betond my ken, the older calendar sets the transition to Naisance always on the first day of Hasturdan. Andon that day each year am I expected to retire my Frigidation robes in favor of the less concealing Naisance accoutrements.

A cold breeze whirled through the temple, raising gooseflesh all about my person, but also providing a momentary respite from the smell, the smells of old love, of sick and slough residue, of dried blood, of damp furs, and of the ever present mildew in the corners. I casually picked out a cone of incense, from my incense chest, and tossed it into the brazier on my right, for all the good it would do... Valcaz, an ignominious obtrusive fellow, ambitious enough to land himself a position as emissary to the high priest of Ithaqua, stood on the cobbled walkway of the old stone temple, quill in hand and papyrus ready on a plankboard, awaiting my reply to his master's declaration. "Be gone, Valcaz, tell your master I will send a messenger with my answer when I am good and ready." That's what I wanted to say to him, but he would surely tell Thogue my exact words, whether they constituted a formal reply or not.

Thogue, the high priest of Ithaqua, lived high on the peak of The Cold Mountain in the temple observatory of Ithaqua. Valcaz had come on this morning to present me with a message from the decrepified ancient hyrophant, concerning a threat he believed the outlanders presented, it told of how he had espyed a ship docking at the other settlement of outlanders to the south, the one called Jacobston and that six men had carried two boxe, too short and thin to be caskets, but as heavy as three whole bodies up the coast to Rocksmouth, the settlement nearest our village. He believed these boxes held some kind of weapons that he feared would make the outlanders stronger than us. He proposed that we gather together all the priests and priestesses of all the tribes, here, at the old stone temple, and summon Yog Sothoth, and ask for weapons that would outmatch those of the foreigners. It didn't altogether make sense to me. The folk in Rocksmouth hated the Jacobites even more than they hated our folk. Most of all they hated the Jacobites' industries, without which I saw no way their weapons could make them stronger than our warriors. And if they did have weapons like the folk down in Jacobston then the show of light and thunderous sounds I'm told accompany the summoning of Yog Sothoth would only serve in tempering their resolve to attack us. It's important to understand, while the message was phrased in the form of a request, Thogue does not make requests, so I could reasonably assume he intended to hold the summoning ritual at my temple, regardless any protest I should attempt. So I was attempting to compose my thoughts caefully to formulate a response to Thogue's unabashed insult that would not be construed as overtly insulting to Thogue.

"Lady Tirague," Valcaz intoned in his accustom sickening, saccharin, sing-song with its wavering phlegmy timbre, "We humbly await your affirmative."

Perhaps his two guards, armed with bills, were humble, but Valcaz as far as I knew, did not know how to do anything in the spirit of humility. The wind whipped around the temple again, ruffling Valcaz's lavender coloured wool robe, and displacing a lock of my hair in front of my face.

I pursed my lips and blew ther errant strands aside. "Very well, you may take this down, I certainly agree that the old stone temple is our most ancient and holiest site, and wou be ideal for a summoning of such magnitude. I do have a notable concern, that the performance of such a ritual might instigate a conflict that might otherwise have been avoided, but if--"

A ruckus became audible near the temple entrance. A group of children could be heard shouting, "Heehaw! Heehaw! Heehaw!" A taunt I recognized all too well.

"Pardon me, exalted emisary, but I must look into the wellfare of my child." Pushing off the seat with the palms of my hads I sprung up and took the three steps down from the chair's pedestal at a leap, dashed past Valcaz, and between his suddenly bewildered guards, then out the great arched portal of the old stone temple at the bottom of the front stoop I could see a circle of unruly youngsters, most of them still chanting, "Heehaw! Heehaw!" Their apparent ring leader, a girl named Zolaxia, was shouting, "Hey ass-ears! Take in any interestin' palaver evesdropping on them strange folk?! C'mon we know that's where you go, to spy on all them black-hatted heathens, so what'd ya learn."

"Answer Zola's question, you buck tooth donky!" Shouted another.

"Enough!" I shouted, projecting my voice as I would for a ritual. First 'Zola turned around, then all the rest that weren't already facing me, those that were looked up, then they all scampered off leaving only one youngster sitting on the ground. Arms wrapped about knees, face wet with perspiration and tears, caked with dirt, which had apparently been kicked up from the thoroughfare by the bullies was my child, my daughter, Tior. I ran down and embraced her. Valcaz and his guards were leaving, I didn't care. He'd gotten enough from me he felt confident faking an affirmative to the high priest.

Chapter 4: Omems, Portants, Questions, Resolutions, And Suspicion.

Upon this Tsathogtog, Tenth day of Hasturdan, year Nine, Third Yig Cycle, I, Thogue, am, as I do every day, putting down in writing the most segnificant events of the day.

This morning despatched Valcaz to procure use of the old temple for imminent summoning of Yog Sothoth from the outer realms. His success is imperative, if indeed, the puritans have obtained Jacobean armaments our own megar iron blades will not be sufficient to waylay them. Only the raycasters Yog Sothoth can deliver will outmatch the speed and ferocity of Jacobite rifles. And only if they have designs against us would they dare break their taboo against obtaining such implements.

Made water shortly after. That peculiar violet shade again, far off from the healthy daffodil one comes to expect. No precedent for this phenomenon found, neither in our own scrolls, nor the Jacobite medical encyclopedias obtained at last sally to trading post. I have grow fearful these months of an impending death. Not of my body, not yet, but in this instance a death of reason, and with it a death of purpose, and without reason or purpose, am I still the voice of Ithaqua, or mearly a shell put upon by dumb instinct to ejaculate incoherany noises?

From my long-glass did observe a flock of whippoorwills rising up from The Round Mountain to the south and west. Did see them dart hither and thither, then alite upon the settlement of Rocksmouth. If the devil the outlanders speak of exists, his name is Gtangatua, and his servants grow stronger, even now, within the round mountain, the fuel the Yulggothans need is the distilate of heretic souls, and the whippoorwills are the vessel by which that fuel is gathered. The gadoffel restrictive nature of the puritans' dogma makes them a fertile breeding ground for heresy. And their habit of executing the accused makes them an ideal self harvesting fuel source for the Yulggothans. This is why it's all the better that we ensure as many of them as can be, be allowed to die fighting for their beliefs, at least then they will not quicken the empowering of that neigh unstoppable diabolic beast.

It was by beholding Gtangatua that the deathless Old Gods were driven to and endless slumber. the Yulggothans have never announced their intent. But, for mysef I have no doubt that it does not bode well for we, the legacy of the Old Gods.

Did witness through the long glass some nameless mischief of frivolity, which bears remembering, but surely not setting down, at once did see whippoorwills returning from Rocksmouth to The Round Mountain. 'Tis clear enough they got what they were after, or they'd have dispersed to gathering and spying, but they returned to that Round Mountain in haste, no doubt fat on the gluck of the vital energies of a soul liberated from flesh in doubt of its final destination there to bring it to that all hideous metalic monolith The Gtangator, set up on the stone slab in the middle of The Round Mountain, Gods alone know what the Mi-Go have planned for it, legend tells that after it was built, over three mythotic cycles ago, Gtangatua himself moved into it. Every since then I know the send out them whippoorwills whenever anyone dies hereabouts, and if that one dies in doubt of the faith theur soul holds strongest to them birds claim the soul with their cacophonous chant, and when they get one they fly it straight back to The Gtangator where them Mi-Go take and latch onto it with positron arcs and drop it into an antiprotonic ectoplasmatic container, at least that's how the old scrolls put it. Them Mi-Go don't show up too well through the long glass, but their machines show up just fine, and watchin' you can tell just what they're doing, it matches up to what the scrolls seem to mean, and it must be to some sinister purpose, for I know righ well that the Mi-Go use the stuff distilled from those ghosts to flit about and spin their lassos but besides that the stash most of't away in The Gtangator. A series of twelve blue lights run the height or the obelisk. From the time it was built, over three cycles ago, until the time I became High Priest of Ithaqua and my predecessor showed me the tower through the long glass only six of those lights had become illuminated,  however one more light up shortly after my appointment to this office, and three have come on just in the ten years since outlanders breached our shores, two just in the eight years since the puritan's arrived. And now... Today, even before my eyes, after the latest, "witch" was refined, I, Thogue, sound enough in mind to set down these words, did witness the second to last light flickering to life.

Supped, good corn, good roasted venison, chilli sauce was too strong, so refrained, must ask cook to prepare milder batch.

After supper made water again, not merely violet, but also slightly luminous in the evening dark. Gods what's happening to me?!

Valcaz returrned shortly after, bringing affirmative for ritual venue. I have no doubt Yog Sothoth will be our salvation.

In bed now ready to retire for the night, I cradle the raycaster I obtaind so many years ago, for the war with the Imeks. More powerfull than a thousand spears and still has some charge left. If worta comes to worst, I know I can still depend on this.

Chapter 5: An Execution In The Square

This morning I dreamt a dream most ominous and hideous, in the dream I was a hide clad savave wit beads and feathers tied into my greasy hair. I did not see, but knew that I was a warrior of the Ornek tribe. I somehow knew that we were at war with the the fairer skinned Nyagal from the north region arounnd the cold mountain. I remembered, rather than experienced previous battles in which their metal pikes had cut through the wood of our stone headed speers, and clawswords easily, but this time would be different, whe'd gotten ahold enough metal weapons by raiding their war camps in the night to put up a proper fight, or so we thought.

The dawn was blazing scarlet, not peach or pumpkin like a dawn aought to be. The dawn wind which should be stone and surf, was instead copper and dry lightning. I could feel the tension in my entire brigade as we crested the southern hill of Clover Valley we expected to see the pike and bills of the Nyagal first cresting the northern hill, but instead we saw the plumes of their helmed heads, the weren't weilding blades of steel they carried large rectangular objects of some dull unlustrous metal painted with red and blue accents. For an eternal moment we stared in stunned curiousity then, it happened... An unforking bolt of stark white lightning burst from one of the myterious boxes, it tore through our ranks bursting half a dozen men like gords, showwering the res of us with hot blood as the thunder sounded with deafening proximity, from that moment it was chaos. Some advancing, some retreating, and all helpless against th rain of destruction produced by the Nyagal's front lines. In a blind rage I charged across the valley. I spotted out one of the Nyagal whose weapon had ceased firing and had comenced to whiring in protest, I piked him with my stolen pole-arm, his peculiar weapon discharged one final time as I set him down, liquidating the line of shooters to his right the last of whos weapon exploded with massive concussive force, enough to fling me against the Nyagal to the left of the one I took,out. I managed to struggle to my feet first and liberate my foe of th bizarre armament The mechanism for firing was little different from a crossbow or, the conscious part of my mind thougt, a musket. I cut sveral pathes of death through the Nyagal forces, those not directly struck were cut up by the burst fragments of their metalic armor. I saw their general in the back he was dressed in steel scaled armor with red dyed fur. His helm was ornamented wit bore tusks on the cheek guards, ram horns on the sides and goat horns on the top, his face was covered by a red cloth he carried none of the strange weapons of the frontline combatants, instead all he carried was a twisted wooden staff topped with what seemed ro be the skull of some unspeakable beast, equal parts baboon antelope and gazelle, with the fangs of a prehistoric tiger. I got a sudden vision of the thing alive, charging across the valley toward me, glistening red and blue muscles bulge out amid its grey and black fur, whipping its bifurcated prehensile tail, and shking it'schorned mantal with massive toothy jaw, as it roars, the sky apears to shatter revealing a cold and cloudless night behind the day, then shatter again the stars fell away in plates revealing a bright blue day with scattered white clouds and a massive paile yellow sun, that did not sting the eyes to look upon, this too shatteted in the space of the roar, the peices faded away, ultimately giving way to the vermilion dregs of dawn the vision of the beast also faded and the general pressed his twisted staff into the soil as effortlessly as pressing a straight stake into soft loam. I aimed the deadly alien objech at him and compressed the firing mechanism no sound of thunder no flash of blinding light, he did not explode. Instead I fealt, more than heard, the same whiring that had previously afforded me my opportunity to attack. Their general, however did not take advantage of the window to rush me and loose his dagger, instead he waved his hands over the blasphemous devil beast skull staff, and began to dance, waving his arms from side and bouncing at his bent knees, concealing his face behind his elbows at the extreme of each swing, all at once red flames seemed to surround him, twisingg and crackling, as the flames reached a zenith, he stopped dancing and let them whirl around him as he placed his left hand upon the staff and raised his right to the sky, a tiny star began to coalesce in the palm of his right hand. I compressed the firing mechanism again this time a beam of light did issue forth with a thunderous clash but it reflected off the red flames as easilu as sunlight off a mirror and struck the ground a meter in front of meknocking me off my footing, as the star in his hand grew he chanted, "Ayah ayah ghashtathoc Nayar-Lat-Hotep bhas bhas vheed vis yeet!" The star swallowed all the red flames from around him and the star seemed to keep getting bigger and bigger, swallowing him, of course it wasn't, it was getting closer to me, I knew as I felt the brightness and heat of its rays overtake me.

I awoke to the sunlight streaming in my bedroom window and set to work at once on thi entry. Often I worry the nature of my dreams recorded in this journal might call into question my efficacy as a prosecutor, nonetheless I am compelled to record them, I cannot help but feel that this dream may have been inspired by the events of yesterday morning.

Yesterday, February, tenth, fifteen hundred and five Anum Thazzodesic, I wash called upon to prove one Maurice Blackwell a witch. He was not the first accused witch I had prosecuted, and I doubt he'll be tye last. Whatvis a witch, really, but somebody that someone wants dead? I just facilitate the process by stating, louudly, whichever excuses the witchfinder helped the acusor conrive. I don't believe the magistrate or the crowd care what those excuses are, or how improbable they are, they just want to see someone hang.

The courtroom was full to capacity nearly every man in the settlement were packed into the benches, most of the rest, along with several women and children, in fact, only the miller and his family were absent, which was not at all conspicuous, as the mill was a good ways out of town, the miller says too many buildings nearby block out the wind, and I can take his word on it. Besides, if I had a daughter like his, I would take steps to keep her far from young men like my son. The defendant was bound and sat fidgiting clinkingly in his restaraints, his barrister grimaced and smirked uncomfortably the magistrate had yet to arrive, the cryer stood in front of his bench and read aloud from a acroll, "Gentlemen, today we are here to find cause with a witch, whos filty kind degrade our society.  The accused is Mister Maurice Blackwell, a Jacobite name if ere I Heard one, who as you all know had a wife last year, and this year she is no longer among us. Presenting the argument for his defense is local advovate Chuck Brinig, and representing you, the good people of Rocksmouth, your district prosecutor, Willyrd P. Johnson." After a momentary pause he proceeded. "All rise, please, for your honorable magistrate Harcord Harold Henrys." Everyone rose quickly to their feet, except for the defendant, who's restrain t s may've forbade him rising. Magistrate Henrys entered the court from the judge's preproom,  carrying his heavy gavel that better resempled a staking mallet than one of the flimsy tack pushers used in the king's courts. I recalled a dream I once had in which I was myself, and the witchfinder accused a woman as a vampire, and magistrate Henry's drove a wooden stake into the accused with his gavel on the spot, in the courtroom. As unrealistic as the particulars of the scenario may be, I have no doubt but the hammer would stand up to the use, and the Magistrate himself was brawny enough to facilitate its employment. My wife once joked that she wondered wether he was compensating for something, later she reported that she had repeated the same jest in privete company with Mrs. Henrys, who assured her the gavel was rather more of an understatement. "Be seatetd!" The cryer declared as the Magistrate settled into his bench. All werer at once seated, but for the cryer, the balifs, and one other man, Reverend Denham Mallow, the witchfinder.

"I have new evidence, your honour." Mallow declared "This object, retrieved from the home of the accused in the company of warranted officers." Mallow held up a small tin box with a red cross painted on it, the paint was wirn and chipped in places, bare shiney metal showing through in spots. Any other man would have been called to order for such a disruptive display, but not the witchfinder, reverand, lawyer, doctor of Christian theology, associate fellow of eastern studies, son of the reveared Witchfinder General, Marshal Mallow. Actually when our magistrate called for a witchfinder he expected Marshall himself, despite the young reverend being his second choice, Magistrate Henrys always gave due refference to the witchfinder, even permitting hime to make of the court a near circus.

"You may approach the bench, witchfinder Mallow." Harcord announced, showng signs of repressed annoyance.

"Approach the bench!" The cryer parroted. I don't even think I know that man's name, how often do I think of wringing his neck? More, perhaps than would be considered healthy.

The witchfinder brought the box up to the front of the courtroom. "This will be highly pertinent to the testimony of thhe accuser." He proclaimed. A balif took it from him and set it on the evidence table.
Lost Episode / The Time My Hearth's Warming Doll Did Fall Into The Fire
« Last post by Ben Fugman on March 21, 2019, 11:19:29 AM »
My Hearth's Warming Doll fell right into the fire. I tried to save it, but I singed my hoof, it hurt real bad, there was nothing I could do but watch the flames devour my poor little Hearth's Warming Doll, there was nothing anypony could do as the flames tore into the blue fabric engulfing the white cotton stuffing in seconds turning it all black then glowing red, orange, back to black, grey, and then dust. And as the fire consumed the doll I felt colder and colder until I froze solid, I didn't thaw out until Spring. And that's what happens if your Hearth's Warming Doll falls in the fire. True story.
Iconpasta / The Return Of Marana
« Last post by Ben Fugman on March 21, 2019, 11:17:08 AM »
DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional story, any resemblance to real pesrons or circumstances would be highly disturbing, so I hope that no such resemblance exists. Within this story, the story Marana, by Adia Crozer will be quoted in part, or in it's enetirety more than once. This story will also make direct reference to the story TOP HAT, by Matthew Friedman and Andrew Zolenski. Furthermore some characters in this story are based on the personalities, and using the first names, of real people who I do not know personally and do not claim to have an intimate understanding of how they might truly react in any given situation. It goes without saying that I do not own any of these characters, they are owned by their respective creators my intention here is to build on an existing mythos.

The Return of Marana

It had been two weeks since I moved into the neighborhood, in the house at the corner of Cinnamon Street and Wyard Lane; two blocks north of La Cienega Drive, a fact that I was barely aware of, nor would the dreadful significance of that fact dawn on me, until it was too late. I've never put too much stock in urban legends let alone suburban legends, but I've always allowed for that element of the unexplained, however, even the most seriously strange cases I've looked into do not begin to approach the oddities which unfolded in the following weeks after my move to the house at the corner of Cinnamon and Wyard.

As I indicated it was two weeks after I moved into the house that I first heard that... I'm not sure  what to call it, story? Legend? Hogwash? Whichever of these I may choose, I would include adjectives denoting the frivolity of said... I'm not sure what to call it, so I won't go down that road again. If I had known at that time how serious and unfrivolous the warning was I may not have brushed it off so lightly. Or perhaps, lacking the knowledge I now possess, I may have guffawed at the ridiculous fable, as I must have felt it deserved at the time. As you will learn however, this dread cautionary tale is, in fact, no laughing matter.

 On the morning of April 7th Ethan, a neighborhood kid I'd met the previous day, when he delivered my newspaper, was mowing my front lawn on his, or his parents, riding mower. He had advertised his lawn mowing services when he'd brought the paper to my door, which was probably his usual scheme, I really didn't mind because he charged a reasonable price, and the only lawnmower I owned was an old-style mechanical push mower, which I'd found in the garage when I moved in.

  Having completed a gridwise sweep of my yard the kid came up to the porch and knocked on the door, where I was already standing, since I'd gotten up from my breakfast as soon as I heard the mower's engine cut out. And could see him approaching the porch from the dining room window. I opened the door after his second knock, he pawed the air with his fist, attempting a third, then cocked his head to the side and blinked rapidly six or eight times.

"Whatcha think, mister?" he glanced over his shoulder at his handiwork as he finished his question, I think he did so as a means of gesturing for me to take a look at the lawn.

I surveyed the yard quickly, "Great" I said indifferently, "You did a great job." I tried to sound a little more spirited, but it came out sounding a bit contrived. It wasn't that he hadn't done a good job, he had, as far as I could tell. I'm just not really a morning person, and hadn't had but a sip of my coffee yet.

He held out his hand expectantly, I had already counted out the cash and had it waiting in my pocket, so I forked it over. He counted it out himself, before stuffing it into his own pocket, in a haphazard wad. "You're new to this neighborhood, right mister?" he asked squinting at me. He had asked me the same exact thing, the same exact way, before advertising his services as a teenage lawnmower the day before. I don't think he forgot. I would conjecture he was just re-confirming, or maybe condescending...

"Yeah." I nodded my head as I said it. I imagined myself repeating the action like some kind of talking bobblehead with my curly cockscomb flapping as I nodded faster and faster. I almost laughed outloud at my own pointless imaginings.

"Have you heard about Marana?" he asked, almost gravely.

"Um... I don't think... Wait, isnt that, like, a town in Arizona?" I furrowed my brow skeptically.

"I dunno... Maybe..." he scratched his head. "But there's a girl named Marana that used to live down on La Cienega."

"What about her?" the furrows, which had never left my brow, deepened.

"She is a seventeen foot tall woman with fingernails that touch the floor. She murdered her family and friends when she was twelve. Now she walks the swamps, with blood dripping from empty eye sockets, crying for her beloved dog Carmel." All this he said in a serious and authoritative tone, as though the the nonsense he had just rattled off were a statement of incontrovertible fact. I waited for a change in his expression, there was none, he looked like a stone-cold homicide detective who'd just given a bleak testimony describing his arrival at a grizzly crime scene.

  Since he didn't crack up I did, almost doubling over as I let out a roaring cacophony of cachinnation. Still laughing, I started trying to catch my breath supporting myself with my hands on my knees. As I looked up to see Ethan had turned his head slightly so he could look at me sideways, scowling as he gave me a palpably cold staredown, scowling like Adolf Hitler after realizing someone pissed in his Coca-Cola. I stopped laughing.

"It aint no joke, mister!" The boy was obviously annoyed, but I couldn't see why, to me it seemed like my reaction to the string of nonsense he'd just uttered was perfectly natural.

  "I'm sorry," I offered the sincerest apology I could muster, "but... Really? Seventeen feet tall?" I whistled through my teeth as I shook my head slowly.

  "That's what I said." His tone was still as grave as a headstone.

  "You do realize that's taller than any person in recorded history, right?" I couldn't help sounding more than a little facetious.

  "Not everything that happens gets recorded in history." he had me there, I did have something of an affinity for unexplained phenomenon, so I knew that the realm of possibility stretched well beyond the standard consensus. This sounded like a tall tale though, or some absurd copypasta from the interwebs.

  "And her dog's name," I went on, trying to sound more curious, and less snyde, "Caramel?" I smirked as I spoke the word, and my eyes widened and rolled involuntarily afterwards.

  "No, Carmel," he corrected, "Cee Ay Ar Em Ee El."

  "Well that's even sillier," I refrained from saying out loud, instead I said, "Okay. You seem pretty sure about all this, but why are you telling me all this?"

  He swallowed nothing, as though it were an unchewed chunk of something. "Just be careful, man, she's still out there. My friend, Fred, says his friend, Danny, saw her once, all seventeen feet of her, mostly legs, scrapin' her nails along the sidewalk down by La Cienega. Folks say she likes to pick on newcomers. So just watch your back, and your sides, and your front, for that matter."

  We shook hands, said goodbye, and he walked back to his mower and drove off, as I walked back to my cold Eggs Benedict, and sub-luke-warm coffee. "theres just no way..." I muttered to my breakfast, which was characteristically unresponsive, so I ate it, with all the voracity of Winston Smith downing the regulation Ingsoc party lunch.

  Most of the day passed relatively un-eventfully, I lost another good chunk of my faith in humanity making my hundred somethingth video on the depressingly mind-numbing garbage that people post online, and let me tell you, this one was a real doozy, maybe not my funniest or most depressing to date, but having not done one in a couple weeks... Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah... (¡-!) No. (((^~^))) I have lost all faith in humanity. This is official I'm officially saying it, again. Except those of you who subscribe to my channel, like, thumbs-up, and favorite every single one of my videos ever made, if it was made before you were born your parents probably shouldn't be letting you watch my videos, so shame on them, unless it's, like, the future, in which case, far out man, but why are you watching this old ass shit? Find some new shit, some relevant shit, people have probably gotten stupider, I almost guarantee it. Maybe, hopefully they've gotten smarter, but hey no way of knowing. Right?

  While my video was uploading I received a text message containing a story I recognized, almost instantly. The message began, "BEWARE MARANA" then, after a double line break it said...

  "Shell is a 17 foot tall woman with fingernails that touch the floor she murdered her family and friends when she was 12 now she walks the swamps with blood dripping from empty eye sockets crying for her beloved dog carmel."

  The text came from one of those TextNow numbers, so of course I didn't recognize the number. At first I thought it was that kid Ethan, still trying to mess with me. The problem with that little hypothesis was that I hadn't given him my number, there'd been no need for it Since he probably surveyed the lawns on his paper rout and walked up and rang the doorbell to any house where the grass was ovegrown. I can't imagine who else would have been sending me Marana shit. Although, it seems like it would be more than a little redundant to send me prettymuch word-for-word what he'd already told me.

  Suddenly my front door began to rattle on its hinges. The wind? That's what I originally thought it was, but the persistence of the rattling, and the absence of accompanying wind sounds begged further investigation. Approaching the front door, I could see it shaking as it clattered, I noticed my heart pounding in time with the arrhythmic thumping. I reached out, taking hold of the leaver-stile Quikset handle, I could feel something repeatedly pushing on the door, near the bottom. After twisting the lock mechanism, with my left hand, the weigh of my right arm pushed the handle down. I pulled the door open quickly, ready to slam it if I had to. The elongated ball of mud and fur didn't give me time to react, instead it darted between my feet and into the hall behind me, loping like a mad jackrabbit, slinging clods of wet dirt in its wake.

  I still slammed the door, as I whirled around the pursue the small muddy animal. I was already pretty sure by that time that it was some kind of small dog. Although, when I saw its face for the milliseconds that I did, I swear it looked like some kind of demon. As I chased after the horrendous little thing, I slipped on it's mud trail careening into my hallway endtable and knocking over my cheap replica Ming vase, which I ironically caught and set back up safely, and the chase was on once more. Every time the little mutt changed direction it it stopped and skidded into a turn then started running again whalloping clods of mud in every direcction. At one poinr it scampered under my dining table I sliped agan and slid hafway under the table, bonking my head in the process and streaking mud up my pants. Mud that I now noticed reaked of sulfer.

  After pulling myself out from under the table, getting mudd on the back of my shirt in the process I saw the capricious canine tresspasser attemting to mount the carpeted stairs, I grabbed it by the scruff, and... A collar!

  "No, no, no." I waved my finger, "Not in my house!" For a moment the little dog struggled and thrashed in my grip, flinging mud on me, the walls, and the carpet I was trying to protect. The it stiffened up and just snarled lettingvout low slow gutteral growls. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we, I bet somebody's missing you." I brought the dog to the downstairs bathroom and to the tub, still holding onto the dog with my right hand I held the flexible showerhead with my left and rinsed off the sulfrous mud, in spite of the tony critter's ptotests, as the coat of mud disolved away the distinctive long hair, large pointed ears, and supple frame of a papillon became aparent, its hair was white, black, and reddish brown, woven into long distickt dreadlocks that almost made it lopk like a hedgehog, or some nameless sea creature. But this dog had a name... I examined the collar which was old, with patches of loose thread all about, hevily sunbleached from its original purple and green textile patten to a pale yellow and blue on the back, and infused in every cranny with black sand from the bog mud, there wre two tags, one oval shaped, with vaccination info... From 8 years ago! The other was a bone shaped tag with a name on it the name on the tag read, "CARMEL"

  It had to be some kind of sick joke, that's all I could figure. But who would go to all that trouble? After Getting as much mud out as reasonably posible I set the dog down in the tub and quicly slid shut the sloding glass door. As the dog who's tag labeled it as Carmel shook its dreadlocked fur, I was showered with a cascade of droplets that somehow made it over the 7 foot high frosted glass wall.

   I decided to leave mongrel in the tub to dry off, while cleaned up after its mudslinging rampage. Around the time I finished cleaning up the mud, actually I hadn't quite finished yet, I got a call from my friend Justin.

    "Yo, Rob. I just got this new game, Beware Mister Tophat. It's this Indi horror title for PS3. We gotta play this thing for your gaming channel, man. It's supposed to be ptetty sick."

    "Gee I dunno, are we talking sick, rad, or sick, disgusting." I inquired quizically.

    "I dunno, bro, I didn't ask. Both probably? Anyway You know I can't play it myself I get to scared with horror games to play right. That's why it has to be you playing, and me reacting to the spoops." Justin did have a tendancy to shriek and jump out of his seat, or release histrionic shreaks at the scares in games and movies. I have always believed he just does it to make a spectacle of himself.

    "You know Pewdipie does both, right?" I jabbed.

    "Yeah... Well we ain't him." Justin put on a heavy fake southern drawl. "We're Amerkin'!"

    "We're a pubic wig?" I knew what he was trying to say. But I just had to mess with him on that one.

    "What?! Your beard is pubic wig maybe!" He had to go there.

    "Hey watch it, buster this beard is internet famous."

    "Yeah, so's my bare, biny, lasty white ass, but I don't go bragging about it." Nice one...

    "Well I'm pretty busy this evening, but I'd be down to do that letsplay video... tomorrow afternoon?" I still had to figure out ehat to do wit my strange quadrapedal guest. Probbly take it to the animal shelter in the morning.

  "Cool, man, you won't regret it... I think. I've never actually played the game, but the guy on the streeet corner who sold it to me out of his trench coat pocket says it's pretty legit." I hung up the phone and resumed cleaning the oderiferous black mud out of my hall and kitchen. And, as best I could, out of the carpeting on my steps. By the time I was ready to give up on the the stairs I heard a crash of glass shattering from the bathroom.
Spinpasta / Jeff The Killer Factory
« Last post by Ben Fugman on March 21, 2019, 11:11:15 AM »
The Confession Of Geoffry Theodore Keller

So, no shit, there I was. About to fulfil the American dream, at least according to Homer Simpson in that one Treehouse Of Horror episode, are those even cannon? Beside the point. The point is, I was about to kill my boss. He gave me my two weeks notice a week before, but that wasn't why, no there was a lot more to it.

I didn't decide to kill him right away when he started having sex with my wife in front of me. She seemed to enjoy it and had never complained. When he started making me suck him off so he could get hard and go another round with her, it didn't bother me. It was just one of those things... When he started piling his paperwork onto my work-load and not paying me overtime for the extra hours it took me to finish it, I admit I felt a little insulted. When I asked him about the possibility of a raise and he told me he'd rather fire me, that did piss me off, but not to the point where I'd kill a man.

Honestly I wasn't angry. I was calm, I suppose part of me always wanted to kill someone who happened to be my boss, so that gave me a limited time to kill Greg Keffre while he was still my boss. I'd never killed anyone before, but if I had excuse enough to off anyone it was Greg.

Getting into Greg's house was easy, almost too easy his wife, Candilaria, was home alone, she likes to fool around. She let me in and we had fun for a few hours, she hid me in a closet as her husband was getting home, it was too perfect. I watched them go at it until they finally passed out.

I could have just snuck out of the house and slunk off into obscurity, but if I'd done that you probably wouldn't be reading this. I crept into the kitchen, so many potentially deadly objects to choose from, but I settled on a heavy stainless steel tenderizer. I shuffled, ever so quietly, back to the bedroom.

Greg was sleeping so peacefully, just like some dumb schmuck who had no idea he was about to get his skull caved in by a homicidal maniac. If I really face the facts, it wasn't about any kinnd of revenge. I just wanted to kill... I feel weird about feeling okay with that, but I do. I raised the metal block of a hammer high in the air above my head, and brought it down on his head, his eyes shot open and he gurgled, ineffectually. I could thell he died on the first hit, but I struck twice more to be sure. The third hit splashed his blood on Candi's face and she woke up, she saw me standing there with the bloody tenderizer and started screaming up a storm, like she didn't expect this. Thwack! I hit her with the hammer, and down she went, with one blow. Thrack! With my second blow I felt her skull give way. That really shouldn't feel so satisfying, but it does.

I got my clothes back from the closet I'd been hiding in and got dressed. I decided to take the hammer to the sink where I left it unter running water pushing the lever up with the back of my hand. Was that enough to wash away fingerprints? Did I even care? How many other places did I leave fingerprints? How many dozens of other ways are rhere to trace that I'd been there? I don't think I planned that far ahead.

Someone was planning ahead though. Someone was watching my every move. Someone was snickering over my amateurish foibles. I thought I was all that for killing a defenseless couple in their sleep, but, as I stepped into the hallway from the kitchen, someone burst through the front door, he was a slender muscular man of indeterminate age, in black pants and a white hooded sweatshirt, but honestly the most striking thing about him was his bizarrely mutilated face. He looked like a car accident victim, or a burn victim. Like that lady with the Mr. Potatohead face, or Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky. His skin was milk pale all over, and fairly devoid of features, his big, glassy looking eyes were lidless and apparently bloodshot, his cheeks were cut into with an upward curve which gave him a permanent sinister grin, his whole face was framed with a shock of ragged coal black hair that almost seemed more like fur. A face I'm not likely to forget for as long as I live. The second most strining thing about him was the improbably shiney eight inch buck knife he was casually tossing back and forth between his hands. His stance was low and wide, I remember thinking that he was like a wild beast, but in the few seconds it took me to think that I was too slow to react, in one fluid motion the knife fluttered from his right hand into his left and from there darted directly into my right side, he pressed it in with the heel of his palm as my flesh seemed to simultaneously pull it in, likewise my flesh spat it out as he gently took hold of it and withdrew it.

"Go to sleep!" He commanded. The p at the end of sleep was more like a throaty k accented by a click of his teeth, that must not have decreased the effectiveness of the command, however, because go to sleep is exactly what I did.

A Tale Of Too Many Jeffs

Of all the damned things, I woke up. I couldn't open my eyes, because they were already open, I couldn't close them, because... Why the hell couldn't I close them?!

There was a burning pain in my right side. Oh, yeah, that's rught, I got stabbed. I was looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, my first thought was hospital, but why couldn't I close my eyes? I looked around there was a bare concrete wall to my right, my mouth felt so dry, and my cheeks ached, my whole face ached the more I moved my head. There was another bed to my left, I was in a bed, with a heavy steel frame, and there was one across the room that matched it. There was a sink with a mirror on the back wall, and a metal door with a mesh reinforced hexagonal window at the foot. And in the other bed was another person covered by a blanket. I couldn't tell if it was a hospital room, or a cell, or what. It was bright in the room, but there were no windows, save that in the door, or lightbulbs, or flourescents, or any other discernable light source.

I held up my hands, they looked unnaturally pale, and, examining them more closely I found that I had no fingerprint definition, not just on the tips of my fingers, but all the way down my fingers and palms... Impossible... I rubbed the souls of my feet together, I could tell instantly they had undergone the same glossy smooth transformation as my hands. I peeled the sheets aside, I was dressed in a white T shirt and boxers, which reminded me of LDS garments. Was I in a Mormon hospital/jail? That's what I asked myself. It would explain the overlying odor of warm stale gingerale... The floor was smooth concrete painted maroon. I sat up and put my feet down on it. The floor was warm to the touch, and pulsated with vague fluidity. Radiant heating, I presume. The pain in my side was noticible, but less than it aught to've been I lifted my shirt, and foud a token bandage wrapped loosely around me, I hooked my thumbs under it, stretched it away from me a bit and saw my wound, which was already more scar than scab, it was only then I mentally noted the observation that I had no body hair. Not on my arms, legs, chest, back, I reached my left hand in my shorts to be sure, not even any trace of stubble, I reached up my sleeves, finding the same to be true of my uncharacteristically dry armpits. I fealt around the hair on my head, it felt surprisingly bristly. As my fingers started to touch the edges of my face, it fealt so odd, I had to see it. With some effort I got up and faced the mirror.

I don't know how you'd react in my situation, but what I saw horrified me. Staring back at me from the mirror was the face of the man who stabbed me. Well, not quie, it was my face, only it wasn't, but it is. My nose was gone, no excuses, no traces left behind, just gone, I could feel air draw in and if I covered two distinct spots, in the middle of my face I couldn't inhale through my non-nose. That just caused air to rush in between my cheeks, which were opened up in a gastly JackO'lantern grin, I could bring my lips together, but my extended lips hung open in grotesque mockery of the effort. My eyelids were blackened ovals around my bloodshot eyes, my furrowed brow was hairless, all the way across. My hair was not as long as my attacker's, but had taken on the same fur like quality. Had he done this to me somehow? My features stood out more, unless I relaxed my face, which under the circumstances was more effort than tensing up. I sneered at my reflection, wondering why my eyes didn't feel dry, if I couldn't close them. I put a fingertip up to my right eyeball, wincing in expectance of pain. But I barely felt it. It was just like putting my finger to my eyelid. It felt like smooth plastic, but most things felt like smooth plastic to my newly smoothed fingers. But I found I could press and move my eyeball, and feel my eye moving underneath a surface, like an artificial lense. My occular cogetations were interrupted by the loud yawn of my roomate who suddenly sat up, threw his sheets aside, and stretched his arms up over his head.

My roomate had the same Mormon uderwear as me seeing him at first from the back I could tell he was pale, like me, like the man who stabbed me. His hair was long, but it looked stringy and greesy and did not have that same fur like quality. As he got up I whirled around, his face was somwhat different the cuts into his cheeks looked thinner, were we somehow both victims of the same madman?

He stumbled out to where he could see the feet of the beds. "So, you're Jeff Keller?" He inquired. I looked at him in a way that should have been quizzical, but with my realigned features I'm not sure what it was. I've never gone by Jeff in my life. But instead of saying anything I strode to the foot of my bed, where a chart hung, the name on it read Jeff T. Keller.

"I guess so." I breathed.

"I'm Jeff Hodek," he extended, smooth white hand. I glanced at his chart, which had the name Jeff K. Hodek at the top. "Judging from how you carry yourself, you must be new. You're lucky you got roomed with me, it's my third time back on the farm."

"Farm?" I shook the extended member, blankly.

"Oh of course!" He exclaimed, "you don't know anything about it. Don't worry you'll figure it all out." I was not necessarily affected by his confidence. In fact I was more frightened than ever of wherever I was.

My roomate oppened a steel chest at the foot of his bed and removed black dress pants, socks, and slip on shoes, and a white stitched together hoodie and doned them, I retrieved and reuctantly equipped the same garb from an identical chest at the foot of my bed.

"Watch out, Nubi," he warned, "Someone's gonna try to punk you for that name"

I wanted to ask something about the inigmatic statement, anything, but my hought process was interrupted by a sound like many ringing alarm clocks, I couldnd't see any alarm clock in the room/cell, or any kind of clock. The door swung open, soundless apart from the initial click.

"Breakfast!" My roomate declared. I could already see a train of identically dressed, and mutilated men moving down the hall as he beconned me out to join the throng.

I fealt a familliar sense of givving in surrendering my free will to the mob. I could not resist. I let go my reservations. Like always, I'm nothing but a cuck, a drone, and a puppet. And so sat I, a voyour, watching my own puppet show unfold. I watched myself join that river of smiling faces, marching like uniformed cadets, arrowed signs the crowd was following read MESS HALL ➡ I don't know why. It just all seemed so goddamn silly. I really couldn't help myself, at first I started tittering, just like a happy puppet, then began laughing with increasing volume and maniacality.

"Whoa, hey," my roomat exclaimed, his eyes stretching into vertical ovals, "are you alright, Jeff, take a chill pill."

My cacodeamoniacal cackling came to a cacophonous crescendo, drowning out the footsteps, my roomate's cautionary comentaries, but not the liquescent mechanical hum, playing off my bones through the floor. My pace was slowed as I had to catch my breath. "Watch it!" Grunted some Jeff who bumped into my back and pushed past me.

"Seriously," my roomate went on, "Chill pill! Left inner pocket." He demonstrated produding a small ziplock baggie containing three blue gell caps from tge recesses of his left hoodie pocket and returning it there to demonstrate. I mecame aware of the shape of the pills inn my own pocket, against my abdomen, but I had no interest in swallowing some weird goop from this place, which reminds me, the general slowing of mass locomotion told me I was in line for breakfast.
Spinpasta / Jeff The Killer And Jane Are Still Two People
« Last post by Ben Fugman on March 21, 2019, 10:44:40 AM »
Three years ago on a web site called Archive Of Our Own a user known as mrskittycatmeow666 posted a story called Jeff The Killer And Jane Are Two People.
I do not know this writer and cannot pretend to understand the process that lead her to write such a thing, but I know I'm picking it up right now because I'm bored, lonely and frustrated. Someone once told me that's the place fiction comes from. And if fiction means writing down things that aren't true in the hopes that it will entertain someone then that's what this is.
So here goes, it's a a story, it's about two people, and they're comin', they're comin' this way, and they have knives, and fire extinguishers, and what are you gonna do when two people are still commin', and they're comming to get you, yeah, that's right, with a vengence, and then you find out they're in a mansion and it's Slendy's mansion and you know it's it the middle of the forest, and it's a mansion, and it's in the middle of every forest in the world, yeah, just try to wrap your noodle around that. You'll need a pretty big noodle, 'cause it's every forest in the world, and it's two people and they're still armed and they're comin' for you, 'cause whatever you did, they know, 'cause they're two people, and.... They're just two people, it's Jeff The Killer and Jane. Here they come!

Chapter One: Can You Feel That?

In a dark, dark wood there is a dark, dark house, in the dark, dark house lives a man in a dark, dark suit, he is a man; because he wears a suit, walks on two legs, hugs with two arms, and urinates with one penis. He is not a man; because he talks and eats with no mouth, he sees and hears with no eye nor ear, he fights with six vaporous tentacles, and procreates with no testicles, exponentially reducing the population with each life he lends at interest. This story is not about him, you'd imagine there'd be some interesting stories about a man like that, there are fewer than you'd expect. This story is about two people, who happen to be guests in his house.

**POV Jeff**

Oh shit!

No he didn't! Yes, he did! That dickless, gutless, eyless punk really just threw down the gauntlet!

"She doesn't belong to you, man!" Jack yells at you. Pretty impressive volume for a guy without vocal chords. "She's her own person! Nobody belongs to you!"

Can you feel it yet?

That thick black ichor of anger, welling up inside you. But are you mad at this bag of bones, minus the bag, at everything he represents? Probably not, you're not mad at anyone just mad, stark raving mad, killing mad, of course Jane belongs to you, she was made for you, just you! You're Jeff The Killer, every future psychopath wants to ship their OCs with you, but you only want Jane. She should be goddamn greatful!

The dickless wonder's droning isn't making you any less angry, however. "Y'know, man, you're pretty hung up on appearances, with that smile, like, cut into your face like that, with... And the whole stitched hoody thing, how many of those things do you have? I saw you hand stitching a stack of them the other day, like, what the heck man, didn't DKNY start selling the official JTK hoodie now? You're still up in here, in the mansion every weekend making your own."

Seriously! He freakin' had to take it there, didn't he, or does he even freaking know?! Bonehead aint got a brain, after all. "I can't afford the DKNY ones! Is that what you want me to say!? I'm freakin' poor! And it's not like they paid me for licensing rights. I should kill you just for mentioning that shit!"

"You know, man, you're really giving off a lot aggression right now, that's the whole problem with being named after something you do, everybody, including you expects that to be the main thing you do!" You know one thing, it's definitely what you wanna do to Jack Skeleton, right about now. That thick syrupy blood of Ares is reaching critical mass inside you. You know it.

"Yeah I'm Jeff The Killer, and I do, in fact, expect killing to be the main thing I do, and from the time I earned that name, to the time I moved into this crummy mansion it was the main thing I did, but now it seems like the main thing I do is play tea party with a bunch of gutless dummies!" That's telling him.

"At least I've got a spine!" Jack declares. You aren't about to refute that statement. "You know what they used to call me, man? They used to call me Regular Jack. It was really embarrassing, I was walkin around, and keep in mind, at my school there was, like, a doezen Jacks, there was a Fat Jack, a Skinny Jack, Slow Jack, Quick Jack, Bottle Stealer Jack, Dependable Jack, Shifty Jack, Cowboy Hat Jack (who didn't wear a cowboy hat every day, it was really weird, some days he wore a leather face mask) and there I was just walkin' aroun'd, just Regular Jack and people'd be like, '"Oh jeez, I wonder what he gets up to, oh wait, I don't care, 'cause he's just plain ol' boring ol' Regular Jack, let's go see what Skateboard Jack is doing."' anyway one day I found out, came up and found... I was on the school bus and it crashed, I lost both my eyes at once, and then I found out I wasn't just Regular Jack anymore, and, when I saw both of my eyes cut most of the way in half, popped out of my head on the peice of glass that had stabbed all the way into my brain, when I saw that I realized that I don't need no eyes to be able to see. People put too much stock into organs and having them, so, yeah, I killed a lot of people , but that didn't make me Jack The Killer, 'cause I already wasn't just Regular Jack," you know he'll just go on like this, if someone doesn't stop him. "Being Eyeless Jack was alright, but it was a bit limiting, I knew I could live without other organs. And one day I decided that my skin was just holding me back, and I didn't need a bunch of skin around me, clingin' to me, holdin' me back. I feel a lot freer and a lot lighter, y'know without all that muscle and blood holdin' me down." How many times has he told this story? Aren't you getting sick of it?

"That's enough!" You shout, slapping Jack Skeleton, backhand, across the face. His skull goes flying across the room and lands in the corner.

"Seroiously, man!?" His muffled voice calls out from across the room. "You knocked my freakin' skull off, man! That's a low blow."

"Technically," you retort, "it was a high blow."

"Oh Jees!" Ben declares, from the doorway. "You shouldn't have done that!" He continues.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, you start to whirl around, your eyes are met with a wall of red, it's the fire extinguisher that Jane is hitting you in the head with. Red fades to black.

Chapter Two: It's Supper Time!

You know how sometimes you get into this situation where there are no good options, so you start examining all the bad options, it doesn't make the bad options look any better, but the worse the bad options look the more likely you are to choose one of the lesser or greater evils. Sometimes, though, you have no options, whatsoever, at all, that's it, no fatalism involved, just somebody else choosing what happens to you next, and not offering you a choice in the matter.

**POV Jane**

You shudders as you drops the massive red metal cylender to the wood pannel floor. Jeff lays on the floor the left side of his wan face painted as red as the fire extinguisher you struck him with, of course, it isn't paint, it's Jeff's blood.

Jack Skeleton is in the corner feeling around for his skull. "No, over here!" The skull shouts. His body continues feeling around the corner slowly and meticulously.

"Oh my gods! I'm so sorry Jeff did that to you, Jack!" You proclaim, rushing over to him you scoops up his skull and hands it to him.

"It's okay Jane, really, it's not that hard to knock my skull off. I don't have any cartilage or anything holding me together, so I'm used to stuff like this happening." The skull says in a reasuring tone, cradled in Jack's hands. You aren't sure you feel reassured.

"Um... Do you need help putting it back on?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Nah, it's fine. Don't even trip." Jack assures you. "I'm a skeleton, I know how to put my own skull on."

Slendy enters the room from a door that literally was not there before he opened it, and literlally is not there after he closes it. You suppose he's always doing things like that.

"Good news everyone!" Slendy delclares, peaking his fingers together. "It's Supper Time!"

Jeff has risen to his knees wiping blood off his left eye with his sleeve. "Supper time? I can't eat anything right now, I've gotta go to a hospital."

"Why? So Doctor Apathy can tell you to take two and call him in the morning." Slendy's brow visibly furrows. "No, we are going to sit down and have supper together, and look eachother in the eyes, like a real family!" The irony of the statement is not lost on you.

"Honestly," Jack's skull injects, still cradled in his hands, "I don't think you and I have looked eachother in the eyes once the entire time I've been here."

"It's a figure of speach!" Slendy megaphones. "Now everyone pull yourselves together and get to the dining room, Jane, please return the fire extinguisher to the emergency hook. We keep a tidy house."

You comply with your host's demands you wouln't want to upset The Slenderman. You picks up the red cylender still dripping equally red with jeff's blood looking as if the very essence of the fire extinguisher is dripping off onto the floor. The same red essence, as if splattered from the fire exinguisher onto Jeff's face drips off of him as he shuffles, grumbling to the dining room, followed by Jack trying to click his skull into place while walking. You hang up the fire extinguisher, and join the misfit train.

To your surprise there is already several people at the long dining table. A redhead with a watch for an eye sits on the left of the far end and a frizzy haired blonde who was mumbling something about skin, pinching her wrist, sits on the right. Between them, in the far end seat, sat an alasken huskie, with a grin even bigger than Jeff's. A creature with incredibly long fingers sat beside the blonde, and NegMouse sat beside the redhead. Next from Negmouse was a shiny statue-like Ronald McDonald, and beside The Rake? was The Goat Man? Anyway next to R. McD there was a very tall brunette with blood dripping from her empty eye sockets across from her a foam apple with a face was supported by a rusty stick, beside the apple was a tall black man in a gas mask, trench coat, and fedora. Sitting across from him was a pink pony with a frizzy mane, and three balloons painted? on its flank (not a cartoon pony, an actual pony, smell and all, yet somehow not an actual pony, because she's sitting upright in a chair and sipping tea from a cup held, in the forelock of her mane!?!?) It's a lot for your mind to process. As you're entering, the seat beside the pony is filling with black and white smoke, issuing from a box under the chair, the smoke solidifies into a cachina-like clown dressed in all black and white with black and white feathered shoulders and a long black and white cone nose, his hair seems to be bright red, dyed black. A man in a blue windbraker with a horrifically burnt face sits across from the clown, and barbed wire wraps around the chair beside him and pulls a man in a mirrored mask up from under the table, and sets him in the chair. Across from the man in the mirror mask, a swarm of spiders form themselves into a humanoid shape.  Ben takes the seat beside Spiders Man? as a pefect pixilated Sonic The Hegehog appeares, pixel by pixel, in the seat oposite him. Sonic's eyes turn black, and though he's made up of massive 1' x 1' pixels hyper realistic blood starts streaming from his eyes, even though it doesn't look real, like the blood still streaming down Jeff's face it does seem as if you touched Sonic's cheek you would get blood on your hand, Jack sits down beside the digital hedgehog, and Jeff takes the end seat oppsite the smiling dog, leaving only the seat to Jeff's left, between him and Ben for you. Reluctantly you take the seat.

Slendy enters the dining room, again from a door that isn't there. You'd love to know how he does that trick. "What're you doin' sittin' at the table?!" He demands of the grinning dog, which promptly hops out of the seat, and scampers over to your end of the room, yiping.

"It's okay doggie." Jeff says scratching it behind the ears. The dog pants happily, turns in a circle and chomps down on Jack's femur, he doesn't seem to notice.

"How come you kicked the dog off the table, but not the pony?" You ask. The pony instantly spits out entirety more tea than she could posdibly have just sipped.

Slendy appears bemused. "Jane Elizabeth Arkensaw, meet Pinkamena Diane Pie. A felow civilized citizen of the cosmos."

"You can just call me Pinkie Pie, heeee!" The pony grins at you, improbably wide.

"I can talk too you know, spread the word!" The smiling dog telepaths at everyone, to the acknowledgement of no one.

"Alright, dearly beloved," Slendy announces, taking his seat, after brushing it off. "We have gathered here for the consumption of mass quantities, let this supper of the Creepypasta Mansion Society commence. L.J. will you do the honors?" Slendy looks? at the clown.

"Why certainy!" the clown conceeds and snaps his fingers, sections of liver heart, and various cuts of raw meat appear on everyone's plates.

"Are you sure this is organic?" The blonde woman inquisits, just audibly.

"Why of course!" The clown replies, "They are organs, you know!"

"L.J.!" Slendy scolds, "We aren't barbarians!" With a snap of Slendy's long fingers the plates quickly blaze with fire, and the raw meat becomes cooked.

"Wait!" The clown interceeds, "I forgot, I'm a vegetarian!" With a snap of his fingers all the cooked meat is replaced with raw vegetables.

"Still," slendy rasps, "we are not barbarians!" Slendy snaps his fingers, the plates blaze up again, the leafy vegetables are reduced to ash.

Everyone stares at the ash piles on their plates. "How about we order out," Jeff suggests, "I hear Silly's Pizza is pretty good." You're wondering why someone doesn't just magic up some more food, does it have to come from somewhere?

A gust of wind whistles through the room blowing away all the piles of ash.

"It's okay!" Pinkie Pie shouts, "I brought CUPCAKES!!" The pink pony slams down metal trays of cupcakes, you swear weren't in the room before, with her hoof, in front of everyone, breaking some of the ceramic plates.

The cupcakes turn out to be pretty good, though a bit stringy, and you notice there's some glitter and confetti mixed in, but you're not gonna trip about it, at least it's something to eat. You're not really sure how Pinkie Pie fits into Creepypasta Mansion Society, how could a cute pink pony spend her time with all these ruthless killers, including you?

Chapter Three: Desert, Anyone?

There comes a time, not always, but sometimes, and everytime that time comes, you panic, you freeze, you choke up. It's a tense situation, and you don't know what to do, so you wind up doing what could be interpreted as something, but essentially equates to nothing, or negative of nothing, making the situation worse than if you had done litterally nothing, whoever you are, if you're reading this, this statement applies to you, you can lie to me, but I won't hear you, and you can't lie to yourself, which is the only person who will hear you if you try to refute my statement right now, unless you're reading this in a room with other people, in which case, they might think you're crazy. Who am I? Obviously I'm an omniscient third person narrator, that's how I know the above statement applies to you, but you're probably wondering what our two melee struck young lovers are getting up to at this very moment, I of course, know, and would be glad to tell you, just one of the many perks of being an omniscient narrator. Get my drift?

Jane is happily chomping on a red velvet, ponyfat cupcake she does not know the secret ingredients were harvested from Pinkie Pie's murdered intelligent pony friends, would it give her pause if she did, it's hard to say. After all, is a pony a person, I of course, knowing everything, know the answers to both questions, but do not feel obliged to share them with you.

Jeff rolls a cupcake to and fro on his tray. The flow of blood from the gash on his left eyebrow has slowed to a trickle.

Jack is nibbling rapidly at a cupcake, crumbs and bits of frosting cascade down his ribcage. "Boy, these are some real stick to your ribs muffins." he comments.

Jane giggles.

"Har har!" Jeff proclaims, in a forced monotone, "it is funny because he is a skeleton."

"So true!" Ben snickers quaveringly tossing a whole cupcake into his hippopotamusine maw, paper and all and grinds it a couple of times between his pestlesque teeth before forcing it down his bottleneck of a gullet.

Mr. Barbed sits practically motionless as his wires bring up bits of cupcake in front of the hole in his mask, from where he inhales them.

Spiders-Man casualy rests one hand on the tray while a parade of aracnids deliver colorful cupcake crumbs up to the separation in the rithing mass of smaller spiders that constitutes a mouth in what passes for Spiders-Man's face.

Barbie picks a peice of tensil out of the fuchsia frosting. "These deffinitely aren't organic." She holds up the sparkly bit for all to see, she is right, indeed, for the cakes contain meal from corn that was magically modified to prevent para-sprite infestations, and the tensil itself is elemental silver, not especially unhealthy, but deffinitely not an organic material. "I don't think they'll be good for my complexion."

Natale licks some frosting tentatively. "They certainly don't taste like organs."

Laughing Jack carefully dissects a cupcake with a scalpel and forceps, revealing a tiny heart inside, strange, nobody else found anything like that. Laughing Jack makes an arc of electricity between his thumb and index finger, shocks the tiny heart, and it starts to beat. He snatches up the still beating heart and pops it in his mouth. "They taste plenty organic to me." He says, before belching up a cloud of glitter.

Fuchsia drool drips out of the corner of Jimmy's mouth, and runs down his windbreaker.

The Goatman suppords himself with hands on the table, as he leans his face down to the tray munching at cupcakes.

Happy Appy greedily shoves all the cupcakes from his tray into his mouth and starts to choke. Forenzik pats Happy on the back,  he caughs up all the papers in the form of animate paper butterflys, which spiral around the room.

Photo Negative Mickey Mouse repeatedly shoves one cupcake after another against the white fabric screen in his mask, to no avail. The cupcakes just fall back to his tray squashed, and he keeps trying.

The Rake crouches on his chair, curling and uncurling his fingers, tiny bites dissapear from his cupcakes with no apparent cause or order.

The Ronald McDonald statue eats the cupcakes like a normal person, excep that he holds up each one beside his face and smiles beforehand.

Slendy picks each cupcake up in front of where his mouth isn't he makes a sound, as of someone pretending to chomp, each time the cupcake decreases in size from within, until ony the paper is left, which he lets casually float down to the tray.

Marana spoons up chunks of cupcake with her long pinkie nails and sucks them up, with pursed lips, chewing each bit thoroughly, before audibly swallowing.

Pinky Pie crams three cupcakes at a time into her snout, for each three she picks up on her hoof, only one goes missing from her tray.

Each cupcake Sonic.exe touches quickly depixelates away and his cheeks can breifly be seen expanding and contracting as of a chewing motion, seen as one cheek, the other, or both, depending on the angle of the observer. laps up crumbs out of Jack Skeleton's pelvis.

"So," Jane asks, timidly, "Is this everyone?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Slendy asks, as another empty cupcake paper floats down to his tray.

"Is this the whole Creepypasta Mansion Society?" Jane clarifies her inquiry.

"My dear girl..." Slendy condescends, "This mansion exists in every forest in the world. I am hosting supper right now in every version of the mansion in this time zone."

"I'm attending five of them right now!" Laughing Jack interrupts. "And considdering dropping in late to a few more."

Slendy crinkles his brow, but quickly releases it. "Why, you're lucky you're even attending supper with the same person you came in with."

If sitting next to Jeff is luck, Jane isn't sure it's the good kind. Not that she has much experience with that kind of luck. If she wanted to change her cards, she'd have to fabricate her own luck.

"So," Wendy slent on, "The short answer is, no, this is most assuredly not everyone. There are still plenty of interesting folks to meet, here at Creepypasta Mansion, and so many different forests and towns you can visit."

The Rake nods in ascension.

"You can learn new tricks, from the best, and master your trade." NegMouse exuberates through his frosting caked screen. Then places his gloved hands around his neckline, "Wanna see my head come off?"

Slendy shakes his head, with an audible swish. NegMouse dejectedly drops his hands to his sides. "Aww shucks!" The Inverted Character sighs. telekinets NegMouse's squished cupcakes across the room and drops them into his bowl, then begins chowing down on them.

NegMouse looks at his empty tray and shrugs, sighing more deeply. Barbie and Natale exchange a glance, and begin piling their cupcakes onto NegMouse's tray.

An old Dutch clock on the wall pops out a mechanical bird, which announces, "Cookoo!" It winds back inside with a mechanical twist that sounds like, "you're all" then pops out again proclaiming, "Cookoo!" Bizarrely, Natale's tongue mirrors the action, mechanical cuckoo and all.

"Alright," Slendy flourishes his right hand high in the air, that's all the time we have for supper, everyone, please clear out the dining room so it can be moved on to the next time zone." Slendy gets up and leaves through a regular door, closing it behind him, and everyone else begin to file out.

Chapter Four: And What Happened After

Events don't always play out in the way you'd expect, someimes they don't play out in the order you'd expect, but sometimes they play out in the exact sequence you would expect if you would just draw on the knowledge base you already have to know what to expect.

**POV Jane**

Slendy is such a commanding presence, it hadn't occurred to you before to ask, "Um... Does anybody else find it unusual that we just had dinner, and then supper?"

"N-nope," Ben studders, "pretty usual. It's hiw they did it beck in deh shire." He snorts, in the manner peculiar to euphoria enthusiasts.

"Are you a Hobbit?" You ask, genuinely curious.

"Yes," Jeff interrupts, grabbing you around the waiste from behind, and poking his chin uncomfortably into your shoulder, "he is a Hobbit, and he has hairy feet."

"No!" Ben defends, "I'm not a H-h-hobbit."

"What's that outfit, then." You ask, shrugging out of Jeff's embrace.

"Clearely," Ben circumstantiates, "these are Kokiri clothing."

"Wat's a Kokiri?" You ask, doubly confused.

"Wait!" Jeff announces, with a wild flourish, "I know this one! So, Ben comes from a word affected by a virus called Xorax-"

"Wrong!" Ben grumbles.

"Okay," Jeff continues unperturbed, "Volvox then, something like that, anyway it started turning all the adults into fish people and all the newborns into rock people, so the govenment found a way to halt the aging of adolescents and-"

"No! No! No!" Ben stamps his foot, "None of that is remotely accurate!"

"A' o' 'o..." Jeff gesticulates, shrinking back.

"I just realized..." You put an idex finger to the part of your lower lip that has lip on it. "I don't remember what dinner was."

"Of course you don't!" Jeff rises, cackling, to a haughtier posture, "Jack made it. No wonder you were so hungry at supper." Jeff resumes cackling, so much that he nearly doubles over.

"Jeff!" You scold him, "when did you become such a bully?"

Jeff straightens up, "Listen toots, if I've learned one thing in this world, it's that you're either a bully, or you get bullied."

"Oh sure!" You roll your eyes, "That's a great moral to the story of your life!"

"Grrr-r-row!" Jeff's eyes widen, (if that's possible,) "Maybe we should relocate this discussion to our bedroom."

"I'm not going to any bed room with you, Jeff!" You roars.

"Well you sure as hell aren't going to any bedroom with anyone else!" Jeff rages.

With stark suddenness the smiling dog leaps onto Jack Skeleton, knocking him to the floor between you and Jeff cutting the tension, as though with a knife.

Jack's skull pops off and rolls several times, before coming to rest upright on the flat of the lower jaw, "Stop! Down boy! Down Smile Dog!" Jack's skull shouts, hopping and clattering hilariously as he speaks, but the dog seems only interested in licking te frosting remnants off Jack's ribs and spine. "Oh I remember... Fetch, Smile Dog!"

With that the dog lept from jack's desacated body bounded over to the helpless skull and gingerly snaped it up between his massive jaws. Bushy tailed, The dog trots back and depositsthe skull in jacks hands. He sticks it back on as he stands up. The dog turns in several circles and looks up at Jack, panting expectantly.

"Sorry boy." Jack apologizes. "I don't have anything else for you to fetch."

"Oh I dunno," Jeff sneers, "you are made of bones, you could just throw some of those..."

Can a skull look flustered? In any case Jack's does, but you can't tell if that's really the case. Or it's just the natural skullyness of his skull, reflecting in his tone. "Y'know what Jeff, I've had to put myself together more than enough times today, why don't we take and... Why don't we throw some of your bones?!"

"Hey, back off!" Jeff swings an arm up defensively. "I need my bones to hold my flesh up! Well, most of my flesh." He cocks his head and winks? at you over Jack's shoulder. (It's hard to call it a wink, since he has no eyelids, but the right side of his face twitches like a wink, and his right eye narrows compared to the left.) In any case you don'te even want to think about what he's talking about right now.

"Yall are no fun!" Smiledog telepaths at everyone, including you, and he turns and walks down the hallway, with his tail swishing in the air.

The hallway?!

Didn't this door go to the living room before?!

You look back up the halway the way you came from, you know you haven't come that far since leaving the dining room, but all you see is a seemingly infinite hallway trailing off in both directions, you don't see anyone else from the supper, or at all, besides Ben, Jack, Jeff, the dog, and, if you look down, you. You realize you have to consciously look down to be able to see yourself, The only sensations you're aware of are the burning, unaturally hot burning, in your side where Jeff stabbed you, and the stinging in your cheeks where your lips used to end.

"Where's everyone else?!" You demand.

"Maybe they left through different doors?" Jeff shrugs.

Yeah right! What door? You can't see any doors anywhere in any direction. "What happened to the living room?!" You shriek, "Where are we?!"

"I know!" Jeff proclaims. "We're in Creepypasta Mansion!" He poses, grinning like a maniac, holding his thumb and index finger in the shape of a checkmark to the left of his face, leaning with his left knee bent.

You looks from Jeff, to Ben, to Jack, to Smiledog walking away, to Jack, to Ben, back to Jeff still holding that goofy pose. You can't take it anymore. Slendy coming through doors that weren't there before and a clown materilizing out of smoke were fun party gags, a talking pink pony, you can live with that, but disappearing living rooms, and being trapped in a never ending hallway with Jeff and these two doormats. That's just too much to deal with! You run, you don't know what else to do.

"Jane! Don't run!" Jeff calls after you, "That's the worst thing you could possibly do!"

"No running in the halls..." Ben adds meekly.

You don't care what any one, or the rules, have to say about it, you runs, you doesn't look back.

"Spread the word!" Smiledog telepaths at you as you pass him, "Wooof!" He adds aloud.

You runs faster and faster, you closes your eyes, you doesn't hear anyone running after you. You are flying, free, you run like the wind, you are the wind, and suddenly, you aren't.

You run into something soft and warm. You collide with a warm fluffy mass you sink into it and colide more jarringly with a rock hard silky smooth object, which gives way to the impact and toples over and over with you cradled inside it before skidding to a stop underneath you.

You open your eyes and find yourself face to face with a fluffy fuchsia pony tale, wrapped between two upward jutting pink hind legs.

"Ehem!" Says Pinkie Pie's head, from behind you, supported by her neck, cranining up from between your legs.

There is, of course, an entire intact pony underneath you, but this certainly isn't the usual way one is mounted, you're not even sure how Pinkie Pie feels about being mounted. Wouldn't it mean something different where she's from anyway, in that case maybe this would be the way to do it, if you were to do it. Not that you're thinking about it, right? You heave yourself off the pastel penequine, and slowly pick yourself up.

She goes through a quick routine getting upright and straightened out, you aren't sure if a chorus of servo noises emit from her joints, or you imagine them.

"Fancy us running into eachother twice in one night." She exuberates, bouncing on her hooves.

"I'm pretty sure that's the first time we've actually run into eachother." You joke, shakily.

"Oooh are you not the same Jane Arkensaw I was at supper with tonight?" She asked batting her eyes, like ponies do.

"No... I mean yes... I mean I'm her... Me, but... Nevermind." Great now she'll be as confused as you. "Wait, are there multiple mes?"

"Hmmm..." She ponders, "I don't think I've met any, at least not since MiiTomo shut down."

You have no idea what that answer was, and you're not prepared to dissect it. "Are there multiple yous?" You should know not to expect any clearer an answer.

"Psht, of cours, I saw a whole herd of yews just the other day." Is this pony jus trying to make jokes out of your questions? Her answers are inemicably confounding.

You are sure you are not imagining the sound of Jeff's slippons rhythmically slapping on the tiles of the hallway. He's started running after you.

"I've got to go." You starts running as you offer your excuse to the pink pony. You runs a lttle slower with your eyes wide open, she canters up beside you, easy as pie.

"Are we running in the halls?" She beams.

"I..." You gasp, "guess so..."

"Weeee!" She thrills shrilly, "hop on!" She snatches you by the wrist with her forelock, swings you up onto her back and takes off down the hallway at a gallup. You can't tell if you're holding onto her mane, or it's holding onto your hands but you feel so safe now. Jeff will never catch you at this speed.

Chapter Five: The Quick And The Fled

"Faster, Pinkie Pie!" Jane shouts, with unacustom glee!

"Okidokiloki!" The pink pony proclaims.

"Liars!" Jimmy barks as they blow past.

Jane looks over her shoulder she can see Jeff pulling a Chariots Of Fire, while farther back she sees jack with his hands on his hips and Ben holds up a cautionary hand.

Suddenly the hallway behind them falls away and is replaced by another hallway. This has been happening constantly, but it's only moving at this speed that Jane is able to see it.

Mr. Barbed strolls just ahead, surrounded by a hoop of barped wire. Pinkie leaps clearing it easily. Jane notices the hallway being replaced ahead.

**POV Jeff**

You can't freakin' believe this, you probably should have explained hallways instead of joking around, of all the messed up creaturs she could have run into in this neogothic hellscape, it had to be that damned sadistic horse monster. You may be a psychotic psychopath, you're deffinitely a multiple murderer, but you are no sadist.

You start running as fast as you know how, you've got to catch up to her before something weird happens. Not that any other kind of thing is bound to happen in a damned hallway. The rule with halways, and how can you explain something like that in a house that "officially" has no rules, but unofficially has all kinds of rules like no running in hallways, more specifically the rule with halways is proceed at a leisurely pace, until you get where you're going. Also keep fire extinguishers on emergency hooks, in case of emergencies, which emergencies apparently include whacking you upside the dome for no good reason. And dozen's of other unspoken rules, the breaking of which can lead to unforseen consequences.

Where did Smile Dog go? He was just ahead of you, you didn't blink, you couldn't if you tried, but he was just ahead of you, you didn't pass him, he's not there now, but you can still see Jane ahead she's talking with that murderous malefactor of a mare.

(More to come in this chapter. Someone dropped the ball, and it landed on Ben Fugman's toe.)

Chapter Six: The Door That Didn't Go Anywhere

If it were up to you this would be over by now, there would've been a time skip or some other cheap trick, any kind of lazy device to bring this nightmare to a close, you wonder, why, in this day and age, is something like this allowed to go on, this can't be serious, can it? How do you differentiate between serious or not serious, is there some formula that has to be followed to either make it serious, or to make it a joke you can appreciate? What if puzzle peices are being handed to you, one at a time, and though you can't see what they form, you expect it will be a complete picture? What if you know the picture being assembled isn't to your specific taste, say, you're mostly into realism and you're already seeing the corner of a melting clock, or some such surreal thing, are you gonna give up on the puzzle? Just because it's not your favorite style, does that mean you can't have fun putting it together? These are all questions. That was a statement.

**POV Ben**

You tried to warn Jane not to run in the hallway, you tried to warn Jeff too. Jeff already learned the hard way about running in halls once, now they've both disappeared down the hall, and you're stuck here alone with CMS's premier weight loss guru.

"Where'd they--" Jack starts.

"Wh-why-y-y d-d-does shi-i-i-it likethis onlyever ha-a-pe-pen tomeeeeee-eeeee-EE?!" Echos throughout the hallway, from both sides of you, in Jeff's voice.

"Yep," you conclude, "Jeff fell into hypothetical space again."

"What about..." Jack pauses, jaw agape, you almost hear a gasp, but you asume it's just the wind in the hallway whistling through his bones, since he has no lungs or larynx to gasp with.... But then how does he talk? "Jane?" He completes his thought as awkwardly as he paused it.

"Look, Jane will be fine as long as she paces herself, and doesn't try to outrun the hallway." You try to assure him, failing to assure yourself, but why should you care? "As for Jeff, we can be sure he's nowhere, for an indefinite period, as a matter of fact, what Jeff? As far as we're concerned, he doesn't exist right now."

"So," Jack's cheekbones seem to sag. "What should we do?"

"What do you mean asking me a ridiculous question like that?" You shoot him a stony glare. "We are in a hallway! There's only one thing to do, we're just-- we're gonna keep walking on down this hallway-- proceeding at a leasurely pace and-- hey! Don't give me that look! We're just gonna keep going until we get where we're going."

"But," Jack starts again, "how will we find Jane, we have to make sure Jane's okay!" If he had a brain, or any other thinking organ's, you'd say he has a one track mind. As is, you can't figure what his angle is in this, he obviously seems intent on getting Jane alone, but he's a skeleton, what's he gonna do, bone her? Well, even with no flesh to make it apparent there's no denying the boner he has for her...

"I guess..." You conjecture, "If where she is is where we're going, then... Yes?" You don't even try to sound convincing. If it were up to you you would be going to your room to get on the N64.

Jack flashes puppydog eyes, well as much as someone without eyes or cheeks can do. It's not your problem what happens to Jane, and as for Jeff, good riddance, so you do exactly what you should have done since entering this hallway, you proceed at a leisurely pace. Jack follows you, but you can see the tension in his shoulder blades.

Finally, you come to a door. It's a regular door. Not the door you were hoping for. You wanted to reach the big black patterened double doors of the dormatory wing. Instead here it is, a goddamn regular door, leading to a goddamn common room.

"Well," you huff in frustration, "looks like we're going through this regular door. Could to lead to any of billions of varients of any of the six hundred and sixty six stardard common rooms in the mansion."

"I know what a regular door is, Brainiac!" Jack indignates. "Do you think it will take us to Jane?"

"It's a door." You glare blankly. "It won't take us anywhere." You turn the nob and open the door a crack, "We have to go through it. If Jane happens to be on the other side will you shut up?"

"I make no promises." Jack turns up his skeletal nose.

You open the door and tiptoe through, followed by Jack's rickety bones. You've entered the upper level of a dusty old library the shelves are packed with all sorts of reading materials, from small leaflets, to zines, to paperback novels, to thick encyclopedic texts, and heavy leather-bound tomes; all mostly written in modern American English. You notice something else right away, the shelves are plastered with advertisements, posters, banners, cardboard stand-up's at the edges. Even the numerous book marks were all printed with advertisements, mostly for producs or services, completely irrelevant to you.

"What is this place?" Jack clatteres.

"I think we're in Creepypasta dot com." You say. "It wasn't always like this."

"But why would Jane, or anyone, ever come here?" There's ol' one track Jack for ya.

"Look around Jack? Do you see Jane anywhere around here?" You inquire in what you think is a very lawyerly tone, but it isn't. "Do you see anyone around here, do you see the door we came in through, do you see any doors? So... Look it's really not important where Jane, or Anyone else is right now, what's important is that we find out why we are in this garishly decorated library, and how to get out."

"What?!" Jack shrieks. "There's no doors, Ben?!" You thought you made that pretty clear, but who knows what goes through the space in Jack's skull. "I thought about finding Jane the whole way here, so shouldn't we have found her?" It's probably mostly air.

"Halways don't take you where you want to be, they just take you where you're going." You mansplain. "If it had gone where I wanted, it would have lead to the dormatory wing."

"So," Jack puts his hands on his hip bones and taps his foot. "What you're saying is you messed it up, Ben, you threw us off by not thinking about Jane."

"Hey man, we can't all of us just always think about Jane all the time, just 'cause you're playing chase after the new girl doesn't meen you have to drag me along." You lecture. "For all I knew, Jane was going to the dormatory wing too."

"Oh yeah, sure!" Jack glowers, "That's exactly where she'd be headed after that argument with Jeff." He sarcastically vexasperates.

Your gonna say something extremely cruel that you'll regret later, suddenly you're interrupted by a loud sound like crinkling tin, now an automaton chittering ticks along in the background as Pop Goes The Weasel plays on a rusty whining music box cylinder. You and Jack look around, it's coming from behind a standup cardboard ad for the Jumbo Jack cheeseburger. As the note for Pop plays a worn tin box rolls out from behind the ad, propelled by the motion of its lid popping open. Black and white smoke rises from the box an begins to spiral over and uner into a point and solidifies into a swirly black and white cone, which becomes Lauging Jack's nose, as the smoke transforms into the rest of his body behind it.

"Heyo!"shouts the monchrome clown. "What's black and white, read all over, covered in blood, and found in a library?"

You hold your right hand under your chin with your index finger pointed up your left cheek and your thumb pointed up your right, looking at him sideways, with your right eyebrow raised and your lips screwd up in an antismirk. An expression you actually invinted.

"I give up." Jack shrugs his shoulder blades. "What is it?"

"This!" Laughing Jack declares brandishing a blood soaked, rolled up, copy of this week's New York Times, picked up from behind the Jumbo Jack ad. "Also I accept your surrender." He tosses away the newspaper, you don't hear it land for a long time, then you hear a distant crash, shattering glass a trash can rolling, the yowl of an alley cat. You can't see where the paper went, it's most likely irrelevant.

"Since when have you asked riddles?" You inquisit.

"I'm trying new material!" Laughing jack bursts defensively.

"Yeah, don't quit your day job." Jack cracks. Laughing Jack stares at him, in an over-exaggerated pout. His hair and feathers even slump. After a moment crickets chirp, a wicked jagged grin spreads over Laughing Jack's black and white face, his glossy teeth are down right reflective.

"Say," Laughing Jack gleefulluly querys, "how did you gents get in here?" The stripes on his sleeves ripple electrically.

"Just through a regular door." Jack shrugs again.

"Funny..." Laughing Jack notes, with mock concern, but no apparent touch of ironic humor. "I don't see any around here." His grin widens.

"Yeah," Jack affirms, "I guess it regularly dissapears. We can't see any doors out, here or downstairs, but, y'see, we've  to get outa here and find Jane."

"Oh," Laughing Jack grins wider still, the paint on his cheeks cracking, to reveal more paint underneath, he's a clown through and through. "You can't see any other doors?" You can tell he's messing with you somehow.

Before you can say anything Jack cuts in with, "Do you know how to get to where Jane is, from here?"

"Well," the clown props his chin up on his index knuckle, "it would take much too long to get to where she is right now from here, she'd be gone by the time we got there. I do just so happen to know where she'll be at nine pm and a rout to get us from here to there by then." His smile is so wide he looks like Venom in the old Spider-Man cartoons. You grimace, just a bit.

"Nine?" Jack exclaims, "That's hours from now!"

"It would take even longer to get to where she is now." Laughing Jack explains, "and she wond't be there by then, so it would be a waste of time." His grin sags into a sharky grimace. "Not that it makes any difference to me which way we go."

"So." You cross your arms. "What's this way you're talking about?" You've caught on that where Jane should be by nine pm is the dormatory wing. And even if it takes a couple hours, you'll be there by bedtime, or in your case, since you don't sleep, time to get on the N64

"Well..." The colorless clown comences, "are you familliar with the three basic door types in Creepypasta Mansion?"

"Of course!" You huff. "There are regular doors, plain looking doors which open into common rooms at scheduled intervals, dormatory doors, which lead to extradimensional spaces where corporial residents can build sterile living environments, and special doors which have a singular character to them, and always lead directly into their specific rooms, but usually lead to a hallway when exiting the room they are associated with through them."

"Exactly right, professor egghead you get an A plus for the day, but what can you tell me about the fourth type of doors?" Lauguing Jack asked in a cringe inducing tone.

"Do you mean fixed, or transient?" You ask. You never could figure out the numbering order.

"Transient doors are the fifth type, obviously." Laughing Jack gloats.

"Well, I think fixed doods have something to do with geographic residents..." You attempt.

"That's right, Dr. Smartypants." Laughing Jack sneers. "Fixed doors have something to do with geographic residents, also more often than not fixed doors are disguised. Notice anything around here that doesn't quite belong?"

You scan the room quickly and can't help noticing a single wall shelf in the lower level that isn't plastered in ads. "Oh, right." You snicker. "What library would be complete without a secret bookcase passageway?" You notice for the first time that there are no stairs. "How do we get down?" You trepidate.

"Like this!" Jack swings over the railing and climes down a book shelf, just like a skeleton.

You hoist yourself over the edge, landing atop a book shelf which cracks undeder your weight you crash down through every level of the shelf, breaking your fall by breaking it.

Laughing Jack hums a tune that could be London Bridge Is Falling Down, or Mary Had A Little Lamb, but the tempo doesn't quite match either, as he slowly descends on a little round art deco elevator you hadn't noticed, because of all the ads pasted to it.

"Okay," you snarl, "we're down here, now what?"

"You just have to pull out the right book, silly." Laughing Jack strikes an efiminate taunting pose.

You can hear Jack Skeleton muttering, "Eenie, meenie, meinie, moe!" He pulls a book and goes flying into a bookshelf along with the copy of By The Fire's Light, knocking off his right leg, and left arm.

"That's the wrong book!" Cautions Laughing Jack. "The one you need to pull is titled, No End House: The Complete Travesty."

While Jack is putting himself back together you wal up to the book shelf and scan across pointing with your finger there No End House: The Comple... Yup, you pull on the book. Immediately you fall back, the book spins in midair and lands open in your face with a Russian dating ad bookmark across your eyes.

"Wow! Can't you read?" Asks Laughing Jack. "That says The Complete Trilogy." He saunters up to the shelf and pulls on a book the same size and colors as the one you pulled.

The shelf swings out into a dry grassy stories nightscape. You walk outside followed by the pair of Jacks. The book shelf is attached to a patchy door made of rough cut planks on a dingy little one story shack that couldn't possibly have contained the library inside it. Inside had smelled like hardwoods and orange oil, and ink and paper. Outside smells like cat urine, dust and pine needles the contrast is undeniable. The door rattles shut Jack turns around and opens it revealing the dark musty interior of the shack.

"No turning back now." You say, with full resolve. A dirt path leads from the edge of the forest to a modest roomy looking two story house decorated for Halloween, above the porch stoop the legend reads No End House. The door is makrd with the nember 1. "So, where do we go from here?"

"We have to go inside!" Declares Lauging Jack. "The only way out is through the house."

"Through the house?!" Jack exclaims. "I seem to remember that not going so well in The Page Master."

Laughing Jack is already mountimg the stoop, so Jack bites the bullet and follows him. And you're curious, of course, you've never been to No End House before, and you've been meaning to visit.

Chapter Seven: Wh̰̮̭͞a͉͈̝̤͝ṱ̨͎̜ ̨̼͎̟̱ḭ̧̼̭n̙̤̥̬̖̦ ̬t̡̺̩̱̲͉̩h͉̦͓ͅẹ̲̻̭͘ ̦̹̦͢wo̥̦͎̙̙͚r̸͍̞̠ḻ̵̣͎̖͙d̙ ̥̣̹̰̼̦̩̕e̱̳v̸ȩ̠̦̦͎r͍̳̼̖̞̣͈͠ ̖̠͕̖͖̬͞ḅ̦̼͍͍̯̣e̬͚ca̶̝̲̫m̲̣̭e̴̪͎̘̤̯̲ ͉o̟̼̻f̫̯̞͙̘̹ ̬͖͎͕̩̮s̞͈̟̫͞w̪̻͎͈̭͖̼e̹̮̠̲ͅe͇̙̥̟̲͠ͅt͔̰̯ J̩̗͡a̶͍̬̬͓̖͉͕n͖ͅe͉͔̻̲̲?

How often do you find yourself fully satisfied with the outcome of events? How often do you observe that the plans you make come to fruition? If you're like most people, the answer is probably rarely, or never. But have you ever wondered why? Is it just that reality is random, and completely unaffected by your will? Or could it be that there is an entire universe parallel to our own, populated by shadow people working against you, and every other live human scurrying around making plans. What are shadow people? You ask. Well, I'll tell you.

Shadow people are shadows, or remnants, of human beings who lived and died badly. I know what you're thinking, "G-g-g-ghosts?!" Well, approximately, shadow people are often mistaken for poltergeist or demons. Shadow people emerge from the darkness, and to the darkness they return, and are capable of draging things with them, matter, energy, data, and more. The shadow people serve a common agenda, that agenda is set by the evil gods of the antiverse, in which they dwell. The most malevolent, if not the most powerful of these evil gods is known as Zalgo. Zalgo commands legions of shadow people, black eyed children, maniacs, psychopaths, and monsters. The elder gods have slept for eons, in that time the lesser outer gods have gained significant across the board advantages, while meaningless compared with the elder gods' ability to rewrite cosmic law on a whim, the lesser outer  gods understand cosmic law well enough to take spurious advantage of the systems in place, none are more diligent at this than the evil gods of the antiverse, and none is more ambitious than Zalgo, and the suffering of humans feeds Zalgo, and the death of the sufferers increases the ranks of his shadow people.

Given all I've just told you, you must be wondering if there is anything you can do about it. Don't worry, there isn't. Now then, can't you feel a tremendous weight lifting off your shoulders? So what should you do. I'd like to tell you that's entirely up to you, but I really enjoy lying to you, so there is that.

But I'm being rude, you came here to hear about Jane Arkensaw didn't you, and here I am, wasting your time and mine trying to explain the order of the universes. Oh well that's life for you, you are usually unable to achive your desires, though it is ocasionally possible, with effort, to obtain that which is necessary to your survival. As miserable as that may seem in theory it is nothing in comparison with the practical inversion of this principle. Just imagine if all your petty desires came to you with relative ease, but you were generally starved of the essential elements which allow you to function. Do you now feel more comfortable as concerns the status-quo? Probably not.

*POV Hatman*

Your eyes glow red beneath the brim of your solid black fedora. You are here for a purpose! Darkness flows down from your shoulders spreading and covering the ground like a black mist. You approach the wall of the allyway. The white chalk in your hand gleams pink in the light of your eyes. You must use it! Shinjuku is full of places like this, thin places, places where your chalk is not just chalk. He has sent you here, you will do his will! It is time! Bending like a spring you draw a line up from the ground, straight up seven feet, across four and down seven then a small circle on your left. The door looks so small to you, but of course it is bigger than a regular door, but it only reaches what would be your sternum, if you had bones. You know you can pass with ease through a door a fraction of the size with ease, still it looks small to you, but for them, it will be more than sufficient. You knock three times on the cold cement, it feels so warm against your black knuckles. With a crack that would sound sickening to some, which you find oddly satisfying, the section of cement wall swings outward, as golden light floods out of the aperture you receed into the shadows from whence you emerged, your mission comple.

*POV Pinkamena*

You gallop hard, but steady, you know this feeling well, you watch intentely as the sections fall into place in front of you crossing just as they click into place.

"I think Jeff fell..." Says Jane looking behind you.

"He should be fine, I think..." You nay cheerily, and snort. You feel Jane shiver.

Suddenly a section of halway lands in front of you that dead ends in a concrete wall. You stop galloping as quickly as you can. Lean back on your haunches and skid on your hooves, sending a trail of sparks cascading from your shoes. You're skidding too fast, you're going to hit the wall, you clamp your eyes shut tight, a sickening crack sounds, you're sure you must have hit the wall, but as one of your eyes pops open you see a section of the wall swing away fom you, and your skid ends you up in a dark alley on the other side of the wall, you spin around on the courser blacktop of the ally, so that you are facing the door you slid through. With a rusty creak the door slams shut, and a curious white powder falls away from the surface.

"What just happened?" Jane asks dizzily.

"Beats me..." You reply groggily.

"Where are we?" She demands, regaining her composure. "Is this part of the mansion?"

"Um..." You start, "I don't think so... Looks like..." You scan the patches of street visible at either end of the alley, you can see small various storefronts, most of the signage appears to be in katakana, or kanji, with one quaint little cafee labled in hiragana. "Japanese Land..." You posit.

*POV Jeff*

You've been walking for a long, long time, you're feeling kinda tired. Proceeding at a leisurely pace, with Jack and Ben in tow. Jack's footsteps sound heavier than usual, and Ben's sound somewhat metallic. Maybe it's this hallway, nothing makes sense in hallways.

"Don't worry Jane, I'm on my way!" Jack calls out daftly.

"You know she probably can't here you, right, airforbrains?" You hiss.

"Whoah, hey that's one darned big, big old concrete wall there, blockin' the hallway there." Jack changes the subject.

"What the freak?!" You freak out a bit. "That was not there!" The hallway in fron of you is indeed blocked off completely by a concrete barrier, before there was just infinite hallway stretching out before you, now there's this concrete wall, and it's not even perpendicular to the hallway it's at a slight but nonetheless disturbingly off angle, enough that an whole tile is exposed to your far right, while only a half a tile is exposed to your far left. You really wish you could straighten it somehow...

There is a door drawn on the wall, in white chalk. "What the heck kind of door is that?!" You demand.

Ben throws up upturned palms at either side if his face.

"Beats me!" Jack proclaims. "Spirit door?"

You narrow your bulbous eyes at the skeletal scatterbrain. "That's not even a type of door."

Jack mimics Ben's gesture.

"Wait!" You declare. "I saw this in a movie!" You walk up to the wall and knock three times. Nothing seems to happen.

"You didn't actually think that was gonna work, did you?" Jack taunts, suddenly a low rumbling emits from the wall.

"Uh oh!" Ben obnoxiously anounces. "You,shouldn't have done that." With a gutwrenching crack the marked section of wall swings into the hallway, swatting you aside like a bug. Still standing, you stumble around dazedly. "You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?"

"Get - a new - line!" You huff.

"Go. To. Sleep!" The statue mocks, you just glare. Were Jack and Ben always this big of boneheads? Probably... You don't have time to question it now.

You step through the the rough jagged doorway, followed by the two tagalongs. The other side seems to be a factory of some kind the entire area smells of industrial lubricants and sour cheese. The concrete wall slams shut behind you, it is perfectly sealed. The factory seems to produce juice boxes filled with a white liquid, you assume it's milk, but the labels are printed in Kanji and Katakana, and you can't read Japanese, you can just barely tell it apart from Mandarin Chinese.

You grab a finished box off the assembly line stab the straw in, and take a sip. "I... Think it's milk..." You toss the box to Jack. "Here!" You anounce, "Helps build strong bones." You jest.

If a skeleton can wear an expression of malice, then Jack has one strapped on, if not, then never mind.
/r/NoSleep / The Case of Stitch by Fear_of
« Last post by Slimebeast on March 08, 2019, 05:39:40 AM »
Case File No.56

It was just your typical Seattle day – light and dark gray clouds intermingling together, sprinkling throughout the day, wind blowing near constantly.
I was sitting in mine and Anna’s office when the Boss came in and dropped two huge boxes on my desk, nearly spilling my cup of coffee all over my keyboard.
He walked out of the room and left me to the case. I wiped off the few drops of coffee that made it onto my suit. I sighed. You would think more boxes would mean an easier case to solve – more evidence, easier to find suspect – but no. Generally speaking, the more boxes the Boss handed me the more work I had ahead of me.
My partner, Anna, wouldn’t be pleased either. I sighed and sipped my coffee for a few unfortunately short minutes, staring at the boxes in front of me. After much internal bargaining, I stood up and opened the first box and peered inside. It was full of DVDs, journals, crime scene photographs, physical evidence – hair, bits of flesh, nails, blood samples. This already looked like it was going to be one of the most gruesome cases of the year.
I looked at the clock and decided to take the boxes home and organize them. I left the office building and walked out into the crisp autumn air. It struck me that not many people were out that evening. It was just after five o clock. Shouldn’t more people be getting off work? I reached my car, put the boxes on top of it, unlocked the door and piled in. I put the boxes on the passenger seat of my beat up car and started the drive home.
I got home around 5:45, after stopping to get some food for dinner. I made myself tacos and sat down in front of the television. I ate quickly, watched my favorite comedy show – King of the Hill. I would need something funny to get me through these boxes. I emptied the contents out onto the table in front of me. I noticed there were photos from three different crime scenes, so I started by organizing everything by victim.
Why it wasn’t in the first place, I wasn’t sure at that point. But as I started going through everything, I had an idea why. It was all so gruesome. No one would want to deal with this. Maybe that’s why me and Anna got the case. We were the best detectives there. Stomachs of steel. Everyone probably assumed we would be able to cope with it. Looking through it though, I wasn’t sure we could. It wasn’t like we had a choice though. People were dying and Anna and I were assigned the case, so we had to end it.
After organizing everything by victim, I started on the pile with the earliest dates. I picked up the first of many photographs and gulped as I examined the picture. What was left of the body was mangled. As if someone…had been eating it, ripping pieces of its flesh off, tearing it to bits. The body was lying in a bed. The white sheets were soaked with fresh looking blood.
They were ripped in places, like the person had struggled. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. The body was too destroyed. I thought it was a woman because the hair on the head was long, but everything was too mangled and bloody to tell. The chest was torn to pieces, the ribs were broken, sticking out, the heart was missing, three fingers were gone, the nose was gone, the eyes were lying on the floor. I could hardly bear to look.
Not wanting to look at the pictures anymore, I picked up the journal they’d collected and put in the box. I opened it and flipped to the last entry.
"11/3/12, 8:50 PM. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. I’m scared all the time. Paranoid. Something’s always watching me, opening my doors and windows whenever I’m asleep. I’m sure I’ve developed insomnia. I just can’t sleep anymore. Oh God, someone help me. I’m going insane. Something’s going to get me, I just know it. Every day it’s the same thing. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. My mom told me to go get help. I don’t want help, I want this THING to leave me alone! Oh God, I shouldn’t have written this. Now I’m just even more scared... I remember growing up I was always scared of what’s under the bed, behind the shower curtain, or waiting in bed next to you, waiting for you to roll over… that heaviness that you feel when you so desperately want to look behind you, but can’t bring yourself to move… None of those were ever as terrifying as this feeling I’m plagued with now… I know I’m going to die. Whoever reads this, you all know what I’m talking about. That overbearing paranoia and fear or your own imagination when you sit in a dark room, all by yourself…"
The writing was shaky and specks of blood covered the page, like it had opened while she was being murdered. They said they found it on the floor by the bed. I looked through some of the previous entries. A lot of the same. Paranoia, fear. Opening doors and windows. Feelings of being watched. I wondered what this thing was. Seattle is thought of as the hippie coffee drinking and pot smoking city, but considering how relaxed everyone sees us as, there’s a lot of crazy stuff that happens here. Washington is just serial killer central. It at least looked like that was what we had on our hands. Three killings in the same style – bodies torn to shreds… appearing to be eaten. I flipped to the first entry of the journal.
"11/1/12, 11:36 AM. My window keeps opening. They’re closed when I go to sleep, open when I wake up. Maybe it’s just an animal. A squirrel or something climbing around in the tree outside my window. I think I’ll set up a video camera tonight. Try to catch it. If I didn’t have to wear these stupid earplugs every night I could just wake up when it opens. It has a really bad squeak when you open it. If the baby would just stop crying long enough for me to get to sleep without ear plugs, I could find out what’s making my window open. Those darn neighbors."
The first entry in the journal was only three days before the last entry. Things escalated quickly after that. All the rest of the entries showed panic and fear. She was terrified after that first night of filming. It was getting hard for me to handle this, even with the canned laughter in the background. I packed up the boxes, being careful not to look at those damn pictures anymore and put the boxes aside. I’d just watch some TV for a while, take my mind off everything.
I woke up the next morning on the couch. My apartment was cold. I stood up from the couch, sore from a night of awkward sleep. I took a shower, got dressed, and left for the office, calling Anna while I drove. She said she’d be a little late, that she just woke up. I stopped at the Starbucks down the street from the office and got us both coffees. We really needed to get through all the contents of the boxes so we could start to think about who this sadistic killer was.
I took the boxes out of my car after I parked and stacked them on top of the trunk. I put the two cups of coffee on top of them and carefully carried them to our office. When I got to the office, it was cold there too. Colder than usual. I turned on the heat and took a sip of my coffee, leaving my suit coat on. Anna arrived ten minutes after I did and gratefully took the coffee.
“So what do we have?” she asked.
“I don’t know if you want to know,” I said, trying to sound light-hearted.
“Oh, please,” she said, chuckling. “We can handle anything.”
I sighed and opened the boxes for her. I pulled out the pictures from the first crime scene and showed them to her. She gasped as she looked at them. I saw tears well up in her eyes as she put her hand to her face and grabbed the photo. I’d shown her the only picture I looked at thoroughly. I could understand her disgust.
“What kind of sick…freak…can do this sort of thing to someone?” she said, more quietly than usual. “This psychotic nut job stole her heart! He tore her to shreds! What…who can do that?”
“I don’t know, Anna. I was wondering those same things last night,” I said. “I only looked at that picture before I couldn’t do it anymore. After that I started reading through the journal the first victim had been keeping.”
I grabbed it out of the box and opened it to the first entry. I read it to her, and the few from the second day where she was starting to panic.
“What do you think? Could it be her ex? Whoever she and her ex are? She talks about something standing outside her window, so maybe he was stalking her.”
“It’s possible,” Anna replied. “But have all three of these victims dated the same man?”
“I don’t know.”
We kept going through the boxes. Hours dragged by all too slowly. We read the journals, all with no clues as to who this murderer was. We looked at the pictures, all so grotesque that we could hardly bare to look through them all. Every picture was of a different limb disconnected from the body and sprawled across the room, or of bits of torn off flesh and spattered blood around the crime scene. The blood and gut filled images were stained into our minds by the time lunch hour came. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat,” I said, almost joking, as we walked out of our office to go get lunch. Anna laughed a little.
“I know what you mean. This is probably the worst case I’ve dealt with.” Over lunch we discussed theories. Who-dun-it type theories. But none of them really made sense. The ex idea could be plausible, but what was the likelihood of two women and 1man in a city as big as Seattle dating the same man? It could just be a serial killer, but why was he targeting these young people? Maybe they knew some of the same people, and one of those people happened to be psychopathic. There were just too many options to narrow it down this early in the investigation.
After the last few hours of work, Anna took one box holding one case home, and I took the other two. I was going to watch the DVDs they’d found on the scene. I got home and made myself some dinner and sat down on the couch. After eating, I popped in the DVD labeled “Night 1” and watched. I fell asleep ten minutes in though. Woke up the next morning, almost late again. I made my way back to the office as fast as I could and told Anna I’d fallen asleep and didn’t manage to get through the whole thing. She said it was okay, that we could watch one or two of them then. We situated ourselves around my computer and put in the first disc.
Nothing much happened, except the near constant cries of a baby. We fast forwarded through the first few hours, but stopped when we saw something strange. Someone – something – crawled up the tree outside her window and sat there, unmoving. All we could see was a black silhouette of a strange figure.
We went to one of the briefing rooms where there was better tape evidence viewing equipment. We hooked everything up and got back to where we were in the tape, and zoomed in as far as we could, but we still couldn’t make the figure out clearly. It appeared to have something on its wrist as it opened the window. We assumed it was man based on how huge the hand was. For the whole video, he sat at the window, staring at the woman. Just staring. It looked like he was mumbling to himself violently. Like he was battling with two voices in his head. Near dawn, he jumped out of the tree he was perched in, startling the woman awake. Anna looked at me in horror when the video ended. I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded at her.
“I’ll take the rest of the tapes and watch them tonight,” I said, sparing her sanity. “Go home. Take a break.” She nodded at me and stood up to leave. I followed her. Even though it was still only lunch hour, I went home, DVDs and soda in hand, to watch the videos before the Christmas party. Definitely not an activity that encouraged holiday spirit, but what could I do.
I walked into my apartment, dropped the DVDs and soda down on the couch and went to make a sandwich. When I came back into the living room area, the window was open. I didn’t remember opening it. I tried to brush it off as nothing, but after watching the DVD of the first night of filming, I was starting to become paranoid. Maybe this thing would come after me, since I was assigned the goal of capturing him. Maybe he didn’t want to be captured and would kill everyone who would try. These thoughts ran through my head and made me more and more paranoid with every second. I shoved them out of my mind and closed the window, making sure to lock it.
I ate my sandwich quickly, gulped down some soda to wake me up, and put on the next DVD. It started off the same, except the woman had left a candle lit by the window. Probably so she could see who was there. It didn’t help me much though. I could make out what looked like bracelets dangling off his wrists, clanking whenever he moved. He pressed his hands and face pressed against the locked window. I couldn’t make out any eyes, hair, or a human face… All I could see was a nose, which looked broken, and a mouth, that looked severely chapped. The whole video progressed the same way the first had.
He stood there till dawn, watching, muttering. I wished I could see what he was. But at the same time, I didn’t. Just from his outline he looked grotesque. The second video ended with the creature leaving just like he had the night before.
I remembered reading that on the third day the woman had called the police. I didn’t remember anyone telling me someone had called, claiming to be being stalked by night or claiming someone was standing outside her windows at night. She also wrote in her journal that she called someone to come stay the night with her. During his interview, we found out he was her cousin. I know he found the body. He woke up to screaming in the middle of the night but claimed he couldn’t open the door in time to save her. He was held as a suspect in custody inside a mental hospital. The incident had caused severe mental damage. He refused to discuss the event and only muttered to himself. He was the second victim this killer had claimed.
I turned on all the lights in my apartment, becoming paranoid myself. Before I watched the next and last DVD, I opened up the woman’s journal again and read through the entries she’d written on her last day.
"11/3/12. 5:17 PM. I called the police. They won’t help me. They don’t believe me. They think I’m crazy. I tell them someone with something on its wrists and an ugly face keeps opening my windows and trying to open them if they’re locked, but they just don’t care. I called Bill and asked him to stay over tonight."
I put in the next DVD and prepared for what I was about to see. I don’t think anyone could successfully prepare themselves for that though. What I saw was beyond horrific. It wasn’t grotesque, it wasn’t horrifying, it wasn’t appalling… none of those words would suffice in describing the sights I had to sit through. The DVD started with her locking the windows and closing her curtains. Her cousin walked into the room and reassured her, rubbing her arm. “I’ll be in the next room,” he said to her. The woman nodded and he walked away. She lit two candles and put one next to her bed, and one by the window. We found them on the floor, both labeled “Vanilla Honey Stress Relief Candle.” The woman curled up under her blankets, facing towards the window.
A few hours passed with nothing happened. Even just fast forwarding through the DVD was suspenseful enough to make my heart race. I would fast forward for a few minutes, press play and watch for a few seconds, just in case the murderer came in. I didn’t want to miss it. Even though I did want to… At around 2 AM in the tape, I pushed play and went to the bathroom. As I closed the door, I heard a loud crash and ran back out into the living room, my fists raised. I looked around and saw no broken items. I started to hear loud thumps. I went to my door and looked through the peep hole, but no one was at my door or my neighbors. My heart was pounding even harder than it was. I went back into my living room and the thumping got louder. I looked at my TV screen and the camera was shaking. I knew this was it. I sat on my knees in front of my TV; my palms were sweaty; my hands were shaking; I felt I was going to puke, thinking about how she was about to die and I was the first to witness it.
The door opened slowly, eerily, opposite her bed. The man trudges into the room, dragging his feet. The door swings closed behind him, without him even touching it. He makes his way to the side of the woman’s bed, the side with the candle. The flame flickers as he moves closer and closer to her bed. His steps were loud and slow.
Thump…thump…thump… Finally, he makes it to her bed. He only looks at the camera for a split second before he turns his back and faces the woman. I’m not sure what I saw, but whatever it was it was disgusting. I couldn’t make out any eyes. His spine stuck out of his back, his whole body was naked, he was tall…6’ 5” probably…the bracelets on his wrists were not bracelets at all, but shackles with broken chains. He had them on his ankles too. No one mentioned this was a rape-murder. But with this naked man standing beside a woman’s bed, what else would I think? As he stands there I heard muttering in a low, menacing voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He bent over, slowly, eerily, and lifted the woman’s hair, smelling it deeply.
She started to wake up, and rolled over mumbling “Bill? What are you doing?”
When she saw what was waiting for her, she screamed. After less than a few seconds, I heard pounding on the door and Bill yelling, screaming, begging to be let in, asking what was going on. But the door, which wasn’t barricaded, wouldn’t open. The woman starts panicking, struggling to get out from under her blankets and falls to the floor in the process. With speed that I didn’t think this creature or human could possess, he was then on top of the woman, ripping the woman’s fragile body into pieces.
He ripped and tore bits of skin off and threw them around the room. He was laughing, menacingly, getting progressively louder and more joyous as the woman died beneath him. I couldn’t see what was going on, but the sheer horror of the situation made my imagination run wild and made the situation even more terrifying. Soon, the woman stopped struggling.
The creature smiled as he tore her heart out of her broken chest and ate it. I didn’t see him do anything to her fingers, but seven of them were nowhere to be found when the CSI team arrived. The naked creature stood up and walked towards the camera.
I could finally see what this thing was as the candle light shown on his face. He had skin sewn over his eyes and the rest of him too was just bits of various skin sewn together to create a human like figure. His lips were chapped to the point of breaking and his nose was extremely crooked. He was bald. The blood all over his body made him even more nightmarish. He blew out the candle on the nightstand and laughed. Blood spat out of his mouth. He walked to the window and blew out the second candle. Breaking the window, he jumps out. All the while, Bill is screaming.
I sat in silent horror and began to hear thumping again. Terrified, I walked slowly around my house, searching for the source. I found nothing. The last room I checked was my bathroom. I opened my shower curtain and just as I did so, the bathroom light exploded, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “I need a break…just gonna go to the Christmas party now. Take my mind off this…” As I walked out the door, I thought of what this creature would be called. Stitch. Little did I know the horrors that awaited me in the weeks to come.

Case File No.57

I came home from the Christmas party unwillingly. I would’ve stayed at Anna’s, but her parents were in town. My little apartment was not nearly as welcoming as it used to be, in the days before this Stitch creature came around. I keep thinking I’m hearing thumping, or windows opening, and it’s freaking me out. But I came home anyway. Maybe I just needed a break from the case. Yeah. For Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday I didn’t touch those boxes once. The Boss handed me a couple cases of convenience store robberies that were easier to solve than a game of Clue. It was a nice distraction from all the gruesome imagery I’d been forced to see those past few days. But unfortunately Wednesday had to come and Anna wanted to work on the case. “The sooner we start working again, the sooner it’ll be over,” she said trying to convince me to work with her. I sighed and put the coffee I was drinking down on my desk. Anna had put all the second victim related evidence on a table in a conference room. It was the first victim’s cousin, the man who’d stayed with her the night she was murdered, Bill.
I looked at the pictures of the crime scene first. He’d been killed in his room at the mental hospital we’d been holding him at. The scene was just as bloody as that of his cousins, if not more. The walls were covered in bloody hand prints and the bars on the windows weren’t bent, meaning Stitch must’ve found another way into the building. There were two beds in the room, one for Bill and one for his roommate; both were messy and blood stained. The red stood out vividly on the pristine white sheets. When I got to the pictures of his body, there was only half. His legs were lying on the floor, bones sticking out and sitting in a pool of his blood. His white hospital clothing was no longer white, but blood red, like Snow White’s lips. My hands began shaking as I looked at more and more pictures of his mangled and missing body and the blood soaked room. I felt my heart beating faster, like I was panicking. I didn’t know why though. Why should I panic? Stitch couldn’t find me…
“So what do you think we should do? We don’t really have any leads on who this guy is,” Anna said, bringing me out of my terrified state. I pulled myself together so I wouldn’t scare my partner.
“I don’t know,” I replied. Honestly, I didn’t want to keep working on this case. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t just leave Anna to handle it by herself. I couldn’t convince the Boss to let us do something else. When a case got to us, it was because no one else could handle it and solve it. We were the top… I guess that’s what comes with being the best detectives in the office. Some detective I am though can’t even look at the pictures without shaking. I’ve been having nightmares too…
“I was thinking maybe we could go interview the mental hospital staff who worked with Bill. We should probably go over the security tape footage and journal entries first though. Didn’t they diagnose him as PTSD?” Anna said.
“Yeah. I only took two psychology classes in college, but I remember that with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder a lot of the times therapists will tell their patients to relive the event a lot of times, so it won’t cause them that overbearing stress… So I imagine that’s what his journal will be full of. Just retellings of the story to help ease his anxiety, but I dunno. We probably should look through it,” I said. I secretly hoped she’d watch the videos on her own and let me deal with the journals. But knowing her, knowing our jobs, that wasn’t likely.
“Do you want to look at videos or journals first?” she asked. I shrugged and took a gulp of my now cold coffee.
“Let’s do this then,” I said. God damn it, I thought to myself as she put the four discs into four DVD players. They were all different cameras from the same period of time. For a while we just fast forwarded. Bill stayed in his room, writing feverishly, while his fellow hospital patients wandered from room to room to common room. He only left when a nurse came to bring him to his therapy session with the leading psychiatrist of the hospital. As it started to get dark, the patients made their way to their rooms. Bills roommate walked into their room. Bill was still writing in his journal with a painful expression on his face. His roommate looked at him concerned. There was no sound, but we saw him say something along the lines of “Are you okay?” Bill looked over at him and told him to “Shut up before that thing found him too” or something. His roommate looked away and leaned against the wall his bed was against. He played with his thumbs for a while. Meanwhile, the nurses wandered the halls, locking the doors for the night, making sure everything was okay.
After about twenty minutes of that, Bill and his roommate laid down for the night and fell asleep. It was dark and we couldn’t see much. The camera started turning to static and the images on the screens kept becoming distorted. The screens all blacked out and we were waiting for anything to happen. When the image returned, Stitch was standing in the middle of the hallway. He trudged down the hallway, looking through every room’s door window to see if Bill was there. While he systematically wandered the hall, Bill sprang to life and rushed from window to door and back again, looking for what woke him.
Stitch stopped looking for Bill and appeared to sniff the air. He took a couple big sniffs then turned his head. His face was looking towards the camera. You could see his teeth. His mouth wasn’t fully closed. His teeth were vile. Black and yellow and green and every color that teeth shouldn’t be. He opened his mouth and a little bit of blood fell out. He kept moving his head back and forth. As if he was listening for something.
He walked straight to Bills room with determination in his steps and opened the door without touching it. Bill screamed, waking up his roommate. Bill flipped over on his side springing off of his bed. He grabbed what turned out to be his writing pencil. The cameras began to turn to static and cut out again. We could see bits and pieces of what was happening – both of the roommates running around, Bills roommate eventually ran out of the room and Bill had stabbed Stitch in his back. We’re not sure how, but Bills hand and the weapon just went straight through, pushing out darkened blood and random chunks onto the floor. It looked like he was struggling to get his arm back. As if his arm got stuck inside Stitch’s body. Stitch grabbed him by the hair and whipped him with his rusty shackles, breaking his skin.
After that, Stitch just stood there. Standing over Bill. Maybe it made him feel powerful? Well, could he even feel emotion? I don’t know. He stood above him while Bill screamed. I thought Stitch was raising his hand to strike or rip Bill’s flesh, but he didn’t. He rubbed his hands together, and then rubbed from his neck up to his face. And as fast as you could see a light turn on, his hand was on Bills face. He started rubbing it. Running his hand through his hair. Stitch started laughing at that point, and blood dripped on Bills face and clothes. It was then Stitch decided to attack. He tore bits of skin off his poor body and ate them like he’d never eaten before. He broke his body in half, just tore it in half, with inhuman strength. The blood started to really poor then. As all of Bills blood and guts spilled onto the floor, Stitch squatted down and started running his fingers along the edge of Bills skin where he ripped him in half. Stitch began eating his insides all the while it appeared he was laughing - just as he did in the first murder.
Stitch stood up and, well, just stood there. He stood there facing the corner until the morning sun started to peak in through the bars on the windows. He was mumbling to himself but since there was no audio in the security cameras, we couldn’t make out what he was saying without bringing in someone who could read lips.
I didn’t hear Anna making any sounds. I wondered if I was the only one having a hard time with this case. I looked over and she was crying silently. I moved my chair and put my arm around her and rubbed her shoulder while we watched. I tried to hold myself together for her. The door to the conference room slammed open, nearly giving both of us heart attacks.
“Johnson, Reynolds. Have an intern,” the Boss said, pushing a young man into the room. He left as soon as he’d come. We stood up. Anna wiped her eyes hastily and paused the videos.
“I’m Anna,” she said. “This is Ryan. I’m sorry you had to come at this time. We’re working on a pretty nasty case.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s bound to happen eventually, so I may as well get myself acquainted with murder. I’m John Freeman.” He held his hand out to us and shook both our hands.
“I think we’ve looked at enough evidence for now, Ryan. Want to go to the mental hospital now?” I said.
“Sure,” Anna said. We headed out the door, with our new intern at our heels. With his slightly unkempt blond hair and puppy-like blue eyes, he reminded me of a golden retriever. I felt bad ruining his innocence with this horrifying case. But that’s just what happens when you get involved with Police work…
We made our way to West Seattle Psychiatric Hospital. It looked less welcoming than a medical hospital, just because of what lied within its walls. John looked at it with hesitation. I pushed him forward. If he wanted to be a cop, he’d have to learn to deal with situations he didn’t want to be in. And this case was about as bad as it gets, so if he could handle this, he could handle anything. We went into the building and found the nurses who were involved with Bill and his treatment. They wore white uniforms, like you saw in the movies and were as kind as you would expect nurses to be.
“Hi, Miss, I’m Ryan Johnson, this is my partner Anna Reynolds and our intern John Freeman. We’re working on Bill and his cousin’s case. We just have a few questions.”
“Of course,” the first nurse said, nodding with a smile.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with Bills behavior before the attack? In the videos we saw him panicking moments before the killer came, but not before then. We don’t know what was normal or abnormal in his condition,” Anna asked.
“Well, he was always very agitated, always writing in his journal. The Doctor told him to write his story down at least once a day, but he did it almost constantly. We think maybe he was desperate to get better. Or get out. He kept saying he needed to keep moving or else ‘that thing’ as he called it would find him,” the second nurse said. Anna wrote some notes down.
“But you didn’t notice anything abnormal?” I asked again.
“No, sir, nothing. Just his usual behavior.”
“Did you see anyone lurking around the building at all? Like before the attack or in the days preceding it?” I asked.
“No, sir. Or if the killer was here he was very good at hiding,” the first nurse said.
“Did you see which way the killer went after the attack?” I asked. The nurses both became quiet and turned a little pale.
“No, sir,” the first nurse said quietly. “We saw him throw part of Bill out the window and follow, but we didn’t see which way he went once he was on the ground outside.”
“Thank you for your help,” I said, even though they really hadn’t given us anything useful. They nodded.
“Of course, any time,” the second nurse said. They turned around and continued with their work. We left in silence. Once we got into the car, I was irritated. How were we ever going to find this guy and put him behind bars (if that would even help…) if we couldn’t find a single lead?
“This is just great,” Anna said, sounding equally as frustrated. She sighed loudly.
“Let’s just work on this some more tomorrow,” I said. We drove back to the station. I got into my own car and drove back to my apartment reluctantly. Weird things had been happening ever since I first opened the boxes to this case. I kept hearing thumping at night and creaking like my windows were opening. But I wasn’t sure if I was just hearing things or not. I could never find the sources of the sounds. I opened my apartment door half expecting Stitch to be waiting for me. I’d been becoming paranoid, scared. Just fact that I was becoming paranoid and scared was scaring me.
I walked into my apartment, finding no one inside. It was colder than I expected it to be. I wandered through all the rooms, only to find what I hoped I wouldn’t. My bedroom window was opened. I swear I locked it before I left. My hands shook as I closed it and my heart started to race. The panic was setting in again. I turned on all the lights in my apartment on my way to the kitchen to make some comfort food. I made a giant sandwich, grabbed a can of soda and some chips, and walked into the living room. Desperate to take my mind of that god awful case, I turned on the TV and put on a funny movie – Anchorman to be exact. I always loved Will Ferrell. I ate my food and soon my mind was far from the case. Until I heard the thumping. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. It rang in my ears, echoed in my mind, until I couldn’t take it. I ran to my bedroom and grabbed the ear plugs out of my bed side table. I shoved them into my ears to stop that thumping. My window was open again. I still heard the thumping. That god damn thumping. My heart was racing, my palms were sweating, and my hands were shaking so hard I could barely grab the phone. I dialed Anna’s number as quickly as I could.
“He-” she started.
“Anna! Can I stay over tonight?” I asked, cutting her off.
“Sure, what’s wrong, Ryan?” she asked.
“Please don’t tell me I’m not the only one having problems with this case,” I said, nearly begging.
“Are you freaking out too? I swear, I keep closing my windows, but they’re always open…” she said, trailing off.
“I’ll be over in ten minutes.” I hung up the phone and packed a bag as quickly as I could.
We both actually got sleep that night. We drove to work in our separate cars in case I decided to sleep at my own house that night. Neither of us wanted to dive back into the case, but instead of Anna making me, it was John making us. He reiterated almost exactly what Anna had said. “Come on, guys, the sooner we start working the sooner it’ll be over!” He was annoyingly chipper all the time. But I was friendly, so was Anna. He put the tapes back in and pushed play. They started where we’d left off. John looked at them intently, taking notes about all the gruesome things Stitch was doing. I could hardly watch.
Stitch picked up Bills upper half like a bowling ball, sticking his fingers in Bills eyes and mouth. His hand was still embedded in Stitch’s disgusting naked body as he dragged him out into the hall. A trail of blood followed the poor dead man’s body. When Stitch reached the window, he tore Bills arm off and threw the rest of his body out the broken window. From the other angle, we could see Bills roommate still cowering in horror. Stitch ignored him and tore the arm from his chest. Dark goo-like blood came out with the arm, leaving a gaping hole where there should be something…anything… He didn’t even seem to care. He put Bills hand in his repulsive mouth and ate three of his fingers. I imagined the sound of crunching bones and shuddered. He smiles at the camera as he eats Bills remains. His teeth were rotten, his lips were still bleeding, his eyes still covered in sewn on flesh… The video cut out again and when the image returned, Stitch was gone and Bills arm was on the floor. His roommate was crying. I looked at Anna who looked back at me.
“Maybe you should just live with me for a while. I’m too scared to live alone,” she said quietly. I was glad to know I wasn’t the only one scared out of my wits. Maybe the two of us together would be enough to keep Stitch away. We’d start looking at victim number three soon. After we’d had some time to regain our sanity.

Case File No.58

“The third victim was a paranormal type. You know, the sort of person who decided to make her own ghost hunting team after watching any of those shows out now,” Anna said as we walked into the office. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night so I guess she’d started going through victim threes files.
“So what’s your point?” I asked. Sleeping on her couch every night was making me cranky but thankfully all the weird things had all but stopped happening and the paranoia and fear was dying down too. I could probably move back into my place soon.
“So, I don’t know. Hey, where’s John?” We walked into our office, boxes and coffee in hand. We sat down at our desks and sipped our coffee for a few minutes before diving into this God awful case once more. Before we could get too into our missing intern, one of the forensic scientists came into the room with an envelope.
“Here’s the DNA sample back, guys,” he said. We’d sent him the sample when we were working on the first victim. The CSI team grabbed blood samples from the candles he’d blown out in the first murder.
“And? Get a match?” I asked.
“Not even close. It’s not even human. I did every test I could think of a million times. It’s just not human. Humans have 46 chromosomes, right; this had 58. I have no idea what it could be.” Anna and I looked at each other.
“Weird,” she said. “Thanks Max.” He put the envelope with the DNA test results on my desk and left.
“Anyways,” I said. “I don’t know. I think someone said he called in sick or something. John did look a little under the weather yesterday.” Anna nodded in agreement.
“Hopefully he gets back soon,” she said. Anna and I went back to the pictures of the third crime scene. It was all the same. Blood, guts, unbelievable gore. I still wasn’t used to it though. It was all more grotesque and inhumane than I thought even possible. I got to a picture of her head. There was a slim white stick-looking item sticking out of her skull. Her hair had dried blood all over it and her eyes sat there open and unseeing, well, one of them at least, like that of a porcelain doll watching you as you sleep. From her mouth, blood ran down her cheek onto the ground. Her head sat in a pool of her own blood. But the bone-appearing item stuck into her head was pristine. A pure unsettling white. I showed it to Anna.
“I think that’s in the box,” she said, pointing to the stick. “Forensics determined it to be a bone.” I shuddered. Anna dug through the box and took the bone out. I took the bag from her and looked at it. Forensics is always careful to not disturb the way the evidence was found. And even with that care, it was disturbingly white.
“Let’s just watch the video and get it over with,” I said.
“It can’t be that bad”, Anna said. “We’ve seen two of the most brutal and horrifying murders already and this victim has most of her body parts still intact, unlike the first two”.
“I guess so. I just don’t want to have to look at pictures of dead people anymore. I’ve had enough for one year.” I said, exhausted. Before she pushed play on the video player, we just sat there. I guess we were preparing ourselves for it, even if we’d already seen it all.
It was then our boss came in, urging us to finish this case. We sucked up and got him out of the room. Anna pushed play.
The video started off in what looks like a bedroom. The camera was handheld. The victim sounded excited. She had a chipper light voice and the camera was moving around rapidly. We heard a bunch of clicks and snaps and sounds of clothes rustling. We figured she was getting something together or putting something on. All of a sudden the camera swung up and we could see her hands grabbing different electronic devices.
“Ok! I’m all set up. I have my camera on my shoulder mount; I have my EVP recorder, my infrared scanner and many other pieces of equipment for my line of work.” She said while looking into a smaller camera. We would watch that tape but it this was the only tape in the evidence box.
“It is 9:14 pm here in Seattle, Washington. This is an unofficial SPA investigation. I say unofficial because nobody else in my team is here and I am off the clock. I am in my house all by myself with my little corgi puppy Samson.”
She was still getting herself ready and giving us other useless information about her house and her equipment she was using. SPA stood for “Seattle Paranormal Association” and it turns out she was the cofounder of it. We decided to fast forward a little bit until we saw her go to the door of her bedroom and open it.
“Okay all you ghost hunt fans out there, just a few minutes ago, I was hearing strange thumps and what sounded like someone talking. I could hear the voice, but I just couldn’t make out what the person or thing was saying. I hope to capture something on my equipment and share it with you guys.”
She walked down the hall until she came to her living room. Right upon entering the living room, to her right was a recliner chair and straight ahead was a couch. She stopped in her tracks.
“It just got really cold. Perhaps this is a good place to do an EVP recording. I’ll just take a walk around the rest of my house first so I know where to go after this, unless this is the only cold room.”
She walked throughout her house. Only the living room seemed cold to her. She also mentioned that the living room was where the thumps sounded like they were coming from.
“I checked the rest of the house and it all checked out fine.” she said. “Whoa… what is that? My window curtain just moved.” She walked over the window and used some weird device towards it. Turns out it was some sort of EMF detector. It has something to do with shifts in the magnetic fields. A shift is supposed to mean there’s a paranormal presence nearby. She moved the curtains. All three of her windows were open.
“Okay? I didn’t leave any of these open earlier.” she proclaimed. “Weird.”
She shut them and turned off the light to her patio. She started walking towards the hallway, but just as she reached the hall, there was a very loud crash coming from behind her near the kitchen. She turned around and just stood there. She then pulled out a flash light and shined it across the room.
“Damn it! That was the plate my mother got me for Christmas. I am now going to pull out my EVP recorder and see if we can get anything on tape.”
The little device started to beep loudly. Like something was there. She pointed her camera in all different directions and started to breath heavier.
“It just got colder. Even colder than before. I’m going to do an EVP now.” She takes out another device and sits down on the ground. “Is anybody there?” it was quiet for a couple minutes. “Are there any spirits here who want to make contact?” she said louder.
“No,” a voice replied.
“No?” she replied. “My arm itches. It just started getting all tingly with a slight burning feeling.” she said, directing it towards the camera, most likely for her viewers. “Did someone just touch my arm?”
“I’m very pleased you can feel that.” A booming menacing voice said from somewhere in the room.
The victim turned around as fast as she could. The room was dark, adding to the spooky effect for her ghost hunt archives so we could barely make out what was talking. But Anna and I both knew exactly who was there. The odd thing was… we were not listening to the EVP recording while watching this video. We could hear Stitch talk through the video camera. At least now we know more about this thing. We now know he is very real. Not a ghost or demon or anything else supernatural.
“Were you the entity that opened my windows and made the thumping sounds?” she asked in a worried voice.
“That itch that you feel… It’s rather interesting you would feel an itch.” Stitch said.
“Why?” she asked.
“That is the part of your body I was looking at. I wish to eat it.” And all of a sudden, as loud as I have ever heard someone yell in my life, loud enough to knock the victim back on her heels, Stitch said “And I intend to.”
“Who are you?” the woman asked, her voice shaking.
“I am known as Buel in the Netherlands. Carnifex in Latin. Pyöveli in Finland. Bøddel in Norway. I have many names. I have killed many people. At least ten per country. You will be my third here. I am your worst nightmare, ma’am. I would run.” As he was talking, the woman took something out of her pocket. It was later found to be Holy Water. She opened the bottle slowly and tossed some of it in the direction of Stitch. Stitch laughed. The woman got up off the ground, turned the light on and started backing up to the front door. We saw that the Holy Water had melted some of Stitch’s skin into the shape of a cross. It was burned into his skin, like he’d been freshly branded. It was red like you’d expect a burn to me, and crusting. Other than the melting flesh, it didn’t seem to affect him. While the woman was backing away, we saw Stitch swinging his chains at her. They wrapped around her arm and tore into her skin. The crunching sound was disgusting as her arm was torn out of her socket and the skin was torn off. The camera landed on the ground. We heard chains clanging and the woman screaming and then we saw her. Her arm was gone. Blood was pouring everywhere and we could see her shoulder blade sticking out of her broken bloody flesh. The woman screamed and screamed while Stitch laughed and laughed, getting slowly louder like he always did. While she was lying on the ground, Stitch towered over her. She tried to crawl away but grabbed a piece of the previously broken dish and tried to use it as a weapon. She stabbed it into the first place she could get it, his arm. But it just went through him. Chunks of blood and guts came out the other side of his arm, dripping and plopping onto the ground. it was gorier than I thought possible. His blood was dark and crusty. Rotten. As it oozed out of his arm, he laughed. He got some of the blood on his fingers, with those awful dirty nails, and shoved the blood into the woman’s mouth.
“You cannot hurt me,” he chuckled. As if to prove his invincibility, he shoved his hand into his chest and ripped out one of his ribs. The bone we’d found in the evidence box we assumed. The woman screamed in terror.
“Why are you haunting me?” she said.
“I'm not haunting you. I'm going to kill you. Chew you to bits and use your flesh to complete mine,” Stitch responded.
“Are you a ghost or a demon?” she said. Her voice was shaking.
“No. I am real. I am the one who makes people scared,” Stitch started to say. “I don’t hide under beds or in closets. I watch you. I like to see my victim’s faces while I study them.” He paused and looked at her. He smiled. “You’re scared. I can smell it. I can taste it so clearly.” He stroked the spot her arm used to be and licked the blood off his fingers.
She tried to escape again but Stitch shoved his fingers into her eyes and held her head like a bowling ball. She kept screaming. Stitch laughed louder than she screamed. He took his fingers out of her eye sockets and took his torn out rib and stabbed it into her skull. Her head fell to the ground. Adding insult to injury, Stitch shoved his hand into her chest now and ripped her heart out and ate it. Then he stood up and grabbed her torn off arm. He sticks her fingers into his mouth and bites them off. The sound of bones crunching rang through our ears. I could hear Anna shuddering next to me. But Stitch wasn’t done. He took the fingers out of his mouth and stuck them into the woman’s mouth. He left, leaving the woman on the floor. Her head was rolled to the side and what was left of her eyes drooped to the ground. There was blood everywhere soaking into her carpet, drying into her hair and onto her skin. Her fingers were sticking out her mouth. Her nails were broken from the struggle.
I looked over at Anna. She looked like she had been crying. She acted like she could handle all this, but I didn’t think she could.
“I’m going home,” she said. She stood up and left the room quickly. I couldn’t blame her. If I could escape this case, I would.
“I guess I will too,” I said. I thought she needed some time alone, so I decided to go back to my house. Before I could leave though, John ran into the office, disheveled.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said.
“Late?” I said. “It’s three o’ clock, John. You may as well have just not come in.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “But I found something and I thought you should know. Where’s Anna?” He was talking quickly like he was panicking.
“She went home early. Well? Spit it out, kid,” I said. I didn’t really want to hear what he was about to say. But the information could help us stop this guy, so I listened.
“He’s killed more than just three people. He’s killed like…a hundred…at least. Probably more. He’s known all over the world. Like in old folk lore. You know how Hansel and Gretel is supposed to scare children into being good? I think that’s what Stitch was supposed to be. He’s got different names all over the place, but they all translate to Executioner. Buel means butcher in Dutch, but same difference. I thought this guy sounded familiar. In college I took a class in mythology and folklore and we talked about this guy,” he said. He kept moving his hands all over the place and could hardly stand still in the doorway of my office. He’d graduated top of his class at Harvard. I figured I could trust the things he was saying. I took feverish notes so I could call Anna later and tell her everything.
“I don’t know if this is something we can stop, Ryan,” John said distraught.
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s been at this for who knows how many years. If they have stories about him all over the world, and he’s killed all over the world, what makes you think we can stop him?”
“We have to try,” I said. “It’s our job as detectives. We have to stop him from killing anymore people. I don’t give a damn if he’s been at this for however many years; his reign ends now,” I said.
“Okay,” John said. He took the beanie he was wearing off his head and twisted it in his hands. “How though?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to stay over at my place tonight? Maybe we could try to bait him somehow. There’s got to be something we can do,” I said. John sat down next to me and we started researching more. I tried calling Anna while he worked but she didn’t answer. She didn’t come to work the next day either.

Addressing the readers.

John came over to my place after work. We decided to do a little investigation or experiment, if you will, alone in my apartment, and a little research. IF we could even find anything about this thing.
We left the office around 5 pm and met up around 8. We just hung out for a couple hours, playing video games, making some food, talking about the zombie apocalypse and what we would do to survive. Just guy stuff. It was a nice break from the case.
We started doing research around 11 and ended up in the deep end of the internet. Places I've never been to, but in the back of my mind, knew existed. You know those sites. Everybody has that wonder of how deep and twisted the internet is. Well most of those ideas you all think of, are true.
But I'm not going to give any website addresses, so don't ask.
We stumbled upon this one website... it was all black with pictures of rotting skulls everywhere, and the main picture in the middle of the website was just a picture of a goat head., decapitated and rotting in front of a pentagram. That site had a couple of interesting things about something that seemed to match Stitch, for the most part anyways. They had the stitched skin, chains, naked. But on the website, they talked about it having eyes and then losing them. It didn't say how he lost them, but a few commenter’s on the articles were all furiously talking... a lot of capitalized letters and exclamation marks.
There were some comments in Norwegian, some in German and very few in English. It seemed like it was all the English speaking commenter’s who were asking how he lost his eyes.
There was only one response. A really long comment, sometimes repeating sentences, in some language we didn't quite know.
There was a commenter on the article we posted on reddit named "RepetitiveRoutine". He mentioned using Google Translate to figure out what Stitch called himself... or claimed he was called, rather. He was a nice guy. We got in contact with him right away and thanked him for showing interest in the case. He offered his assistance and we let him help. We plan on video chatting soon.
Anyways, the comment was in a very old language. One you never hear anymore, but it does still exist. It was in Aramaic. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that was the language Jesus Christ himself spoke – that old of a language. Not just old, but ancient.
We got in contact with a world language expert that I knew from college who now works for the military.
We asked him what the commenter was saying, but he couldn't make out that many words. He said it's much older than we thought. He made out something about the thing enjoying self mutilation. He would poke his eyes with his fingers over and over again. He would pull on his eye lids in all directions. Peel his skin off with a knife. Shave his head with a razor, leaving scars and gashes all over his bald head. Like he was some kind of masochist. It also talked about the thing cutting the skin to his knees off and hitting the kneecaps with a hammer. That was all he could get out of it.
Other comments in German talked about him getting sexual pleasure from harming himself and others, ultimately leading to the death of his poor victims. He enjoyed taking their body parts and making disfigured bodies out of them. He would claim to be married to them.
Other people from Norway would claim he would give the body parts to Satan himself for his godly powers.
We had enough with that site though. We went on to try to figure out if there were any survivors. There weren't any. Although, some commenter’s speaking in Chinese would explain how he would chain the soul of his latest victim to himself and walk them to the Gates of Hell personally. So once you were his were his victim forever.
But what I want to know is how all these people came to learn this about Stitch and we weren't able to learn anything. Were we not trying hard enough? Were we not religious enough? I have no idea.
The last commenter mentioned how this thing – apparently it was a man once – died. After all of his monstrous acts, whatever the truth about his wrong doings may be, the civilization he lived in murdered him. He mentioned how he was torn apart by horses... A rope tied to each of his limbs was attached to a horse and they ran off in different directions, tearing him to pieces. After the horses pulled him apart, the people let the dogs go at him. They tore him to even more pieces. They left the body there to rot. They came back a week later and the body was gone. Not even a blood trail to follow.
That night, as everybody was laying down to sleep, they heard crying. Animals crying. They found their dogs with their stomachs ripped open, some of the animals ripped in half.
We are not positive, but we are assuming that is how Stitch got his skin back after being eaten by the dogs. The commenter did not say.
John and I got curious about all these people and their information. We tried tracking them down through their internet providers and IP addresses but nothing came up. Not a code...home address... Nothing. It struck us as odd.
So that is all we learned about Stitch. I honestly don't want to know anymore. But for some strange reason, I feel like we are much closer to capturing him now.
We got connected to the video chat with the commenter from reddit and started telling him all that we learned and he seemed really interested. Like none of it bothered him. At least we had someone new to help us. It would also help us get through it faster with his motivation. And a new eye on the case is always good. Like they say, two heads is better than one. So four was probably better than the three we had.
After a while discussing Stitch and all we learned, we decided to see how to get him to show himself. We absolutely needed to figure out how Stitch chose his victims. If we could bait him into coming to us, we could catch him and put an end to all this terror.
I asked the commenter to scare himself. Told him to get scared. Considering Stitch mentioned he could smell the last victims fear.
It took a long time, but he was finally scared. He said after a while he started hearing thumps and whispers. We knew Stitch was close.
“Turn off every light in your house, except the light closest to the window in the back of your house and the window in the front,” I told him. Then I asked him to stand in front of each window looking out for at least 2 minutes, in case Stitch was around. He would see he is home.
After the 4 or 5 minutes, he came back to his computer and asked for further directions. He mentioned his front window was open before he got to it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. John told him to make sure there was nothing on that can possibly create any sound. It needs to be completely silent.
The commenter sat there, waiting. We all sat in the silent dark just listening. Staring into each other’s homes.
Then we heard thumping. He said it was coming from his hallway. We told him to get in either his closet or under the bed or something. Go anywhere, just hide.
“Take a camera with you in case Stitch comes in. You can take video or pictures of him,” I urged. Right before he went to hide I told him to stop being afraid. “Don't be scared. That will just make things worse. Stop being afraid. I promise he is not real. We're going to figure this out.”
He went and hid in his closet. It was silent, deathly so. We couldn't see anything. We just sat there looking into his room.
My heart was pounding out of my chest and I felt sick. I was on the edge of my seat. John and I both were.
It was like we were watching one of those internet jokes where you watch and wait for the paranormal activity to start, but a face just pops up and screams at you.
We started to hear thumping. It got louder and louder and so did the voice. As usual it was talking to itself.
The bedroom door opened. Stitch walked in and just stood in the middle of the room. Stood there for about 20 minutes. Just stood there. Then for no reason at all, he just started laughing. Louder and louder. While he laughed maniacally some sort of liquid spat out of his mouth. We assumed it was blood.
As the laughing got louder and louder... it happened. The damn kid screamed. He started screaming how he was so scared and didn't want to do it.
“Kid shut the fuck up! Don't be scared! He can't hurt you!” I screamed back at him.
Stitch turned his head and looked directly into the webcam. My heart sunk into my chest. It hurt. The commenter screamed again. Stitch turned his head as fast as lightning and looked at the closet. John screamed telling him to keep hiding and Stitch turned his head back to the webcam. The commenter screamed saying he was going to run. Stitch turned his back to the closet. All this time, Stitch was smiling. John yelled for him to run. Stitch turned his head to the webcam. Just as he did, the commenter opened the closet door and took two steps. But he didn’t get any farther.
Stitch stretched his arm out and grabbed the commenter by the neck without even looking at him. He was still looking at us. I was breathing so fast I was getting light headed.
“Is this some kind of game?” Stitch asked, followed by laughter. “You were trying to trick me? How did you think you would catch me? You are no match for me. Now because of you, I will take this boys soul and strike him with my chains for all of eternity. I will feed him to my dogs and bring him back and do it again. And I have you to thank.” Stitch yelled. His voice made my skin crawl. I could hardly believe what we were seeing.
He stepped towards the camera and tilted his head forward. “Do you have any more unfortunate souls you would like to have play this pathetic game? Hiding in closets or under beds does not make you safe from me. I can smell your fear right now. I can taste it,” he said while rubbing his disgusting bloody fingers on his tongue.
“I want to feel your heart beating,” he yelled. Stitch then did the unthinkable. He reached his hand towards us... it came straight through my monitor. I slammed my laptop closed and all I could hear was his laugh, echoing in my head.
That's it... I... don't know what to do anymore. I want to leave. Forever. Move out of the country and live in the woods somewhere.
To the parents of RepetitiveRoutine, I am so sorry. I should have known what was going to happen. I don't know what to say.
And as for all you other readers... please do not do what we had RepetitiveRoutine do. Stitch will enjoy it and it will just make him stronger. It is not a game. It is death.

My dream last night

December 30, 2012
I just woke up and thought I should write this down before I forget. I haven’t been sleeping that much lately, which is why I am just now waking up. The paranoia and fear is just getting worse as the case goes on. I had this really weird dream. I was in a field. Just a field like you would normally think of when you think about fields. Trees everywhere with shrubs at their bases. There were some deer off in the distance and I could hear birds chirping. The sun was shining. As I stood there thinking about how this would be a good place to come and think. I started thinking about my childhood. I used to come to a field just like this and play with my dogs. They loved to play fetch in the grass. When it was really tall they loved to sneak up on me or leap over the grass like gazelles.
I thought it was a dream about that. But as soon as the sun vanished and the clouds covered the air, I knew this was no dream – but a nightmare – and not one that was about my dog filled childhood.
When the clouds covered the sky, the plants all died. The trees lost their leaves, the grass turned brown, the flowers wilted where they stood. The deer dropped dead and the birds fell from the sky. There was a smell in the air that I can’t even begin to describe; it was so disgusting. Beyond disgusting. Like rotten flesh and rotten eggs and rotten milk all combined together. I watched as all the deer dropped to the ground and I ran to them thinking there could be a way for me to help. But when I got there, there was nothing I could do. Their flesh was already rotting and parasites had already come to eat the meat off their bones.
Suddenly, I heard a loud, low groaning sound. It was coming from all around me. It sounded like it was coming from the trees. I couldn’t escape it by running. It just got louder and louder the longer I was in that field. I saw some concrete stairs going into the ground. I watched myself run. It kept switching from first person view to third person. It was really disorienting. I kept going towards the stairs and then hurried down them. At the bottom of the stairs there was a beat up wooden door. Something told me I shouldn’t open the door, no matter how badly I wanted to escape that groaning sound. That I should force myself to wake up and just keep going on with my life, without opening that door. But of course, like in all nightmares and typical Hollywood teen screams, your gut is ignored.
I opened the door. It creaked and it felt like it was going to fall off its hinges. There were scratches all over the back side of the door. Like someone had been trying to escape. It was cold as I entered the hallway the door lead to. Ice cold. I shivered. I didn’t know if I was shivering from fear or from the cold. Either one was entirely plausible. I closed the door behind me and the groaning stopped instantly.
It was pitch black dark, but I walked down the hall anyways. I tried to move quickly, but my feet felt like they were made of lead. It felt like each step took five minutes. It was driving me crazy. I put my hands on the walls to guide me. I felt inscriptions on the wall, but I couldn’t tell what they said. I patted my pockets to see if my cell phone was there. It was, so I pulled it out of my pocket and when I went to open it to shine light on the wall, it shocked me and I dropped it. I winced and shook my hand to get the pain to stop. I went to pick it up off the ground, but it turned to dust as my hand touched it. The dust was unusually warm and more ashy than grainy. I stumbled forward, keeping my hands on the walls to guide me. I felt more inscriptions, but I wouldn’t find out till later what they were. I felt a corner and slid my hands onto the cold wall in front of me. As I felt it, trying to find an escape, I felt a handle. I put my hand on it, tried to push or pull the door open. It wouldn’t budge. So I tried sliding it open. And that worked. It slid open with a loud bang.
I walked into the room and slid the door closed behind me. The lighting was like a doctor’s office. The kind of light that washes out your skin and makes it look blue. I always hated that light. The room looked like the morgue in the hospitals. In the middle of the room there was a metal table, shiny and eerily clean. Like it had never been used. Along the walls there were drawers you put dead bodies in. The room smelled strongly of sulfur. Next to the table there was a little cart with various surgery tools on it. I walked towards it carefully. Every step I took was deafening. I got to the table and picked up the first tool I saw, a Stryker saw. My dad was a coroner so he would always talk about that stuff over dinner, which I really didn’t appreciate. The only time I put up with it was when I was doing an internship for him when I was trying to decide what part of the police world I wanted to join.
I started thinking about how I had to watch him use various saws to cut ribs open to get to the heart. I remembered the blood everywhere and dropped the saw on the ground, forgetting I was holding it. It hit the leg of the cart and all the tools fell onto the ground. The metal clanked against the tiles on the ground. The sound was just as deafening as my footsteps had been. When the sound stopped, I started to look around the rest of the room. It was back in third person. I watched myself wander around the room. My other self looked into the file drawers that weren’t full of bodies. He pulled out some papers and looked at them. All the files were in a different language, but neither me nor the other me could tell which language it was. I watched myself find a single paper in English, talking about the Lake Bodom murders. I remember Googling the case a couple years ago out of curiosity because one of my favorite bands was named after them. No one ever found out who committed them. Maybe Stitch was behind those attacks too... Then suddenly I was back in first person. As soon as I oriented myself, I started hearing banging and moaning. I looked around the room and saw the body drawers shaking. I heard people pleading to be let out, moaning and groaning, begging. I started panicking and ran to the corner. I sat on the ground and covered my ears and closed my eyes, hoping against all hope that the sound would stop. And it did. It wasn’t a good quiet though. It was a scary quiet. Eerie. The quiet went on for what felt like forever until the loud groaning sound from the field started again. I walked to the sliding door trying to find a way to escape it again. I opened the door but couldn’t see anything. My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness in the hall. Once they did, I saw Stitch standing at the end of the hallway. You could only see one of his arms. He took a step forward and then I could see him holding his chains behind his back.
“Are you trying to hide?” Stitch said.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“We are inside your memories,” he replied.
“I want to ruin your best memories. I feed off fear and anger. I killed the animals and turned the sky gray. Now look behind you and feel more fear,” Stitch said. All of a sudden there was the stench of rotten flesh and blood in the air. I turned around slowly. As I turned around I slipped and hit my head on one of the counters. I put my hand on my head to ease the pain and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I looked at my hands and they were covered in blood. I looked around the rest of the room and the floor was flooded with blood. Papers covered the floor. I looked at the body drawers and saw all of them were open. The dead bodies inside them were sitting up on their metal beds, smiling, with dead eyes and pale skin. One had a gunshot wound on his head with crusted blood around the edges. Another had his throat slit. Another was severely burned; his skin was blackened. Their smiles were still and frozen. Like mannequins. I turned back to look at Stitch again. His arm was still bent back.
“Meet my latest victim. Courtesy of you.” He grabbed his chains with both of his hands. He jerked someone roughly. As the mystery person went flying through the air, Stitch jerks him back by the neck even more roughly than before. It yelped and cried in pain. He landed right in front of Stitch. There was a chain around his neck. It could’ve come off, but there were spikes driven into his neck, keeping them in place. The holes in his neck kept oozing blood. His legs were broken off at the knee. His femur was sticking out. The skin and muscle were all torn, still bleeding. From his bottom lip to half way down his neck, the skin was gone. The muscle was disturbingly red, bloody… it made me want to puke. It seemed like every pore in his body was blood oozing out of it. He was so beat up. Some of his teeth were missing. His hair was torn out in chunks. His arms and chest had gruesome scratches all over them. His eye lids were missing. His eyes were dried and shriveled. There were chunks of his face missing, along with the rest of his body.
“You know who I am,” Stitch’s victim said.
“No I don’t,” I said quietly, scared.
“Yes you do. You watched me get taken away.”
“RepetitiveRoutine,” he said. Then it hit me. I recognized his short dark brown hair with its slight curl. I felt a fit of tears coming and held them back. Suddenly, RepetitiveRoutine came loose and started bounding towards me. He ran on his fists, like an ape. While he ran, he screamed blood curdling screams. Terrified, I stumbled back and ran as fast as I could to the corner of the morgue-like room. I slammed the door and as soon as the sound rang through my ears I woke up. Or at least I thought I did.
“You need to wake up, Ryan. It’s time to have breakfast,” a voice said. I found myself in my childhood bedroom, cuddled up in my Scooby Doo sheets. I rolled over and saw my mom watching me. Before I could answer her, Stitch came up behind her. He loomed over her. He was wearing a blue button up shirt with slacks. He put his hand on her shoulder. She put hers over his. “Hey, honey. I’m just trying to wake up Ryan,” she said.
“Wake up, son,” Stitch said. Stitch was playing the part of my dad. But my mom couldn’t even tell that my dad wasn’t there. She couldn’t tell what was coming for her. Naked again, Stitch tore her skin off in one piece and danced with it, laughing. I was left frozen in terror. And even with her skin missing, my mom stood there smiling. After a little bit of dancing, he tore her skin in half. The back of her landed on the floor and he held up the front in front of him. He put his eyes where hers should be, wore her like a mask.
“Good morning, baby,” he said, mocking my mother’s voice. He stuck his tongue through her lips and wiggled it around at me like a child, and started laughing again, even louder. All the while, my mother was standing there, all meat, just looking at me. Stitch dropped the rest of her skin on the ground and grabbed her veins from her ankles and wrists. He wrapped them together and swung her around, her feet touching her hands. As he swung her around, her blood splattered all over the room. It flew onto my face and I nearly threw up. I tried to get up off my bed and run away, but before I could reach the door, Stitch pushed me against the window. A piece of broken glass cut my back, leaving a huge scratch. I woke up for real then, drenched in sweat.
I went to the bathroom before I started writing this. There’s a scratch on my back… I’m going to go to the hospital now and get this checked out. I just thought of this… My dad’s still alive. Why was Stitch pretending to be him in my dream if he’s still here? Maybe I should go stay with him for a while…
I know you guys have been wondering about Anna too. I still haven't heard from her. It's been a while now, a week and a half... I'm starting to get worried. She won't answer her phone, her emails. There isn't even anyone there when I go knock on her door. This is getting distressing. What should I do?


Anna is gone. After days of emailing her, calling her house and even knocking on her front door, I finally got an answer. I went over to her house today. Her car wasn't in her drive way.
Also, the curtains weren't closed so I decided to look in. I put my face against the glass and cupped my eyes with my hands. There was nothing in the living room. It was empty. I then tried to call her cell phone. It went straight to voice mail. I really hope her voice mail is not the last time I'm going to hear my partners voice. Can you imagine how that feels?
I'm being left here with John, and even John is acting weird on me now. He seems withdrawn and quiet. Not as chipper as he was when he first got to us. John doesn't want to do this anymore. Neither of us do.
Nothing else huge has happened since my dream. I still hear knocking and sometimes quiet chuckling in the distance. I'm planning on going to my dads house soon. I'm still trying to figure out why Stitch was acting as my dad in my dream and why my mother didn't notice it was a monster. I can't get the sound of my mothers skin getting ripped off of her out of my head. The tearing of veins and tight skin splitting. It's driving me crazy. If I'm not listening to Stitch laughing in my head, it's all of the disgusting sounds I have had to hear the past month. Bones breaking, skin ripping, guts getting thrown around. ReptitiveRoutines screams.
It's always the same with gruesome sounds like that. Someone getting their neck slit, someone smacking their head on the pavement after getting hit by a car, someone gurgling in their own blood after having their face bashed in. The sound is always much worse than the image and the sound is going to stick with you for your whole life. It's going to haunt you.
I'll keep in touch.

I have my own Case File now. - PART 1

John and I were working on the case in my office. It was weird not having Anna around. I was so desperately hoping that my suspicions were wrong, that she wasn’t dead, just hiding until the case was over or was taking a break. The office was cold, so cold we could see our breath. Neither of us really knew what to do about the whole Stitch thing.
We looked through the pictures, read the journals, and watched the tapes, God knows how many times. We would watch the tapes in slow-motion looking for any little clues that might tell us where to find him. But we couldn’t find anything. First, we were thinking he must be hiding somewhere outdoors. He always seemed sort of dirty and disheveled, like he didn’t have access to a shower and was always running around barefoot. But then we wondered, if he’s an outdoorsman, why is he naked? Doesn’t he get cold? Then we played around with the idea that he lived in a cave somewhere. Which would make sense – he’d have some warmth so he could wander around naked all he wanted. But it still didn’t quite work in our heads. Since when do supernatural creatures and serial killers not have homes and established lives outside of their murder sprees? Vampires, you think live in castles, mansions, and whatnot. Werewolves are only like that once a month, so they obviously have stuff to do the rest of the time, and have a house. Even zombies sort of have a home – their coffins until they rise from the dead. What would make Stitch want to be the outcast and not have a house and established life?
Nothing was making sense to us. Our heads hurt. Our coffee was running out. The sun was going down. The work week was coming to an end. Our options were running out. Thankfully no one else had been killed. But surely, it would happen again soon. Stitch wasn’t one to sit and do nothing for extended periods of time.
“What do you want to do?” I asked John as I stretched out my back. Before he could answer, the door to my office slammed open and an FBI team walked in. “We need you two to come in for questioning,” the only one in a suit said. The rest of them were wearing the typical FBI uniforms, with their guns and everything. John and I were confused. What could we have done to catch the FBIs attention? We complied and went with the team willingly. We all walked out of the office quietly. My coworkers watched, just as confused as we were. Their eyes were all wide. Some of the mouthed words at me, asking what was going on. I just shrugged. I really had no idea. They shoved us into the back of a car and drove us to where they wanted to question us.
We arrived at the jail in Downtown Seattle. It was a tan building with small windows with bars over them, so the prisoners couldn’t escape. I was scared. I looked over at John. He was squeezing his hands together; I could see they were sweaty. He had wide eyes, like he was a child caught stealing candy. My palms were sweaty too. I’m sure my eyes were just as wide.
We were let out of the car. Two men grabbed both of my arms and pulled me into the building. I didn’t know what we’d done to deserve such harsh treatment. They didn’t give us time to look around the building, but I didn’t really mind. I’d been there countless times. I was just confused by why we were being brought there for questioning.
John and I were put into separate rooms. Each room had white walls, a white tile floor, a white ceiling, and a white light. There was a metal table in the middle of the room with chairs all around it. I was told to sit down and wait. So I did as I was told, in an attempt to stop the brutal treatment. The walls were entirely bare of everything, even texture. As I waited, I tried to find something to fix my eyes on. But I was so nervous I could hardly sit still. I tapped my feet and drummed my fingers and chewed my nails. What could I have possibly done? I’m just a detective! I’m the one who’s supposed to be solving the cases, not be a suspect or anything. Interrupting my thoughts, a man in a gray suit walks in with a file. He sits down across the table from me and just looks at me for what felt like an eternity.
“You’re probably wondering why we brought you and your intern in here,” he said. His voice was deep and scratchy. He had a bird’s nest type of hair, mostly white with shades of gray. His eyes were tired and old, like they’d seen everything to be seen. I nodded at him, unsure if I was allowed to speak. “What do you know about…” He looks at his papers. “Repetitive Routine… What do you know about his death?” “I know what happened on the tapes,” I said. “I have them back in my office if you want to see them.” “We know what happened in the tapes,” the man said. “What do you know? Is there anything we should know that can’t be learned through the tapes?” “What do you mean?” I asked. The bright light was making my headache worse. “What did you have to do with it?” “Nothing!” I said, shocked. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. He offered to help us find Stitch and that’s what ended up happening. Stitch came and killed him. We didn’t think that would happen, but it did. And from that side of the webcam you can’t really do anything.” My speech got faster and faster as I kept talking. Was I really a suspect in his death? In my own investigation? “Okay,” the man said. “Calm down. We’re just investigating his death.” That made me fume. That was my case. I didn’t work so hard to become the best detective in the Seattle PD just to have my case taken from me. Even if it was impossible to solve…
“You’re free to go,” the man said. “We’ll be in touch with any further information on his death.” I nodded at him and walked into the hall. As I waited in the hallway for John to come out from his interrogation, an idea crossed my mind. An illegal one, mind you, but an idea nonetheless. And despite its illegality, I decided to pursue it. I jogged down the hall to the man who’d questioned me and asked him where the nearest bathroom was. He pointed and said down the hall and around the corner. So I walked down the plain hallway and stood just around the corner, near the restroom. I peaked around to see the man go into a room with the folder, and come out without it. When the coast was clear, I snuck into the room, quietly so no one could hear. The room was dark and dank with file folders covering all the walls. The files were organized in alphabetical order so I found the J drawer and searched for my file. At last I found it. Johnson, Ryan. I opened it and found a small notebook. Flipping through it, the pages were covered in notes. I smiled to myself. Suddenly I head the door opened so I stuffed the notebook into my pocket and closed the drawer quickly and silently. A woman with sharp features and a stern expression walked in.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked. “I was looking for the bathroom,” I said. “Wrong room. It’s down the hall and around the corner,” she said. “Okay, thank you,” I said. I walked out of the room and found John waiting at the end of the hall by the rooms we’d been questioned in.
I swiftly walked to him and gestured for him to follow me quickly. We stepped out of the building into the crisp Seattle air. I kept walking until we were a good distance away from the building. Then I pulled the journal out of my pocket and showed it to John. He looked at me with concern. “Did you steal that?” he asked. I nodded but didn’t care that he was worried. We were already in trouble. I flipped to the first page. It talked about how we were suspects in Repetitive Routine’s murder. John Freeman and Ryan Johnson – present at time of crime, could have orchestrated it in ploy to solve serial killer case, follow after questioning.
That made both of us nervous. We looked around as soon as we read that, looking for suspicious cars. Cars of different colors and models whizzed around us, but nothing was standing still watching us. We felt small rain drops start to hit our heads and neck so we started walking and fast as we could to the office. The rain started to really pour and get us soaking wet before we reached our cars.
“I was thinking…we should go up to Anna’s parents house. She might be staying with them,” I told John. “Let’s go now,” he said. “Why not? The sooner we find her the sooner we can let our minds ease.” I agreed with him and we both piled into my car. It was getting dark as I pulled out into traffic and eventually onto the freeway. The clouds were ominous. They were a dark gray. The rain was pounding on my car. John and I were silent the whole time. Neither of us knew what to say. We didn’t know what we were going to find. But both of us were praying to whatever God was out there, that we’d find Anna alive. A couple hours went by. The weather kept getting worse and the sun kept going further down until it was pitch black outside. That’s when I felt a bump and then it got really hard to drive all of a sudden. I pulled over to the side of the road and jumped out of my car. The front left tire was completely flat.
“Great!” I nearly screamed. “Just awesome.” John got out of the car and looked at the wheel. I ran my hand through my messy hair and sighed. It was already getting late and I didn’t want to deal with this. Especially given the situation. What if Stitch found us? I shoved those thoughts aside and tried to focus on fixing the wheel. I opened my trunk and found my spare wheel. But only a spare wheel. All my tools to fix it were gone. Nowhere to be found. How was I supposed to fix my stupid tire without tools? I nearly screamed again. I shut my trunk and leaned against the driver’s side door and waited for someone to drive by and help.
“You okay?” John asked after a while. We were both standing the pouring rain, in the dark, in the middle of nowhere. Neither of us were happy. Our suits were soaked; our hair looked like we’d just taken a shower; it was late; we were tired and stressed out. Things just weren’t looking good for us. “What do you think?” I said. I wasn’t trying to sound rude, but I guess that was the vibe I put out because John scooted away from me a little bit and didn’t say anything else for a while. We waited in the rain for half an hour before a car finally stopped to help us. A man and a young woman got out of the car. The lady had long brown hair in a braid down her back and hippie like clothing. She had a kind face and walked towards us with welcoming arms.
“What happened?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Flat tire,” John said. He sounded in a better mood than I was. Even if he had been acting strange lately, he was still more chipper than me. “We can’t find Ryan’s tools.” “Oh, that’s terrible!” the woman said. “We have tools. Go help them change their tire, Josh!” The man she was with was tall and extremely muscular, to the point that it was kind of weird. He wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans. He didn’t seem like he would be dating the woman he was with – if they were dating, that is. He nodded in her direction and went to the trunk of their black car. Shortly thereafter he came back with the necessary tools and helped us change my tire. In just a few minutes we were ready to go.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “This really means a lot.” “Oh, no problem at all,” the woman said, grinning. “Just one question though. What’s with the car with the two scary looking men in it back there? They’ve just been sitting there the whole time.” John and I looked back at the car and then back at each other. Neither of us had noticed it until she pointed it out. It was sleek and black, nearly unnoticeable in the dark from that distance. I thought on my feet. “Oh, that’s the FBI. We’re detectives working on a case with them. It’s nothing to worry about.” It was something to worry about… “Interesting!” the woman said. The man stood beside her silently the whole time they’d helped us. “Well good luck with your case!” “Thank you. And again, thank you so much for the help.” I smiled at her and John and I got back into my car, thoroughly soaking wet.
“What should we do about them?” John said, pointing at the FBI car trailing us. “Just let them do whatever. There’s nothing for us to hide; we didn’t do what they think we did,” I said. I started up the car and kept driving. John and I were silent the whole ride to Bellingham. The car kept trailing us all the way to Anna’s parent’s house. We tried acting like we didn’t see them. We tried to act as natural as we could. It was hard, but we did as good a job as possible.
Soon we pulled up to Anna’s parent’s house. It was a small little house just outside the city. They owned a little ranch with three horses. They were neighing in the barn a little ways from the house. They sounded panicked, but I didn’t know anything about horses, so for all I knew, that was what they sounded like all the time. John and I walked up to the front door of their shabby little house. Anna’s car was sitting outside. It had frost on the windows and what looked like fresh mud on the tires. Maybe she had just come back.
The paint on the house was peeling and the grass was unkempt. The stairs creaked as we walked up them onto the porch. I knocked on the door, but as I knocked it just opened. I pushed it further open and John and I walked in skeptically. The air was freezing cold and bugs were crawling on the ground. The first room we came to was the living room. The furniture had that typical old-lady pattern of canvas flowers. The furniture was covered in those plastic covers. The window next to the television was broken. Glass was all over the ground. The television was on. A news broadcaster’s voice rang through the silent house. It was eerie.
The floor creaked beneath our feet as we kept walking slowly through the house. We got to the kitchen. The fridge was open and the sink was running. Food was sitting on the counter like someone was about to prepare a meal. The food was rotting and there was a slight stench in the air. It was starting to get various colored mold on it. Flies buzzed around the plate, loving the stench of the disgusting food. John walked over to look at it. He winced a little.
“One of those flies just bit me,” he said. He poked at the food and a bunch of fruit flies jumped off the food on the table. We couldn’t tell what the food even was. The table was set and one of the chairs was pulled out from the table like someone was sitting there watching the other person cook. I started to see specks of blood on the floor as we kept walking. We followed the blood drops until they turned into trails of blood. Some places it was hard to make out on the brown carpet.
The trail led into a room that appeared to be an office, but also kept going down the hall. We decided to go room by room and started in the office. It had a computer, printer and a desk with some cabinets. The blood trail went right past everything and up the wall. It stopped halfway to the ceiling. John told me to come over to where he was. I walked around the desk on the side where the chair was. The chair was covered in blood and so were the keyboard and the top of the desk. Some of the keys were missing from the keyboard, the monitor was completely broken and the mouse was hanging down, covered in blood. The damage and destruction of the desk area was not the most disturbing part. The worst part was, all over the keyboard. We found teeth. Like someone had gotten their face slammed into it repeatedly and their teeth had fallen out. They were white with yellowing at the top of them where they’d fallen out. The monitor still had glass around the frame. It was covered in blood and on one long shard of glass, there was an eye ball. It was brown and still had the veins attached to it. There was also some hair caught on glass on the side of the monitor. It was long, white, and sort of crinkly.
At least I knew it wasn't Anna’s. I went to pull the chair out from the desk, and as I did, I heard a loud thump. I look down and there was a hand coming out from under the desk. John and I crouched down to have a better look. It was Anna’s mom.
She was curled up under the desk, her knees against her chest, sitting up. Her left eye was out of its socket, some teeth were missing as well and there were a few holes in her scalp where hair and skin should be. We could see the white bone of her cracked skull. Her right eye was still in its socket. It was swollen and black with bits of blood trickling down her pale white cheek. Her nose was severely broken. You could see the cracked bone beneath the crusted blood. We decided not to touch the body continued down the hall way.
The blood trail was on the ground for a good five to six feet then it swerved to the left and went up the wall. We followed it on the wall until it came to a door. This door was locked and after several attempts to break it in with our shoulders, John kicked it in. It was Anna’s dad’s personal room - bachelor pad, if you will. It had a flat screen, computer, fish tank, various mounted animal heads, a gun cabinet and a cigar humidor. We didn't stay long in that room.
The first thing we saw was her dad’s body. He was ripped in half and replaced on the wall with his mounted bear head. His lower body was still standing up, right below him on the ground. On the wooden plaque, where it read the name, size and weight of the bear, someone had carved over it. It said "Collateral" and below that it said "You can't run". Maybe this will get those damn FBI agents to finally believe Stitch is real. Maybe this will get them off my back.
John and I went outside to find the FBI agents. They weren’t in their car so we assumed they were following us around the house. We turned to go back into the house and look for them and saw them coming towards us. Their guns were drawn but they weren’t pointing them at us. “Do you believe us that Stitch is behind all this now?” I asked. “Do you believe we didn’t kill Repetitive Routine?” “We don’t know what to think,” one man said. He scratched his head and rubbed his chin. “Maybe we should call the local authorities. They might have some insight on this couple. Maybe someone was out to get them. We’ll also call in more field agents. This might be beyond your control now, if what you’re telling me is true.” “Didn’t you see what was written on the plaque? It was Stitch!” John said, getting flustered. “Show us,” the second man said. We walked back into the house and tried not to look at the gore too much. We got Anna’s dad’s room and showed them the plaque. They looked at the words carefully. “Collateral, huh?” the first man said. “Collateral for what?” “We’re thinking he has my partner, Anna. She’s been missing for a little while now. We don’t know where she is,” I said. “We definitely need to call the locals. We need all the help we can get.” The second man pulled out his phone and dialed 911. He told the operator about him being an FBI agent and needing back up. He asked for the address, I gave it to him, and we waited for the police to arrive.
“Maybe we should go check on the horses,” John said. “We don’t know how long these people have been dead. They might be needing food and whatnot.” We all agreed and walked back out into the cold. It might have been dark and freezing cold out, but it was a nice change to the disgusting sights inside the house. I loved the open field that lay between the house and the neighboring house. Although, it did remind me of the dream I had a couple days ago.
As we walked further into the field, my heart began to beat faster. I found myself staring into the woods that surrounded the property. I can still hear that loud groaning sound from my dream. I know it was just a dream, but it still makes me nervous. We walked towards the barn quietly. Part of the thought maybe Stitch was waiting for me. The barn was like a typical horse barn. Red outside and stalls inside with open windows so the horses could get fresh air when they were inside. We opened the door. It squeaked loudly.
You could smell the stench of decay from 20 feet away from the barn. I doubt I was the only person who noticed it. All of the straw and hay on the ground of the barn was damp and stuck to the bottom of our shoes. It felt...gross...beneath my feet. I almost slipped a couple of times. The horses were in the back of the barn in the last three stalls. As we got closer, we noticed only 2 of them were alive and they were just skin and bone. You should see every bone in their body and their neighs sounded like they were in pain and scared and they could barely stand. Their legs were close to collapsing underneath them. As I checked them out, I noticed they had rope around their necks. Why would they have ropes around their necks?
When we found the horses, three more police men showed up.
“We were the closest officers to your location. We checked out the house and we called for more back up though,” one of the officers said, almost out of breathe.
“Oh my god... what is that smell?” another said. He put his hand over his nose and mouth.
“That's what we're here to find out,” I said.
I opened the stall where the third horse should have been. I wish I didn't. The only thing left in there was the scalp of the horse... It's whole mane and the horse tail was on the ground. The tail had a giant chunk of meat at the end, still connected, where someone ripped it off the horse. Next to these things on the ground...there were three of it's hooves.
“Jesus Christ! Where did the other hoof go?! Where did the body go?!” John yelled.
We all walked away from the stall and one of the FBI agents ordered another officer to take the two remaining horses out of the barn and take them to a veterinary clinic. As we opened the stall to one of the live horses, blood was everywhere. All over the horses feet, it's mouth and in its hair. We couldn't see any wounds or anything on him though.
Around the food trough, there were flies flying around it. I walked closer and my nose started to burn. There was a lot of meat in the trough. Some of the meat was still connected to bones. But... they didn't look like... human bones. They were much too long...much larger than human bones. The joints were different. The horses had been eating the third horse whose body we couldn't find. Who the fuck does this? I thought.
“Guys... I think I found the third horse...” I said, trying not to puke.

I have my own Case File now. - PART 2

“Holy shit,” John said.
“I'm going to go back to my car and get some gloves. I'll bring some for everybody,” I said, as I walked away from the crime scene.
I started walking across the field again. I was dragging my feet as I walked to try to get some of the hay off of my shoes.
It was odd. I felt as if I was being watched as I walked through the field. I looked left and right, along the tree line, but I didn't see anybody. I turned around and still, I did not see a single person besides the officer who took the horses out of the barn. He was crouched, picking up grass, attempting to feed the horses. I turned back and walked towards the car. From the field, you walk along a fence that was along the side yard of the house. The house has 2 windows on that side. I could have been seeing things...but I swear I saw a curtain move and someones hand go behind it.
I decided to go back inside the house. I figured it was just the other officers who were called. I walked up the front steps and into the door. As I entered, I got light headed and dizzy. Everything I saw flashed and went from blue to green and back to blue. It happens though. I think I remember reading somewhere it's from adrenaline kicking in really fast.
I made my way towards the room I saw on the side of the house with the moving curtain. I've only been in this house a handful of times. Usually just Christmas or other major family events. I knew Anna from High School so her family and I were close. I found the room I'd seen the hand in and walked in. It just had a bunch of boxes in it, like a storage room. I went to the window and moved the curtains. The curtains were dusty as if they hadn't been moved in a long time. The air started getting heavy. It was almost suffocating. I didn't see anybody in that room or the room next to it which had the second window on the side of the house. I started to go to my car and I ran into one of the officers who were in charge of the crime scene in the house.
“We're almost done here. We have 1 body and... well, one head, correct? I mean... you were the first officer to enter the house, right?” he asked.
“1 body? No. There is 2 bodies and there wasn't just a head. It was a whole body and a body split in two. The upper half is mounted.” I said.
“Oh. Uh. We have the mounted body, but not a whole second body. There's the body mounted on the wall and the lower half beneath it, and a head outside. No second body,” he assured me. I walked as fast as I could into the office. He wasn't lying. The body of Annas mom was missing.
“Nobody took the body of the old woman out of here? None of your officers?!” I demanded. I was getting pretty mad.
“No! We just got here!”
“Well bodies don't just get up and walk away! Then where is the head you found?” I asked, but I assumed it was the head of Anna's mom.
“You didn't see it?” The officer asked. “It's outside. Now... keep in mind we did not touch it or move it or anything. We found it right where it is”.
I walked outside. There was a trail of brown dried blood in the dirt path going to the gravel driveway. I followed it around the back of my car and along the drivers side. The head was sitting on my hood. Who the hell put it up there? There wasn't just a decapitated head when we first got here!
I walked around to the front of my car. The head was facing that way. It was Anna's head. It was terrible. Every single one of her teeth were out of the gums and were shoved into her cheeks and forehead and her eyes were missing, as usual when it comes to Stitch.
I lost it right there. I got on my knees and began to cry. It was the first time I cried since I was a kid. With the never ending disappointment from my parents as a kid and the constant beating, I learned how to hold back my emotions at a young age. It felt good. It really did. My eyes burned and my chest hurt, but it was worth it. It felt like a sack of bricks were lifted off my chest and shoulders. I could think clearer.
“Did you know her?” the officer behind me asked.
“She was my partner at the Seattle Police Department. I've known her most of my life.” I said trying to make out a clear sentence.
Stitch is going to pay for this, I swore to myself. I got up off the ground and opened the driver side door and popped my trunk. I grabbed a pair of disposable gloves from a box along with a pair for the other officers in the barn.
“I don't want to see that on my hood when I get back. And would you mind hosing down my car?” I asked.
“Sure, I guess” he said.
I turned to walk back to the barn and just as I did, I heard a loud neigh from one of the horses. I quickly walked around the house and hopped the fence going into the pasture. I jogged over the officer who was with the horses. One of them was on the ground.
“Is it dead?” I asked.
“Yeah, it passed. We're calling in some people to come take care of this one though, if it's not too late. They should be here soon.” He said.
I walked back into the barn. Everybody else who I left in there were all standing in a circle. Everybody but John, who was sitting in a corner sobbing. I walked to the back of the barn to see what everybody was looking at. There was the rest of Anna's body. Her upper torso in the middle. Her legs and her right arm ripped off, laying feet away. She still had rope around her wrist and ankles. Stitch killed her just as the people in his village killed him. I definitely think he was trying to send a message by killing her the way he died.
“I’m gonna go, John. Do you want to come with me or catch a ride with the FBI?” I said. “Don’t leave me here with them!” he said. I nodded at him and hopped into my car as fast as I could. John got in a minute later after telling the FBI we were leaving. I didn’t think they would be following us now. I looked at the clock. 3 AM. I yawned. I was getting really tired now that the gore wasn’t fueling my adrenaline. We started driving out of Bellingham, in silence once more. Both of us were exhausted. I put the radio on to try to keep us awake.
After a while, the buildings of the city started to become sparse again. As we left the main part of town, the radio started to go to static. Every channel I tried was static. I started getting nervous because of how the videos went to static in the second victim’s death. I saw a white building start to appear in the distance ahead of us. As we pulled up, we saw it was a Catholic parish. A giant church. I usually laugh at those, but Catholic parishes aren’t considered mega churches… Something in me clicked. With all the blood, guts, and gore I’d been seeing, something in me needed to go talk to God. Maybe He could provide some insight to this case. Maybe He could help me regain my sanity and get on track to solving this case. I pulled over and parked the car.
“I’m gonna go in and talk to God for a little bit. I need some help,” I said as I unbuckled. “I’ll stay here. I’m not Christian. Jewish,” he said. “Okay,” I said.
I opened the door and got out of the car. Back into the cold. I walked into the church. I was enormous inside. It had to be to hold 2,000-plus worshipers. I walked past a few stone pillars with holy water in them. Then I walked out of the lobby and into the worship area. There were candles lit all over the place. It shown on the stained glass and made Jesus’ statue look really eerie. His crown of thorns created a shadow on his face and the blood on his hands was black as night. I walked down the aisle between the pews. I walked down one and kneeled on the ground in the middle. I put my hands together and set my forehead on them.
“God?” I started. I didn’t really know what to say. “I need help… I’m scared all the time. Paranoid…” Then all of a sudden all the candles went out. It was weird enough being alone in a church in the middle of the night, but it just got scary when all the light was gone.
I got up off my knees and looked around, spinning in circles. As I turned back around to look at the candles behind the podium, I heard loud bangs. All of the doors were being slammed shut. I turned back around to look at the doors I came in through. I slowly started walking towards them. I could barely see two feet in front of me. I stumbled a couple times on some benches, startling myself each time I made a thud. As I reached the door, on the wall next to it, I saw my shadow. There was a flickering light coming from behind me. I turned back around and saw the first and last row of candles were lit. That was when I started to hear a cracking sound.
It wasn’t a cracking sound like the fingers and necks and spines I’ve been forced to listen to the past couple of months, it sounded like plastic or even porcelain cracking. I looked up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. He had a big long crack going across his chest. It was crumbling right in the middle of his chest. I got closer, and as I got closer, it felt like the room was getting colder. I reached out to touch the statue, and as I did, the crumbling center of his chest fell out and knocked over a bunch of candles.
It knew it was Stitch. The hole was right where his heart would be. The statue started bleeding. Out of the hole, his hands, his feet, his head and his eyes.
I was back on my knees, and I closed my eyes. I’ve never done it before, but I began to pray. I didn’t know how, so I just pleaded for protection. As I was pleading, I heard laughter. That awful laugh that has been haunting me since the beginning of the case.
I needed to get out of there. I ran to the doors, but they were all locked. I started to panic. I started banging on the doors. I turned back around when I heard a loud thump. It was to the right of me. I saw a bible go flying across the room and hit one of the confession booths. I took a step forward, and as I did, more bibles began flying across the room smacking into the confession booth. Was it a sign? I had no idea. I started walking towards the booths. I knew I still wouldn’t be safe, considering what had happened to RepetitiveRoutine, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to see Stitch’s face again.
I opened the first booth and went in. I sat on the bench, buttoning up my jacket all the way and pulled the top over my mouth. Then it all started. The flame of a candle went shooting into the air in the next booth, hitting the top of the booth and going flat. As it died down, I could make out someone in there.
“Hello, my son,” the familiar, dark voice said. “Uh... Father?” I asked, gulping. “You can call me that if you like. It’s much better than what you have been calling me,” the voice said, beginning to chuckle. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. But I knew I wasn’t going to get a straight answer. “Why?” Stitch asked. “Well you went into the confession first. I am here to forgive you for your sins”. “You’re not a religious man. You’re a monster. A demon!” I yelled. Stitch then began to laugh hysterically. I sat there looking at him through the mesh between the two sections. This whole time, he was looking at the confession booth door. He didn’t look at me once. “I am going to kill you for all that you have done. For Anna!” I yelled again. I looked back up to the other booth and Stitch had his face pressed against the screen. He was smiling at me. I moved from left to right, and his face moved with me. I still don’t know how he was able to follow me like that, what with the skin stitched over his eye sockets.
I closed my eyes and put my hands on my face. It was silent. I could hear my own heartbeat. After a couple minutes, I look back up. Stitch was gone. I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. I sat back on the bench and just stared off. I can’t remember what I was thinking about, but it was deep.
All of a sudden, I heard a door open in the distance. Footsteps were getting closer and closer. They were fast paced and small. I could tell it was a girl.
“Is there anybody in the church?” she said. “Yeah. I’m… I’m in the confessional,” I said, still not fully thinking straight. “Are you ok? You sound distraught,” she asked. “Yeah I’m ok. Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “Well why don’t you come out of there and get some fresh air,” she said.
I came out of the booth. It was still dark. There were about 5 candles lit by the podium. I tried focusing my eyes to the darkness and I began looking around. I finally saw the woman. She was a nun in the back of the church, on the opposite side of where I was. She was standing in the shadows. All I could see was the upper half of her body and her head. Something didn’t seem right about her. She just stood there. Not moving at all. Staring at me.
“Would you like to talk about anything?” she asked. As she talked, she looked almost puppet like. Her mouth moved straight up and down and her face never changed. It was expressionless.
“Are you ok?” I asked. I wasn’t sure about her. “What do you mean?” she asked, as she blinked.
Again, she blinked and her face didn’t change. It stayed stiff and plain. Her skin was extremely pale. As pale as the trimming on her habit. I felt sick. I decided I’d just go home before anything else happens.
“Uh.. I’m going to go now,” I said while walking towards the door.
The nun started moving. I could tell she wasn’t walking. It was like she was… bouncing, kind of. She stayed in the shadows though, only showing her upper half.
“I don’t trust you,” I said.
The nun started laughing. She had a high pitched girl laugh that echoed. Half way through her laugh, it started getting deeper. I knew it was Stitch now. But where was he?
“I see I can’t fool you,” his booming dark voice echoed. “Would you like to see my latest toy?” As he said that, the nun started bouncing towards the candles. I walked backwards as she got closer to the podium. My back was almost against the door.
She got in the light of the candle. I was horrified. Stitch was standing right behind her, and he also was wearing a habit. Not only was he wearing a habit, but he also had a crown of thorns on his head. It looked like his arm was around her.
“This is one of my favorites,” he said while laughing.
He started humming. I saw what was going on. He started spinning around with the nun. He wasn’t holding onto her at all. He had his left arm in her back. A big bloody hole in her back. His elbow was bent, as if his forearm and hand was in her head. He made her bounce, like a child would make a Barbie doll bounce when they would pretend the Barbie was walking. As she bounced around walking around the stage, her arms flailed in all directions. Stitch repeatedly opened her mouth and closed it. I could hear her teeth slamming shut even in the back where I was. It made my mouth hurt. He made her blink a couple of times, then he picked her up with both hands and slammed her on the ground.
“She was fun. But I’m done with her now,” he said. “I need a new thing to play with.”
He finished his sentence and I started looking around for a way out. I looked towards the statue of Jesus at the front of the room. Something about the statue was different than minutes before. I could see something in the chest. I squinted my eyes and got a little bit closer. I saw hands coming out of the hole in his chest. They were facing opposite directions. I started to get closer and with each step, I could hear someone singing some sort of religious song. It wasn't in English though so I had no idea what they were saying. I started going up the steps towards the statue. I froze in terror at what I saw next.
The hands started pulling apart the chest of the statue and a head popped out. It was RepetitiveRoutine. I recognized his hair and his face from my dream. He didn't say anything. He just crawled out of the statue and fell to the ground on what was left of his legs. He landed right on his femur and the cracking and snapping sound made me want to rip my ears off. He started pointing behind me. I didn't want to turn my back on him, but I couldn't help it. I turned around and saw Stitch standing right in front of a big stained glass window.
He ripped off his habit and started to rub his chest. He rubbed from his chest, around the burned cross on his chest up his neck and onto his face. He started humming again. And as he hummed, the main door opened again. I turned around as fast as I could to run out. I took 2 steps and then I heard bubbling. I looked up and saw the holy water was boiling. I didn’t know what to do. I turned back around and saw Stitch running towards me, full speed and yelling like a mad man.
I blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that.
When I woke up, I was in FBI custody. I was lying on a bed in the infirmary of the prison downtown. I jerked up and rubbed my face to wake myself up.
“How long have I been out?” I asked the woman on the other side of the room.
“Just a few hours. It’s 11 o’ clock in the morning. Some FBI people want to talk to you when you feel up to it,” she said. I put my feet on the ground and stretched before standing up.
“Where do they want to see me?” I asked. She pointed out the door.
“Someone’s been waiting for you outside,” she said. I walked out the door into the familiar plain hallway.
On a wooden bench on the wall, there was the man who interrogated me the first time. He gestured for me to follow when he stood up. We walked down the hall and walked into the same room we’d been in before. I sat down at the table again and waiting for something to happen. The man left the room and came back with a folder. He sat down across from me.
“Okay, first things first. We know you stole the journal in your file. But that’s not the real issue here. You’re being charged with vandalism,” he said. “What?!” I said loudly. I nearly burst from the chair I was sitting in. “What do you think I vandalized?” The answer was obvious but I couldn’t be sure. They were pinning all kinds of crap on me.
“The church,” the man said. I just shook my head at him. “I didn’t do anything. Just watch the tapes. It’s a mega church, they probably have cameras everywhere,” I said.
The man looked stunned. Apparently I was better at his job than he was. How hard is it to look at tapes before trying to convict someone of something?
“Fine,” the man said. “We’ll call you back in when we prove you did it.” I thanked him and stood up.
I walked out of the building and the sun burned my eyes. It was sunny for once. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe my visit to the church did some good. I found my car outside. They must’ve towed it here after they found me. I got into my car and drove back to my apartment. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but the sun made me hopeful.

update on FBI, John and my charges

Hello everybody. This is Ryan. I just wanted to update you on a few things. Well... I guess there isn't much to update.
I haven't heard anything back from the FBI involving my charges of vandalism. I just hope they get the security tape from the camera that watches the main entrance to the church. They will be able to see the boiling holy water and other things that happened that even they won’t be able to explain. They'd have no choice but to drop the charges... at least I hope.
Also, John and I haven't been talking. Or even working together. He hasn't called or texted or emailed since that day. I don't even know what happened to him considering I blacked out and woke up in the prison.
Oh and that's another thing. I blacked out right as Stitch started running towards me dragging RepetitiveRoutine behind him... it wasn't a dream. It was real. I'm being charged with vandalism for it. But that's not what's confusing. What is confusing is why did Stitch not just kill me and end this? I don't understand. He had me cornered and alone. Does he like the attention? That's possible, I guess.
I still can't get all the images of what we saw that day out of my head. That bastard fed the horse to the other two horses... just left the horses hooves there on the ground along with his tail and mane. We found Anna’s head. Stitch impersonated Jesus while wearing a crown of thorns and a habit. I almost want to pass this case onto another Detective but I can't do that with good conscience. I’m not even allowed to, considering now that Anna’s gone, I’m supposed to be the best detective here… We're so close though. I know it.
This will all be over soon. I promise, reddit. You won't have to be scared any longer very soon.
Assorted Classics / A Rose For Emily by William Faulkner
« Last post by Slimebeast on March 08, 2019, 05:28:41 AM »

WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years.

It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.

Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.

When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.

They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.

They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.

She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.

Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."

"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"

"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"

"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."

"But, Miss Emily--"

"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."


So SHE vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell.

That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed would marry her --had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then--going in and out with a market basket.

"Just as if a man--any man--could keep a kitchen properly, "the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.

A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.

"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.

"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law? "

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."

The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met--three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation.

"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't. .."

"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"

So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away.

That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized.

When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.

The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly.

We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.


SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.

The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.

At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige- -
without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.

And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."

She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.

"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.

"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"

"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."

The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"

"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"

"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"

"I want arsenic."

The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."

Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats."


So THE NEXT day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club--that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.

Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's people were Episcopal-- to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.

So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been.

So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.

And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die.

When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man.

From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.

Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.

Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows--she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house--like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation--dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse.

And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro

He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.

She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.


THE NEGRO met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again.

The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men --some in their brushed Confederate uniforms--on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.

Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.

The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks.

The man himself lay in the bed.

For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.

Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.
Creepypasta / Medical Practice by TheWizardOfTheWoods - CC-BY-SA License
« Last post by Slimebeast on March 08, 2019, 05:24:38 AM »

"Oh, here they come." squawked Denise as the pack of lab coats rounded the corner. Phoebe looked on from the nurses station, intrigued. It was always fun watching the up-and-coming doctors at work, learning and developing their skills. The flock was rather large this time around and, from what she had overheard, brimming with talent. Phoebe set her chin to rest in the palm of her hand, fingertips against her left temple amidst a thicket of brown curls. A smirk cracked across her face.


The swarm of interns rushed around the bay, taking note of the room as a whole. The tile floors were still polished to a mirror shine from the night before. The sterile smell of the hospital was particularly strong here. Around them, there was an open area lined with beds, some of which were occupied with patients of various ages and with various conditions. Blue curtains were positioned such that each bed could be isolated behind them, though most were left open. The group approached the bed of an older man with thinning gray hair and a more-than-obvious beer gut. Leading the pack was Doctor Marie Harrier, who boasted a double PhD at the age of 23.

"Mr. Mason has been experiencing stomach troubles and occasional blood in his stool. What diagnosis would you put forth, based on his prior medical history?" Harrier gave a quick glance into the crowd. "Bevins?"

"U-uh, my first guess would be Crohn's disease, ma'am."

"And I would be inclined to agree with you, but we do not simply guess here. Take note: Show confidence in your answers to questions of this nature, even if you do not believe them wholeheartedly. Having a straight answer to a patient is far better than beating around the bush because you aren't sure." Each member of the group scribbled onto the pages held by their clipboards. "Now, what sort of treatment would you recommend, Neuberry?"

Hanson perked up from his clipboard. "Normally, I'd say Azathioprine, but given his stomach troubles, he may be more responsive to an anti-inflammatory regimen to begin with."

"He's tryin' to play it safe." Denise chattered in a hushed tone from behind Phoebe. "That's one way to go, but it's less effective. He should have just gone with the immune suppressors."

"Yeah, but Mr. Mason is gettin' up there in years, and immune suppressors may be too much for him." Phoebe offered in response.

"That is a possible treatment plan," Harrier responded, "but there is a good chance that it won't have the desired effect. Patients expect results, and as a doctor it will be your job to provide them."

"Yes, ma'am." Hanson's expression dropped to a downcast state for a split second, before snapping back to attention. The group hurried onward to the next patient in line.

"See. I told you." Denise gave a light slap to Phoebe's arm.

"You say that like I was the one in that crowd putting my career on the line." Phoebe retorted with a vindictive smile. "It's not my problem if they get it wrong, as long as I'm not involved in the fallout."

But her thoughts said otherwise. Phoebe was intrigued by the rounds process, by watching doctors hurry and scurry around. She knew fully well that most of what the doctors did was, in fact, the work of the nursing staff. Still, it was interesting to see their minds at work. Each one had a different style, a different way of talking to patients, of forming ideas, of dealing with decisions. All of that was on display for her and her cohort 24/7, and yet it never seemed to get old. It wasn't the people that intrigued her so much, but rather the clockwork within their heads.

But, alas, the flock had departed, and it was back to work as usual. An uneventful day followed the brief training session, a rarity for Phoebe. The day was almost dull with how little was going on. A few pillows fluffed, pills delivered, and bedpans exchanged, but nothing severe: no codes, no dire admittances, no flat-lines. This was the sort of day that left Phoebe sluggish; not drained or exhausted, but slowed and shambling, moving only to accomplish a task and proceed to the next.

When midday came and it was time for a break, Phoebe found that she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Stumbling her way into the cafeteria, she was surprised to find that Denise was nowhere in sight. Confusion crossed through her mind, but was eased by virtue of memory as Phoebe recalled an impromptu change in personnel around this time that was discussed the day prior.

Her worries put to rest, Phoebe now had the conundrum of where to sit. Normally, it would be with Denise, as they were on the same shift, but her replacement was Garret, a boorish, overconfident man who had made it a point to be obnoxiously forward with Phoebe at every opportunity. This, of course, was not an exercise that she wished to entertain, and so was at a loss for an alternative.

The room was filled nearly to capacity, as it seemed that the intern conglomeration had all been dismissed at once. Most of the tables were completely taken up, with only sparse occupation of other seats. Phoebe's eye caught one of the interns sitting in solitude, despite the table being large enough to accommodate up to four. He seemed lost in thought, and downtrodden in expression. She decided to introduce herself, and provide a little encouragement.

"Hey there." she said, her tray clacking quietly against the table. She swiveled her chair into place, getting a good look at the man. His hair was layered with black and brown, and despite being in fair order, Phoebe guessed that it was only because of the gel that locked it in place. The rest of his appearance, though in good shape in general, was at this point in time disheveled, radiating exhaustion. Phoebe could tell there were dark rings beginning to form around his eyes from lack of sleep. Still, he clearly valued the opportunity; he was freshly shaven, and a hint of cologne met her nose.

He looked up, seemingly out of his own thoughts, as she sat down. Lifting his head, he was surprised to see anyone choosing to sit with him. "O-oh, hi. Sorry, it's just been a long day, and I'm a bit out of it, and, uh..." he stumbled over his own words. Phoebe let out a small laugh, mildly amused by the awkward response she had forced.

"Don't worry about it. It's pretty common for the interns to wind up like that. It's something you learn to live with, or find a way around. One of the two." She chuckled again. "I'm Phoebe, one of the nurses here." she said as she stretched out a hand.

He took it carefully, replying "Hanson. Neuberry." Her Bostonian accent was clearly evident. He surmised that she was probably born and raised in Massachusetts.

"Garrigs." she offered in return, before clarifying, "My last name."

"A pleasure." he offered politely, though the strain in his voice was still apparent.

"Weren't you the one that was supposed to give a treatment for Mr. Mason?"

"Who?" Hanson gave a momentary puzzled look, but remembered. "Oh, the Crohn's patient. Yeah, I didn't really get full marks for that one." he said, embarrassed and absentmindedly running his fingers though his hair.

"Yeah, I noticed. But, if it's any consolation, I thought it was a good call to make."

"Yeah?" he said, unconvinced.

"Mmhmm. Some of the doctors here can be really aggressive with their treatments. I get that they want to cure the patient and get 'em out of here, but sometimes there's got to be a limit."

"So, you think an approach like that would do this place some good?"

"Oh yeah. You ask me, we need more people like that."

"Well, how flattering." Hanson retorted in a playfully mocking tone.

There was a moment of silence between the two, each understanding that they had struck a chord with one another.

"So, what are you in for?" Phoebe inquired.

"Huh? In for?" Hanson was once again perplexed.

Phoebe gave a small chuckle. "I mean what sorta field are you going into? What's your specialty gonna be?"

"Oh. Uh, hehe..." Hanson's voice trailed off at that.

"You have picked a specialty, haven't you?"

"Y-yeah, I have. It's just.." Hanson cut off once again.

"Just, what?" Phoebe pressed for more information. Her curiosity was growing as he not-so-tactfully evaded her question.

Hanson took a breath, and sighed deeply. "Surgeon." Phoebe's expression changed, her eyebrows raised as high as she could press them. "I know," Hanson continued, "no chance in hell, right?"

"N-no, no, it's not that. I'm just surprised is all." She tried desperately to backpedal and save face. "I mean, surgery is a major role. It's not something you can just go and do. Surely you know that."

"So, you're saying I can't do it."

"No. Th-that's not what I meant." Phoebe struggled with her words. Her cheeks reddened as she realized how deep a hole she was digging herself into. She closed her eyes and collected her thoughts for a brief moment, before speaking up again. "All I'm sayin' is that if you're gonna go that route, you gotta make sure you're ready."

Hanson did his best to smile through the comment, backhanded as he felt it was. "Yeah. I get it."

Phoebe let out a small sigh of relief. "Good."

"So, how do I know if I'm good enough?"

The question caught her off guard. She hadn't really interacted much with the interns before, and so had never been asked to evaluate their performance, much less on skills she hadn't seen them perform.

"W-well, I guess it all comes down to execution. Can you do the job and keep the patient alive? I'd say that's a good place to start."

"Yeah, I suppose. But that's only causing another problem. We're obviously not permitted to operate on live patients so early into it. How the hell are we supposed to learn anything like that?"

Phoebe glanced around, as though worried that she'd be overheard.

"I think they have some mock-ups somewhere around here that you're supposed to practice on." she said, unsure of whether it was her place to give out that sort of information.

"Oh yeah?" Hanson's head perked up slightly, and he seemed more alert. "Whereabouts?"

"I'm honestly not sure. I guess they'd be near the operating room. Maybe Dr. Harrier would be willing to show you, if you asked."

"Heh. That may not be a bad idea." He stood from the table, tray in hand. Most of the food remained uneaten on it. "Thanks."

"Ooh, are you headed out? Mind if I snag your fries?"

Hanson chuckled at the urgency with which she asked the question. "Sure thing." he said with a smile, setting the small, cardboard carton down onto her tray. "I'll see you around."

"Mmm, you too." Phoebe replied through a mouth full of sliced spuds.

Despite her scatterbrained appearance in that moment, however, her mind was racing to figure him out. How was someone like that going to turn himself into a surgeon? It'd happened before, no doubt, but he just didn't seem very confident in his abilities. She found herself looking forward to what he would become.


Months went by, and the cycle of interns shifted. A new batch was brought in, and the previous flock was set to their own course. Phoebe looked on with great interest as the fresh minds went to work on their rounds.

"So, you got a favorite yet?" Denise crooned into her ear.

Phoebe recoiled slightly, a slight sense of violation sending a shiver down her spine. The feeling passed though, and despite being mildly discomforted by her companion, Phoebe replied, "They all just got here. Kinda hard to pick a favorite out of a nameless swarm of lab coats."

"I'm not talking about them." Denise said through a giggle. "I'm talking about the last set. They've all set out to be full-fledged doctors, saving lives..." She clasped her hands together and turned her head upward in feigned wanderlust. "Surely, by now you've found at least one you like." she said, turning to Phoebe and out of her mock performance.

"Well, yeah, a few. I feel like most of 'em just went along with Harrier, though. They're all too aggressive with treatment, and that's gonna put a lotta strain on a lotta people, includin' us." Phoebe spoke as she moved, organizing a stack of charts that she had been neglecting.

"Well, I happen to know that there's at least one that you're 'interested' in." Denise nudged Phoebe's side, a clear hint of her meaning.

"W-what? What are you talkin' about." Phoebe looked around frantically, her cheeks turning a deep shade of red.

"Hah! You can't even hide it. I knew it."

"Yeah, say it louder, won't ya." Phoebe whispered through grit teeth. "I think some people in China didn't hear you."

"Oh come on. You know I'm just teasing."

"Yeah, well knock it off."

"So, who is the lucky guy?" Denise asked, her chin resting upon her interlaced fingers.

"I thought you knew all about him already." Phoebe retorted in a somewhat mocking tone.

"Oh, no, not at all. I've seen you talkin' with someone recently, but I got no clue who he is. I was just tryin' to get a reaction outta ya."

"Pfft. Some friend you are."

"Come on, seriously. I wanna know."

"You always wanna know." Phoebe raised her voice, genuinely aggravated with Denise's prodding. "Maybe I just want to keep this to myself for now, at least until I'm sure this is something I actually want."

"Fine." Denise put her hands up in defense. "Fair's fair. I'm mostly just happy you're puttin' yourself out there. It's about damn time."

"Watch your language, ladies. You're on the clock." A stern voice arose from behind Phoebe. Turning to investigate, the pair watched as Dr. Harrier strode quickly around the corner.

"Sorry, Doctor." Denise offered in response. Harrier's pace didn't slow, and seconds later, she was back out of sight.

"Well, in any case, you'll probably get to know him a whole lot better soon. We're really hittin' things off. I'm just waitin' for him to ask me somewhere."

"You don't think that's a little archaic?" Denise asked, skeptical.

"I think it's romantic, and nice." Phoebe retorted, partly in jest.

"Well, just don't wait too long. He might give up if you don't seem interested."

"I don't think I've gotta worry about that." Phoebe replied as a loud tone alerted her to a request for her help. She jogged around the desk before heading down the hall, toward the source of the page.

After brief preparation, Phoebe entered the operating room to find the chief of surgery, Dr. Barlow, and the newly-christened Dr. Neuberry. The patient was an elderly woman, likely in her mid-70's. Her abdominal region was exposed to the room, the rest of her covered with a blue blanket. Bright lights hung from swivels in the ceiling, allowing for each to be adjusted. Surgical instruments were laid out carefully on a rolling metal tray-table. The door clattered closed behind Phoebe as she entered, gloved hands held in such a way as to not contaminate them.

"What have we got?" she asked, her voice muffled slightly by the mask.

"Foreign object in the stomach." The surgeon spoke with a deep baritone, almost stereotypical for his African-American heritage. "It's rather large, and the procedure should be relatively simple. As such, I'm allowing Dr. Neuberry to lead on this one. You and I are here to make sure everything goes smoothly." Dr. Barlow then turned to Hanson. "You may proceed."

"Alright." Hanson said, stretching his hands inside the latex gloves. "DuraPrep." Barlow set a short, sponge-tipped wand/syringe into his outstretched hand. Writing on the handle portion of the wand gave instructions for use, but Hanson went straight to work applying the sterilization liquid to the patient's abdomen. As he went, an amber solution liberally coated the work area.

"Scalpel." Hanson requested, handing the wand back to Barlow.

"Which one, Dr. Neuberry?" Barlow asked, clearly testing Hanson on his basic knowledge.

"A-ah, 10." Hanson considered his options again. "N-no, wait, 20."

"Are you sure?" Barlow's tone was both scolding and questioning at once.

"Y-yes." Hanson replied, uncertain and unnerved.

Barlow retrieved the requested blade and set it gingerly in Hanson's hand. "Thank you." Hanson said quickly. Phoebe could sense that something was off. Hanson's movements had become a bit more jittery, a bit more twitchy. These traits were slight, but present nonetheless. She knew what was going to come next.

Sure enough, as Hanson lowered the knife-point to the woman's abdomen, his hands began to shake ever-so-slightly. He realized it immediately, and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. To no avail, it seemed, and the tremors grew more intense. Soon both his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the delicate handle of the lancet.

"Is something wrong, Doctor?" said Barlow, more telling than asking.

"N-no, no, I'm fine." Hanson replied, but the shaking persisted.

Barlow sighed beneath his mask. "Why don't you step out. I can handle this from here."

"N-no, I want to do this." he almost shouted in response. However, as he turned to face Dr. Barlow, his fingers parted just enough for the scalpel to slip free. The tiny metal blade clinked and clattered loudly on the tile below.

"That's enough." Barlow tried to sound calm and reassuring, but his tone came across as stern. "Clearly, you are not in suitable shape to be performing surgery at this time. Please, step out of the OR."

Hanson fumed, but didn't argue. He turned to leave in a huff, throwing the doors open wide. As they clattered back into place, Phoebe looked to Dr. Barlow.

"You may be dismissed as well, miss Garrigs. I only paged you so I could have a little help overseeing his first attempt. Obviously, that's no longer the case." Barlow gestured to the slowly-rocking double doors, illustrating his point.

Phoebe also did not argue. Her concerns lay elsewhere. She, too, exited the operating room, carefully opening and closing the door so as not to disturb Barlow further. Once in the prep room, she found Hanson standing over a sink, hair dripping with water. His hands, though pressed to the rim of the sink, were still barely quivering.

"Damn it." Hanson growled through his teeth.

"Hey, don't worry about it. Nerves are a tough thing to overcome."

"Don't give me that. I should be able to do this by now. I'm so far behind. Why can't I just get it?" He was practically shouting at this point, his head now pressed against the mirror above the basin.

"Alright, alright. Calm down. It's not as big a deal as you're makin' it out to be." Phoebe put a hand on Hanson's shoulder. "All it'll take is some more practice with the dummies."

"I do practice. All the time; every free moment, I spend here trying to improve."

"That's great, but all this does is make you better at surgery. It doesn't make you a better surgeon." Phoebe turned him to look at her, and offered a small smile. She knew the best thing to do was to be patient with him. He would come around, she was sure of it. "How's about we clear that head o' yours?"

"Yeah," he retorted, still clearly upset. "how do you plan on doing that?"

"By askin' you where you're takin' me tonight." she said. Hands behind her back, she rocked slowly left and right on one foot.

"Huh? What are you..." Hanson cut himself off, understanding what she was asking of him. "Ahh, alright. I suppose that'll work." he said, cracking a smile. "How about Vennetti's, a few blocks from here?"

"Ooh, I haven't been there in a couple years." Phoebe tittered, excited by what her newly-hooked date had in store for her. Funnily, Hanson was feeling much the same curiosity for what she had planned.

Dinner Date

The atmosphere of the restaurant was a welcome change compared to the constant bustle and ambient whine of the hospital. Here, with the lights dimmed, the booths well padded, and uniforms exchanged for more formal attire, Hanson and Phoebe felt relaxed. In truth, this was the most relieved either had felt for months, perhaps years, even with the sense of demand for small talk and polite gestures. In truth, Phoebe thought much of that was outdated, a remnant of the past that only served to complicate the present. But Hanson, unaware of her thoughts, had gone all out and was carefully considering his every word and movement, afraid of doing the wrong thing.

The waitress returned with two large plates of Italian cuisine. Placed before Phoebe, the first was piled high with a generous helping of spaghetti and meatballs. The aroma was a bit too much, and she started in on the meal before Hanson could be given his, a chicken and tortellini dish drenched with Alfredo sauce.

"Wow, you must be really hungry." Hanson remarked, hooking a noodle with his fork.

"Mmhmm." Phoebe swallowed her mouthful of pasta. "Are you kiddin' me? This place is great, and I haven't eaten all day."

"You shouldn't do that you know. It's bad for your health." Hanson joked, causing both of them to chuckle through their food. "But seriously, do you really like spaghetti that much?"

"Meh. I suppose so. I mean, it's pretty good as spaghetti goes, but I guess I don't like it any more than other types of noodles."

"That's fair. It is a classic." Hanson held up one of his tortellini. "I can't get enough of these things. They're like a miniature meal all on their own."

Phoebe giggled in response. "Yeah, I know what ya mean. Those are probably my favorite types o' noodles. Those and raviolis, pretty much for the same reason."

"So, why'd you get spaghetti, then?" Hanson tactfully countered, a smug grin on his face as he leaned in.

"Because," Phoebe mockingly retorted, an equally smug smile adorning her face, "in addition to classic pasta dishes, I also like classic movies."

Hanson had to take a minute to try to correlate what he just heard. "I don't get what you mean."

"Ah, come on. Ya never seen 'Lady an' the Tramp'?"

Hanson gave a small laugh at this. "Ah, now I see. That was a really good movie. And, you're right, the spaghetti scene is classic."

"Would you like to try a bite?" Phoebe offered her plate, twirling some noodles around on her fork.

"Sure. Never had it from here." Hanson reached across the table with his own fork, spooling some pasta for himself before carrying it over his own plate and carefully maneuvering it into his mouth. Phoebe was a bit underwhelmed that her date hadn't picked up on the hint, but she decided to let it go.

"So, how are things goin' for ya around the hospital. Gettin' taught by the chief o' surgery is a pretty big honor, don't ya think?"

Hanson's face switched from delight at the taste of the pasta to one of bittersweet melancholy. "Yeah, it's a huge honor to embarrass myself in front of him."

"Hey now, you didn't embarrass yourself." Phoebe offered consoling words, but they seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"I can't think of anything else to call that. I locked up, terrified, and damn near dropped a scalpel into a patient. It's pathetic. I should be better than that by now." Hanson's voice had lowered, as though he were trying to restrain a shout, instead reducing it to a mere rumble. His hands had curled into half-fists without his knowledge. Phoebe, however, had taken note, and reached her own hands out to clasp his.

"You think you're the first to do that? I'll be Dr. Barlow has seen all sorts o' embarrassing stuff from residents, way worse than that. Maybe you should ask him. He might be able ta tell you a story or two."

Hanson was still disgruntled, but he couldn't really argue with that. She was probably right, but it didn't make him feel much better. Nonetheless, he appreciated the gesture, and requited it by turning to look her in the eyes.

"Even if that's true, it still doesn't make me any better."

"Well, you just gotta practice more."

"I already told you, I do practice. All the time." Hanson was getting exasperated with repeating himself.

"That's not what I mean." Phoebe took a moment to think of how best to explain. "When you're workin' on one o' the dummies, what are ya' thinkin' about?"

"Huh? What do you mean? I'm thinking about the work, obviously. About making sure I don't mess up."

"You're thinkin' about cuttin' the plastic veins, holding open the rubber skin with your tools, taking out bags of water that represent organs." Hanson was starting to catch on. "That stuff might make you good at the technical side of things, but it don't prepare you for the real deal."

"Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean." Hanson said, his mood lightening. "So, I just need to get to the point where it feels like I'm working on real, living people, so it won't freak me out when I actually do."

"Right! It's all about the mindset. If you go in like you're a real surgeon workin' on a real patient, you'll get better at workin' that way."

"That makes a lot of sense. You're right, I should definitely do that from now on." Hanson gave a big smile to his new muse. "What say I make you a deal?"

"Well," she said, hands crossed with her chin resting upon them, "what sort of deal are we talkin' about?"

Hanson turned toward a member of the staff. "Excuse me, waitress."

The woman approached the table. "What would you like?" Hanson held up his menu, pointing to an item on it. Phoebe was intrigued. Clearly, he had something in mind, and making her wait was only making it more enticing to hear.

"Well, what is it?" she asked as the waitress departed.

"I've got a lot on my plate at work, and it's not going very well, but you have inspired me." he replied, half-mockingly. "You saw how I was today. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't professional. Would you say I'm ready to be a surgeon like that?"

"I-I suppose not," Phoebe tried to be tactful in her reply, "but you..."

"Ah ah ah." he quickly cut her off, finger held aloft. "Don't beat me to the punch line. Here's what I propose."

The waitress returned with two slender glasses and a bottle the shade of forest green. The cork of the bottle was sealed in place with red wax, mostly for decorative purposes as it was quickly removed. Phoebe couldn't quite make out the vintage. Hanson took the bottle and glasses, thanking the waitress before she left. Uncorking it, he continued.

"In, let's say, two weeks, I will make myself into a proper surgeon. I'll be adept enough to do the job, and I'll be confident and prepared enough to see it through without so much as a shiver." He looked up at her, away from the glass he had just filled with the red liquid.

"If, in two weeks, I am able to do that," he proceeded, now starting to fill her glass, "I would like your permission to take you home, to celebrate."

Phoebe was in shock, both at how she felt about the surprise he had called for, and at what he was asking her to agree to. Pictured scenarios rushed through her head at dizzying speed, which only served to make her more anxious. Still, she found that she wanted much the same for him as he wanted for himself. She wanted him to succeed, and she wanted a relationship with him. If he could actually do what he said, it would serve to accomplish both, and even if he failed it wouldn't have to be the end. She saw no real downside, besides her currently-present bashfulness.

"A-alright." she said, claiming her glass. "Sounds like a deal."

He reached out with his own glass, and they toasted to their new wager. Both of them were excited by the prospect, and eager to see what the future held.


The days went by in a blur. All Phoebe could think about was that promise, that bet that she had made. Was she actually willing to go through with that? Maybe, maybe not, but she gave her word. "That should count for something." she assured herself. She made the call then, so what reason did she have to distrust it now?

Perhaps she was on edge because Hanson was being so distant with her. They didn't go out again during those fourteen days. In fact, though they saw each other in passing nearly every day, they rarely spoke. He seemed more on edge every time she saw him, and it was only getting worse. She started questioning what she may have done for him to behave that way, but when she confronted him about it, he assured her that it wasn't to do with her. He was just stressed out from preparing, and things were getting tougher than he anticipated.

When the day finally came, she made sure to personally request to have a viewable operating room. Dr. Barlow was surprised that she cared, but explained that Hanson had already made the same request some days prior. This put Phoebe at ease; after all, why would he do this if he wasn't still determined to make good on his bet? At the same time, though, she was growing more anxious.

She caught him in the prep room before the procedure. He heard her walk in, and turned to look as he washed his hands and arms.

"Come to cheer me on? We've got a whole viewing room for that." He gestured awkwardly to the ceiling. He seemed split, at once on edge and calm. The duality was a strange sight. Clearly, he was feeling the pressure, but he was also versed in handling it by this point. Phoebe took this as a sign of progress.

"Just making sure you're ready for this." Phoebe knew not to interrupt his preparations, and instead stood with her hands together at her waist. A nervous tic showed through as her fingers wrapped around one another.

"I'm ready. No doubt." He finished rinsing his hands and held them aloft as he made his way to the gloves. "I gave myself a challenge. Excision of a tumor resting on the heart. You'll see. I'm gonna kill it in there."

"I hope ya don't mean that literally." Phoebe joked. Hanson just kept going, though, sheathing his most valuable tools in latex. His face still showed the same determined expression, but beyond it, Phoebe could spot that he was exhausted and fearful as well.

Hanson hooked the ends of the surgical mask around his ears and turned to Phoebe. "You should head up. It's showtime." With that, he pressed his back to the swinging door, and disappeared into the operating room.

Phoebe wasn't sure of what just happened. They hadn't talked for a while, but he seemed so different. Before, he was bumbling and self-critical, but he was also earnest, kind, and genuine. The man she had just spoken with showed anxiety and over-tiredness and fear, masked by a forced calmness. It was as though he was a completely different person.

She made her way up to the observation room. Most of the prep work for the operation itself had been taken care of beforehand, and it wasn't long before it was underway. Hanson requested some music to play in the room during the procedure. Some mid-tempo R&B song that Phoebe had never heard before. She didn't know that he liked that kind of music, and while she didn't particularly dislike it, she found it a bit distasteful.

Soon after, he set to work. "Scalpel, 22." Dr. Barlow passed the nearly-round blade to Hanson. He moved surprisingly quickly, each of his cuts precise and clean. It would seem that his confidence in his choice was well founded, and Phoebe was stunned with how much progress he had made. If she didn't know better, she'd say he had been a surgeon for years. As bloody as the scene was, it was minimal compared to what she expected.

Once inside, he held back his lancet-wielding hand. "Number 15C." Barlow again retrieved the desired blade, trading it for the bloody knife. Instead of cracking the rib cage, Hanson instead worked around it. Phoebe was sure this would be devastating, as doing so is nearly impossible. However, Hanson made it work, mostly due to the location of the tumor, being on the offset portion of the heart. This put it out of the way of the breastbone, and thus possible to excise without moving the ribs.

Hanson's hand was perfectly steady, no hint of the hesitation or fear the was all too present just moments before. With tiny motions and careful cuts, he meticulously liberated the edges of the tumor from the heart wall. Slowly, but surely, the body of the tumor was sliced away and removed. Phoebe was in awe. Clearly, he was dedicated, and a capable learner. He had adapted to the strain, and now was one of the most competent surgeons she had ever seen.

Two hours later, the operation was over. The patient was wheeled to a clean room to recover, and Phoebe thought she could see him chuckling to himself. He seemed both relieved and distraught, but she couldn't deny what he had just done. She left the room, descending the staircase as fast as she could to meet up with him.

"A deal's a deal, eh. I told you I'd do it." Hanson said, out of breath, as she entered the room, pulling his mask away and discarding it along with his gloves. He started in on washing his hands, a precaution against infection.

"Sure, yeah, a deal's a deal. Now, tell me how you did that." Phoebe rushed through her words, still baffled by the spectacle.

Hanson held a hand up to her. "Oh no no no. That wasn't part of the bargain."

"Oh don't give me that. That was incredible. I've seen surgeons that have been in the game for years struggle with that sorta thing. A novice like you, that patient shoulda been dead."

"Hey, no need to insult me. I'm not a novice anymore. I told you, I practiced with those stupid mannequins every single day for hours on end. I got really, really good at that part of it."

"Sure, but when I last saw you operate, you were so terrified that you couldn't even hold a scalpel. What happened?"

"I got over it." he turned to look her in the eye. He gave her a look that seemed to be proud, but there was something else that she couldn't pinpoint. Something about it put her on edge. She didn't ask anything further, only requesting his address so she could get there later. He gladly provided it. With that, the conversation ended. Phoebe shuffled away, perturbed. A cold sensation pervaded her spine. What did I get myself into?


As she pulled into the driveway, Phoebe couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. The cobbled path that her car now sat upon was only an introductory piece. It led the way to the grandiosity that was Hanson's home. Three stories tall, Phoebe was sure it had to contain at least thirty rooms. Its features were Victorian in appearance, though modern amenities like a steel-door, two car garage were present as well.

Phoebe stepped out into the cold night air, a light jacket wrapped around her shoulders. She decided to go with something somewhat formal: a dress shirt, skirt, and low heels. A pair of opal earrings that she was sure were fake complemented the thin pearl necklace that she paid good money to ensure was real. She made her way to the door, her footsteps echoing off of the cobblestones. As she reached the steps in front of the entryway, she took note of the knocker, a large brass lion head. She opted to use the doorbell instead, though found that it, too, was indicative of an older era. The tone was very deep, such that it would not have been out of place in the Elizabeth Tower.

Hanson answered the door proudly, a glass of wine in hand. He wore black duo of dress shirt and pants, with socks to match. His shirt was untucked, and the top button undone. Phoebe guessed that he had a pair of shoes to match somewhere in the house.

"Perfect timing. I was about to start in." Hanson turned and beckoned her to come inside. She didn't like the way she felt around the place, but entered anyway to get out of the chill.

Inside, she was greeted by a large parlor room, opulent in its design. A massive mosaic made up the polished floor, and support pillars rimmed with what appeared to be gold were openly displayed. Several cushioned chairs were placed sparsely to the left and right of the doorway, small tables just to the sides accentuating them. They seemed inviting, almost hoping that someone would sit in them and enjoy a good book with a cup of tea. However, with no bookshelves in sight, they seemed to be more decorative than anything.

Ahead, a massive staircase covered tightly in a long carpet led to a balconied second floor. Doors lined the walls above, and a few more were placed on the ground floor. One doorway to the right had no door, and led to what seemed to be a dining room. The long table within was covered with a white lace tablecloth, and Phoebe spotted the edge of a silver candlestick, complete with tapered candle ready to be lit. Above, as with the parlor she was in, the light of a crystal chandelier could be seen.

"Well? Whadyathink?" Hanson gestured toward the room as a whole, a hopeful smile on his face.

"It's not what I expected, that's for sure." she replied, taking in another sweep of the place. "I like the decor, but it seems a bit sparse, I guess."

"Hehe, yeah, I suppose so." Hanson absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. "I never really liked it either. Too open. Great for running around as a kid, but not so much for living here as an adult."

Phoebe could understand what he meant. Something about the way he said it, though, brought back the same, uncomfortable feeling as before. He hadn't said anything bad, but she still felt unease.

Pushing her irrational discomfort out of mind, she asked "So, which way are we headed?"

Hanson perked up, remembering the reason she was here. "O-oh, this way. Down to one of the basement levels. It's the most comfortable place in the house. I spend most nights down there anymore." He held his glass aloft. "It's where I keep this, after all, hehe."

Phoebe was hardly impressed, but followed nonetheless. As they walked, she tried to rationalize how he could be so different now. He used to be really nice and sweet, but now he's just really nervous. Something must have happened during the week they were apart that made him this way. But what could do that to a person?

He led her to a short, descending stairway that led to a fully furnished recreation room. It was warmer than she expected it to be, considering it was in the basement. The white carpet was soft beneath her feet. A pool table complete with a ready rack and cues stood as the central piece. Beyond that, further from the door, four large, brown reclining chairs stood before a massive flat-screen television. Two doors stood on the same wall as the entryway, closer to the chairs. A rack of wine bottles stood between them, and it seemed that Hanson had become clumsy once or twice with them as small stains were noticeable in front of the rack and adjacent doors. Between this and the entryway, Phoebe had to wonder where all this money came from. His parents, most likely.

"Have a seat. I'll prepare a glass for you."

"Th-that's fine. I'm not really thirsty." Phoebe's nose caught a familiar, yet faint scent.

"Hmm. Suit yourself. Really do have a seat though. Those are the best in the house."

Phoebe complied, but found it hard to relax in the warmth of the room, even as the magnificent leather chair gently cradled her. Her thoughts were focused elsewhere, on the smell that underlied the room. She knew she had smelled it before, somewhere recent.

"What's that stink?"

"Hm? What stink?"

"What, you don't smell that? It's..."

Hanson cut her off. "I don't smell anything." He feigned truthfulness, but the shift in his eyes and sitting position told a different story.

"Why are you getting so nervous?"

"I'm not nervous." But it was clear that that was a lie. He spoke in more of a whimper than an actual speaking voice, and his expression was distraught.

The levy finally broke. Phoebe had had enough. "Stop lying to me. You've been hiding something from me all week, and any time I try to get it outta you, you get more upset. What is going on? What aren't you telling me?"

"I told you, I'm not hiding anything." He grew angrier, more defiant, as his fingers started to curl into the soft leather of the chair.

"If you aren't gonna be straight with me, then I'm leaving." Phoebe shouted, rising from her chair and heading for the door.

"Hey, we had a deal." Hanson got up from his own chair to grab her by the arm. His grip was stronger than she thought him capable of, and Phoebe flinched at the unexpected pain. Tears started welling up in her eyes, but more obvious was her flailing to escape his grip. He relented, causing her to stumble backward, but she maintained her footing. She turned away, reaching the doorway before he spoke again.

"You want to know what I'm 'hiding'? How I got to be the best surgeon in the hospital?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. What am I doing? I need to leave, now. But her body wasn't listening, instead holding completely still as her brain tried to force it forward. Her subconscious curiosity took over, and her need to know spurned her on to ask, "What is it?"

He stepped hesitantly over to the door to the left of the wine rack, waving for her to follow. As she approached, the stench intensified, as did the heat. Clearly, it was coming from here.

"Just remember. You wanted this." Hanson unlocked the door with a key retrieved from his pocket. He motioned for her to enter. She stepped up to the hollow, white, wooden door, taking the stainless steel knob in her hand. She gave it a twist, and let the door creak slowly inward.

Before her was a tiny room, only capable of accommodating one or two people, plus the various tools, blades, sponges, rags, implements, and buckets of water inside. A wave of warm, humid air billowed out as the door swung inward. The entirety of the room smelled of cleaning solutions, solvents, and astringents that clearly were only ventilating through the seams of the door. Beneath it all, though, was the metallic hint of blood. The red ring soaked into the cracks between tiles and surrounding the drain in the floor would have been evidence enough, but before her was something far worse.

Two mangled, mutilated bodies, propped up in dentistry chairs; a man and a woman, both sliced apart. Their bodies bore countless scars, but even now, it was clear they were still being 'utilized'. The man was far overweight, but due to the gaping abdominal cavity, it was hard to tell. Organs lay motionless, exposed, and blood dripped slowly from the incisions. One of his eyes had been carefully removed, preserved in a jar on a nearby shelf. His left arm lay on the same shelf, a recent addition as the stump had not skinned over whatsoever. His cranium was split like a cookie jar, the lid to which was casually set aside. The squishy brain matter had been thoroughly removed and sliced apart, dissected for study.

Phoebe covered her mouth with her hands, a reactive measure to her urge to vomit. The face was one she recognized. "B-but that's.. Th-that's G-g-g..."

"Garret." Hanson spoke quickly, as though he'd been looking forward to finally telling someone about it. "Yes, that disgusting pig. I thought you'd be happy to see him like this. That was part of the reason I took him. I knew how you despised him, so I brought him here to practice on.

"He wasn't my first option, you know. I tried to work with the dummies, but I just couldn't visualize them as real people. I tried cadavers after that, but they were so still on the inside that they really didn't feel like an accurate comparison. I needed the real thing to pull it off. So, two days ago, I asked him out to drink, and told him I wanted to learn from him. I brought him back here, and..." He gestured wildly around the room. "I set this up the day before, and it wasn't too difficult to get him in here once he was drunk enough."

Hanson started chuckling nervously, running his fingers through his hair. "But, I uhhh... miscalculated how inexperienced I was. The room was too cold, and he lost a bit too much blood. He died in less than a day. At first, I didn't think it would be that big a deal; I'd just keep going with him. But it was no different than the mortuary cadavers. So, I brought a heater in, borrowed some blood, and..."

Phoebe's eyes darted to the woman, and widened in terror. On full display for all to see, her left leg amputated and carved apart, her chest cavity cracked open, and her veins riddled with intravenous tubes and needles, was Marie Harrier. Her face was hard to recognize, as half of it has been sliced away, removed so that the workings underneath could be studied in detail. The same was true of her right arm, which was flayed of skin, revealing the muscle, veins, and arteries beneath.


"She's still alive, you know. I've gotten very good, like you saw earlier. I shouldn't need anyone else for a while."

Phoebe collapsed to the ground, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. But it was evident that he was not lying. Beyond her broken ribs, Phoebe could see that Harrier's heart was still beating, and her lungs were still expanding and contracting. A faint, raspy breathing still escaped her lips. Phoebe could not hold the contents of her stomach anymore, expelling them onto the floor. She found herself unable to raise her head to the carnage that she had born witness to.
Hanson gave a small chuckle. "It's alright. The tile is easy to clean, I promise. I've just been too busy getting extra lessons in to keep up.

"But that's okay," he said, stepping quickly into the sterilized room, around the chair that held Harrier's limp body. "I don't need to worry about that any more." He undid the straps and handcuffs that held Garret in place, and rolled the corpse off of the chair. It splattered to the floor with a resounding splash, organs piling over one another as they poured out of his exposed abdomen.

"I did what I said I'd do. I learned how to operate on real people. I won the bet. And here you are, to celebrate with me."

"I-I-I..." But her stammering was cut off as she was ripped to her feet by Hanson's grasp. He overpowered her by inches, dragging her over to the now-empty chair. His expression was that of a man unhinged; he'd clearly broken down from all of his misdeeds. He maneuvered her left wrist into place in the handcuff, clasping the metal around it. She kicked and fought to escape, but he was determined. In seconds, she was locked in place, thrashing and screaming to escape.

Hanson enthusiastically began to strap her legs to the chair. "This is what you wanted, right? For me to practice? For me to get better as a surgeon?" He spoke loudly to be heard over her screams, his speech mingled with misplaced laughter. Her legs were soon pinned to the chair as well. "You're in the basement. There's a lot of soundproofing here. You, me, and Marie here are the only ones in the house. No one is going to come free you."

Phoebe's voice died out soon after. She was locked there for months, waited on hand and foot while Hanson continued his macabre work. Each time she saw him, she begged, threatened, pleaded to be let go. She promised that she wouldn't tell a soul what had happened. She offered to be his lover instead of his prisoner. Everything she could think of to get him to release her.

Hanson ignored every request, and over the months replaced Harrier with a new victim, who Phoebe did not recognize, and another once that one was used and shredded. Phoebe eventually grew numb to it all, deciding that instead, she would rather block it all out. Sometimes it worked. Most times, though, it didn't and the screaming from the other victims would haunt her into each and every night. She hoped, in vein, that the sweltering heat would take her, but Hanson kept her hydrated and cared for.

Then, one day, Hanson didn't come back into the room. The door remained locked, but the captor never returned. Days went by with no sign of Hanson. Phoebe wondered what had happened to him. Her mind went through everything she could muster the energy to think of to escape. In the end, though, she succumbed to the solitude, the dehydration, and the starvation. Police would find her body two days later, putrid and rotting, still locked in the chair.
/r/NoSleep / I Took a Patient's Journal Home from Work by PartyL1keStink
« Last post by Slimebeast on March 08, 2019, 05:07:29 AM »
Part 1

(Originally Posted 10/13/2017)

Hello, people on the interwebs! I work at what used to be called an insane asylum. Nowadays, we just call them Mental Health Centers or Psychiatric Hospitals.  I won’t tell you which one, ‘cause I don’t want my ass getting canned. Anyways, I found something when helping maintenance clean up Chuckles’ room a year ago. ‘Chuckles’ is a nickname we gave one of the residents, and we’ll leave it at that. He left behind a notebook one of the therapists gave him. I took it home after we were done cleaning his room. Just recently, I cracked it open and started reading, because I don’t have a lot to do at home, and porn does get boring after a while. Even for a schizophrenic, though, there is some wild shit in here that someone else needs to see. And believe me, it’s not just his dreams and delusions. So, I’ll just post it here and let you take a look. I know, sounds like a terrible thing to do, but I think he wanted someone to see it. Lucky you! Just pretend it’s all fictional if anybody asks. I like my job, after all. I’ve made this as readable as possible while transcribing. Fancy word, isn’t it? Oh, the names of staff and patients have been removed.

Without further ado, here it goes:

Entry 1

I am not a human being. Human beings aren’t shoved away into comfortable prisons without having committed a crime. I have done nothing to hurt anyone. It’s just that the transmissions won’t stop. I don’t care about the state of man, how women, or boys who have not completed any trials of manhood are usurping man’s role in the world. They just won’t stop, droning on, and on about the State of the World. These corrupt doctors watch me through the vent shafts, making me hurt when I find a way to ignore the transmissions. I am but a cog in someone else’s machine, a subhuman cog. I don’t deserve to be human. I am only a tool of others and I can’t break out. I deserve this fate, but I have done nothing.

Dr. [redacted] gave me this stupid notebook to write in. They know about the transmissions, and that is why they are watching me! It’s all part of the game I am forced to play with them. Most of them tell me that I should not focus so much on what they call hallucinations. If I were hallucinating, the voices would be talking to me, but instead it’s like a man on the radio just talking. They think I talk too much. God forbid anyone tell staff we are being treated like animals or that the side-effects of the medications are unbearable. A serious voice in the halls of madness might be too much for them, or so I gather from being told to “lighten up” all the damn time. They want me to be as quiet as [Patient J], who is too scared to make a peep. That’s the only reason for giving me something to write with in a hospital like this. I wish they would just own up to it.

So I am stuck. No one will read this.

Entry 2

Was I asleep the whole night? No. Couldn’t be. Nurse [redacted] took me out of my room and screamed at me in one of the offices. She told me if I would listen to broadcast more carefully I would know how to live outside these walls; how to be a man. An orderly came and knocked on her door, I think to see what the ruckus was. When he came in she pulled a gun from a desk drawer and shot him right in the head. I could do nothing but freeze, my eyes open and jaw dropped. The sound of it rang in my ears, as wet, sticky blood and brain splattered and dripped from the wall behind him.

She said: “That boy could never be a man, always sucking from the welfare teat and not trying to get a real goddamned job!”

I got up and ran for the door, pulling on the handle but it would not budge.

I woke up in my bed. The covers are wet with cold sweat and I am writing this to catch my breath.

Entry 3

I could not help but cringe when [Nurse Redacted] walked past my room earlier today. She stopped at my door and put on such a face of concern I nearly believed it.

“What’s wrong baby,” she asked and came halfway in my room.

“You know what you did,” I said, my hand shaking as I spoke. “He did not deserve to die, no matter how inadequate you think he is.”

“Who are you are talking about, hon?”

“The orderly you shot.”
“When did this happen?” she asked as she walked into my room and leaned back against the wall.

“Last night,” I stood up straighter in my chair and tried to summon some bravery into my voice.

“I wasn’t here last night, hon,” she sighed. “We have talked about this. Give the meds some time. You were dreaming again.”

“I don’t have dreams.”

“Yes, you do. I promise you, I have not shot anyone here at work. When do you get to see the psychiatrist again? Maybe they need to try something a little different.”

“I think next month,” I said, my whole body deflating. “He needs to see his patients more regularly.”

“I know, baby. But there are a lot of folks here, and he’s only one person. I’ll see if there is anything I can do to help.”

“I’m sure,” the words left my mouth flatly.

“We’re not out to get you,” she said and straightened up. Taking a step to leave the room she looked back to me. “You spend a lot of time in here, maybe you should try making some friends. I don’t think you’ll be here forever, and getting used to being around others might help.”

“I don’t think they want to talk to me,” I said and looked away.

“No, they just think you are too serious all the time.”
“This is a serious place.”

“Ok,” she said and stepped out of my room, finally. “Fine. Just give it a think, and let me know if you need anything.”

The pills she wants me to take slow my thoughts and make me want to eat more than I should. This is why I am fat. This seems to be what they want.

The game continues.

Entry 4

One of the female orderlies gave me a teddy bear. It is kind of big and heavy. I have seen larger teddy bears. I think maybe it’s two feet head to toe. Normally they don’t give us gifts, but she said she is quitting soon, and doesn’t want to see it again. Tears were rolling down her face. I took it so she wouldn’t cry. Maybe she has no stomach for the game anymore.

The broadcasts say America should be running the world, not cowering from friends and enemies alike. Macho bullshit. The world is too complicated to be strong-armed like that. But it drones on, wanting the country to be the tough guy.

Entry 5

The broadcast was quieter than usual today. Normally it seems to echo against my skull as the boisterous voice rants and raves. Now it’s using an inside voice. The bear has been here for two nights. I also did not feel like stuffing so much food into my face. The nurses say I am being quieter, more cooperative. One even said I am beating out [Patient J] as her favorite. The others say they are not sure if this is a good sign.

Entry 6

An honest to God dream! I can’t believe how long it’s been. Humans dream, all the time. Every night, they tell me. I have not had one in so long that I can barely believe it. I guess I am not deserving of it being a good one, though.

I was stuck to my bed as I felt a rush of warmth come over me, and then I was being held down by black strands of almost nothing. This is how I knew it was a dream, because at night when they take me or lecture me, I see everything so clearly. This was different. The bed and the room seemed to be in my parent’s home for a moment, and once again it was the hospital room. A deep, rough voice called to me by name. I could not move. Soon, I was in some sort of playground being stared down by a massive teddy bear that looked like the one in my room. It said something, and all I could make out was “Not enough” or something like that. I think I also heard it say “Cut them open” but I am not entirely sure. Weird thing is, I felt better, like I was safe there. Definitely a dream. It was not a very pleasant dream, being looked at by a teddy bear like I am in some sort of sick fairy-tale, but not a nightmare.

Anyway, when I woke up I gave the bear a good looking at. Just a brown teddy bear, same as before, but a bit lighter. There’s a scarlet thread on the back of it, like someone stitched up an old war wound. Nothing too strange, I guess.

The broadcast has become whispers at times, now. Anytime they start to irritate me, I feel a wash of calm and then the voice quiets. Did not eat too much today. Nurse [redacted] says I am doing better, and we had a bit of a chat. Nothing important, just something about the weather. The other inmates are laughing at me, though.  I see them hiding their smirks when I get out of my room. I’m not as paranoid as you might think reading this. They mock [Patient C] because they think he drones on too long, and pull pranks on [Patient J] because he jumps at everything. I only see this in the TV and games room, and it can be relentless. I think they saw the damn bear while walking past my room. Best to keep it hidden. I don’t feel like being laughed at.

Entry 7

I had a very odd dream last night. Maybe that is not saying much after the one a few nights ago. So strange even having dreams now. The one the night before I heard children singing Red Rover, and I did not see any kids. It was something about a childhood crush telling me I was a crazy person. I got the sense that she hated me for it. But that’s not important. Before waking up, I swear I could feel those black strands of almost nothing holding onto me, and these kids were chanting the old Red Rover, Red Rover. And last night I saw them. Two young girls and teenage boy running around on some nightmarish playground dreamt of in Hell. The merry-go-round had what looked like razor blades on the outside, and there was a slide that was as tall as an office building. They were playing hop-scotch over hot coals. It seemed like only the outlined squares were safe and they kept pushing each other onto the hot coals and laughing. The little girls screamed when they touched the coals, but they ran over to me without injury. The older girl with red hair and freckles kept yelling “No Rules!” as she skipped around me and the smaller one with black hair and golden skin just laughed. The redhead could not be over twelve, and the other looked maybe ten. The teen, I’d say fourteenish, just rested against some monkey bars and smirked at me. When I was a kid, I used to flick my ear when I thought I was dreaming. It would either wake me up or not feel as painful in the dream. I tried it, and knew I was dreaming. The boy laughed and walked over to me, waving at the two girls to move away. They ran off to play tether-ball with what looked like a medieval spiked ball on a chain.

“Hey!” I remember yelling at them. I don’t much care for kids, but I could not let them get hurt.

“Don’t sweat it, old man,” the boy said. “They ain’t gonna get hurt. Nothing here hurts.”

“And why is that, boy?”

To this he laughed and told me: “’Cause there ain’t no meat here, old man. That’s why he’s got you. The big bad bear don’t understand meat.”

“What are you---” I started to say, but behind the boy I saw it again; a gigantic teddy bear, sitting behind him with its head down.

“No worries,” the boy said and laughed. “He’s asleep.”

“Who…?” I tried to ask, taking a step back.

“I’m Jesse. Over there we got Theresa, and the ginger girl is Beth. I named the Bear Captain Cuddles. He’s still It, I think.”


“Yeah, and he caught me, them girls, and now you! We don’t get a turn to be It anymore.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bet you don’t. No worries, though. Wakey-Time!” And with that, the boy shoved me, and as I fell in the dream I woke up, once more in a cold sweat.

Entry 8

Nothing makes sense. I just saw the orderly Nurse [redacted] shot in the head. At least, it looked a lot like him. I swear that the bear is staring at me. Sitting on my dresser, his coal black eyes burrowing straight into my soul. The running commentary on the State of the World is diminished again. After I awoke from the dream on the playground, it got louder, but now it is quiet. How can he be staring at me? It’s just a stuffed animal. I see the psychiatrist tomorrow. Maybe I can get him to change my meds. Maybe I am losing it.

Entry 9

They told me I was asleep. They told me I was dreaming. Now I wonder if I am awake when I am not dreaming. The Broadcaster is on full blast now. Writing this is difficult.

I was about to fall asleep when I felt I could not move. The bear suddenly leapt from the dresser onto my chest. My heart beat so hard, I thought it might push him right off. Claws grew from his stuffed paws and he opened his mouth to reveal many rows of pointed razor-sharp teeth. He pulled his arm back and, just before he raked his claws across my face, I felt like I was sinking. Something pulled me into the bed. Into the bed! Soon I was on my ass in the playground of horrors, the giant bear and the children looking at me with dumbstruck faces.

“Man,” the boy said as he laughed, “your dreams are hardcore!”

“What?” I said, suddenly feeling very stupid as they stared at me. “No-no. This is a dream. That...”

“Was also a dream, man,” the boy said before I could finish.

“Teddy bears don’t do things like that,” the red-headed girl chimed in. “That was scary. He’s not scary like that.”

“Seriously,” the boy said and kneeled down closer to me. “It’s ok, old man. Just wait it out here and chill. You woke him up, for a minute. We saw. It was scaring the girls, though.”

“S-Sorry?” I mumbled, my mind racing to sort this out.

Just rest. My eyes shot open as I looked up to the bear. The voice was low and a bit rough, and though his mouth had not moved the sound in my head seemed to come from him. I would not harm you in such a way. Stay here with the children.

“Why would he have dreams like that?” the golden-skinned girl asked, looking back to the bear.

His mind is disordered. It cannot hurt you, but it often confuses him as to what is real.

“Oh,” she replied, and moved her black hair from her face. She then walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. The other two kids followed suit, and then once the boy wandered off the two girls sat close to me and talked. I don’t remember quite what they talked about, something about their parents. They prattled on so much, it became more of a background buzz to me, and yet it was oddly soothing. The red-head mentioned something about her mother working in hospital for people who were confused. That’s really all I can remember, as it got hazier and hazier from there.

I woke a few moments ago, once again in a cold sweat. My head is pounding from the damn broadcast. When I see the psychiatrist later today, I might as well ask about pain pills.

A teddy bear is telling me I am crazy. I just don’t know anymore.

Entry 10

The psychiatrist approved me for new meds. I lied and told him I was getting headaches, so they also approved me for some ibuprofen. I managed to hide it under my tongue instead of swallowing it at med time. I think I should save up some of these. I don’t know if they will be able to do the job, but…Look, I don’t know if anyone is reading this and I don’t know what is going on anymore. This bear in my dreams and in my room is dangerous in a way I can’t put into words. I know I should get rid of the stupid thing, but without it the transmissions would come back. When I even think about asking the staff to throw him away, I hear The State of the World on blast. It is so loud I can no longer hear myself think. Also, I am getting used to the occasional relief of being able to ignore them. It is starting to look like there may only be one way out of all this.

I am not strong enough.

Entry 11

I can hear him when I am awake now. Not the broadcaster, but the stupid bear. He’s in my head somehow. I swear this has never happened before. I had just gotten back from the cafeteria. I sat down on my bed and the broadcast was nearly silent. Then all of a sudden I heard him speak. It was like how some of the others describe the voices.

Some of your fellow inmates cannot move. They are locked within their own mind. I want to see it. Bring me to one of their rooms, and show me what their insides look like. I want to see what they are made of. No one will miss them.

All I could do was look up in shock. My eyes went to the dresser I had him hidden in. It was the same, rough sounding voice from the dreams. But I was not asleep. I swear on everything holy that I was definitely awake.

“I-I can’t,” I managed after the minute it took to process what he was telling me to do. “That’s murder.”

They are hardly alive.

“But they still are!” I put my hand over my mouth, hoping others did not hear me shout at a stuffed toy.

You are useless. I need to be with [Patient J]. He walked down the hall the other day. He has more of what I need than you. He would do as I ask.

“You think he would kill for you? No…this isn’t right…”

Give me to him. You do not enjoy the company of the children. Your dreams frighten them too much. This would seem an equitable solution.

“W-wait,” I said in a hushed tone. “What about the broadcast? You make it quieter.”

It is all in your mind. You have dealt with it for years.

“That’s not true. Damn. Even the bear that talks to me prefers [Patient J], huh?” The irony of the situation could not escape me. Despite what the others might say, I do have a sense of humor. I understand why they gave me that damnable nickname, even though I hate it.

Believe what you like. Give me to [Jones]

“No,” I said solemnly after a minute of contemplation. I have no love for [Patient J], but I also do not wish this sort of madness on him. I soon found myself to be correct when a dull pain started in the back of my head, creeping its way over my skull. Before I knew it, it started to squeeze my brain. The pain was enough to bring me to my knees.

Give me to him, the bear repeated, his words causing the pain to throb slowly. I fumbled around a moment before finding the painkillers I had saved up and rammed five of them into my mouth and swallowed as quickly as I could.

“No,” I told him and leaned down, holding my head. We sat in silence for several minutes before the pain gradually subsided. I stood and opened the dresser and looked down at the bear. “I may not be human. I may not be worthy. But, maybe just this one time, I can behave like a man.”
With that, I closed the dresser.

Entry 12

The broadcast is getting louder at the worst times. It is becoming hard to talk with the medical staff. I think doing this is starving him a little, though. He can now only give me the amount of pain I used to get when eating frozen dessert too fast, and it lasts about as long. The pain medication keeps this at bay. I just have to keep him away from [Patient J]. This might get easier though.

I talked with an administrator. She seems to think I am ready to “graduate” from the facility into some kind of group home, pending the approval of the psychiatrist. Asking if [Patient J] would be joining me there would be telling. I still don’t know what sort of monster this bear is, but I have a feeling that keeping him away from the man he wants to be with will avert disaster. If those poor kids are real somehow, maybe I can wrest them away from his hold.

Entry 13

“Never play games you find on the internet,” the teen told me as I waited in the infernal playground to wake up. When I got there they started playing some game of tug of war using me as the rope. When one team would pull me, it was into the hot coals around the hopscotch outline. I was afraid it would hurt, but there were no burns on my feet. The boy gave me his little pearl of knowledge right before they chased each other with scissors. It seems the torment is to continue.

Doesn’t really matter, though. I am out of here tomorrow, and I am taking that stupid bear far away from [Patient J]. I have decided to leave this notebook here. Whoever finds this may think it the ravings of a madman, but then again if this gets out it, may do a little good.

If you are ever given a teddy bear, check its back for a scarlet thread. Be careful what games you decide to play. And most of all, do not let [Patient J] have the bear if you can help it.

(End of Journal)

I should tell you that the orderlies went into his room the following day. All they found was a skeleton wearing Chuckles’ clothes, and it attacked them!

Hehe, no. He was just transferred out to a group home somewhere in town. I am pretty sure he brought the bear with him. Patient J got transferred out too, a few weeks later. When I have a hot minute, I’ll see if I can get my buddy who works there to tell me how they are getting along. Weird shit though, right? Fuck, I have to get to bed soon! Maybe I'll search the instygrams for something cute to help with #sweetdreams and forget about #creepyteddybear.  So that’s all there is for now, interwebs! I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.

Part 2

(Originally Posted April 13th 2018)

Greetings to all of you on the interwebs!

Hey, sorry it’s been forever and a day since I got back to you guys, but, umm, quicksand porn. It changed my life. You think you understand, but you don’t. Whole new levels, yo.

Anyways, a friend of mine who works at a group home for the mentally ill found a journal written by good ole Chuckles. Things did not go well for him, but we’ll touch on that in the end. Poor guy. He really didn’t deserve any of this. The following may well be his last testament, as well as his firm achievement. All names have been redacted to protect the people involved. Except Todd. Because fuck that guy.

Unfortunately, Todd was not involved in this.

Without further ado, here we go.

Entry 1

I am not a human being. Human beings are incapable of tuning into the frequency that hounds my thoughts and confuses my intellect. Human beings are not shut away in cages only to be released into society after being taught how to play house by idiots. They don’t have to remind themselves of who is being nice and fair to them when the transmissions rage at the unclean ethnicity of the person. No, he is not unclean. [C] is just a guy doing his job. He speaks better English than most of his peers sometimes. Stop trying to convince me otherwise!

The transmission is pretty bad today. The man talks and talks about how I am being shown how to do women’s work. At times it is unbearable.

Speaking of bears! Yes. I may not be a human being, but I may be the only one holding back a nightmare from the world. It resides in my dresser, hidden away so the others won’t laugh at me when they see it. So they won’t tease and mock me endlessly. It is a bear, a teddy bear. This thing cannot be let out of my room. I swear it does not belong in this world at all. You may think I am being overly dramatic, but that is only because you do not understand. To torture me, the bear silences the transmission until I get comfortable, and then lets it scream in my skull once more. The children, in what are supposedly dreams, tell me that he sleeps sometimes. If it makes you feel any better, the children and the bear think I am quite mad. Seems crazy to think a teddy bear would ever need sleep, haunted or not. 

Dreams. Humans dream. I have talks with children at a playground of nightmares when I sleep, or find myself back in my bed after horrifying experiences. The staff at the asylum told me those experiences were dreams, so now I play along.

Now they have sent me to a group home. I am housed with insane individuals learning to play house so that they may be released into the wild someday. I envy them at times. So free in their fanciful delusions, and so joyous to mock and laugh at whom they call the serious one. Me. Always serious because this is no longer a game. There may be forces at work that the crazies nor the staff here could comprehend. But, once again they want me to journal. Not the staff here, they couldn’t care less. No, one of the oh-so-nice counselors at the rehab school they make me attend thinks it could be relaxing. So, with pen and paper in hand, I write. I doubt anyone will read these words, or the journal I left behind at the asylum.

Maybe this is truly all I can really do.

Entry 2

Not even a month in this place and already that damned bear is trying to ruin things. Trying to learn this supposed women’s work the staff tells me I should know. Not women’s work. Just housework. Damn the transmissions! Sorry, it is very loud. The bear is unhappy with me. Anyway, [C] was showing me how to properly chop some vegetables for a soup we are going to make tomorrow. He said it was better to go with fresh and seems to love these slow cookers. I think my mom called them crock-pots. Anyway, I digress. The cutlery is kept in the office and staff has to watch us when we are using them.  Good thing too. As soon as [C] handed me the knife I could feel that bear speaking to me.

Cut him, the voice said, sounding harsh and deep in my mind. No one is there with you. He trusts you. I need to see what is underneath that skin…

I gripped the knife harder and clenched my teeth. It was all I could do to focus on cutting the damn carrots. Thin slices mostly, as I waited for all eternity for the bear to leave my thoughts alone. The stuffed animal was somehow able to call to me from all the way in my room, secured in the dresser, droning on and on about slicing [C]’s throat. My breathing was slow and measured, trying some trick they taught me at the “school” about breathing out more and more. It was just barely helping. Thankfully, [C] took the knife out of my hand after what must have been the most grueling few minutes of my life.

“Man you are really intense,” [C] told me, and smiled. “I see why they all think you are so serious. Don’t worry, though. Sometimes it is good to be serious. And you did an awesome job! This is gonna be some great soup when we get it all put together.”

Simple praise from a simple…no. No, stop it. God Damn you bear, just turn it down a little! I don’t care what the station man thinks about [C]!

Ok, had to take a breather. You see the point I am making right? It wants me to hurt people. It has some sort of nightmare inducing desire to see more of the flesh. This is not first time this bear called on me to hurt someone, and it won’t be the last. I must endure. I may not rightly be a person, but I must endure to keep everyone safe. In the hands of anyone else here, that could have easily been a bloodbath.

Entry 3

Sleep provides no respite from this madness. I know you think you are reading the words of a crazy man, but please consider the insanity around me. Think on the fact that once your head hits your soft pillow you can close your eyes and take a break from your reality. In my world, the strange world around me has seeped into my so-called dreams.

For so many years I did not dream. Now that I do, I am not even sure it is worth it. Take the other night, when after my eyes closed in slumber I found myself back in that infernal playground. I found myself sitting up next to the young teen who resided there named Jesse. The two girls, one with red hair and freckles, the other with black hair and a golden complexion, skipped around playing some sort of game. Jesse smirked when he saw me and then looked off into the distance. He was watching a large black bird croaking in the middle of a plain of rust brown gravel and dirt. Though the bird looked around and cocked its head about, it made no move towards us.

“I don’t know what his deal is,” Jesse said after a few moments. “I don’t think he can see us.”

“Why do you suppose that is,” I asked, scratching my head.

“No idea. Well, it’s a bird. No clue why it’s here though.”

“Why not ask the Bear?” As I posed this question, I looked to the center of the playground only to see the large teddy bear sitting there motionless. His eyes seemed devoid of life.

“He’s asleep,” Jesse answered and got up. “I’ll ask him when he comes to. Pretty sure ole Cuddles is still It, bird or no bird though. It occurs to me that since the girls got here, I never thought to just walk on off. You know, just head to the horizon and see what is out there.”

“I get it, you had to keep an eye on the girls, just like I feel the need to keep an eye on you all now.”
“Yeah, maybe. Things are pretty safe here, though. Maybe after I ask the bear about the bird I’ll try taking a walk.”

After that, the children began playing with that damn spiked tether-ball. They wanted to play on teams of two, but with only three of them they’d need me to join. I turned them down. Having an adult would only give one team an unfair advantage. This was one of the more calm nights I have spent with the same children in each dream. Every night, I see the same evil playground, with the same children. This may seem a minor thing, but the fact that it never changes alarms me greatly. And now we have some mysterious bird in the distance that I am left to wonder about. 

Entry 4

We got a new staff member today. Her name is [ S ], and she is thin, blonde and has hungry green eyes. It was my turn again to help with making dinner. I am starting to think that the others have figured out that if they are less helpful, I will pick up the slack. That’s fine. Distractions are a godsend. Besides, all we had to do was put the food  in the oven and wait. Some sort of casserole that was pre-made. Really, only [C] seems to really know anything useful about cooking. Though I really do think all the cretins I live with could manage is just putting something in an oven anyways.

Rumors abound lately. Some say we are getting a new resident soon. One of the other residents mentioned something about him being skittish. Residents seem to come and go around here. Also, I am hearing muffled giggles once again about me keeping a teddy bear. Someone must have seen it as they passed by my room. I swear that my thoughts must be leaking out of my head somehow.

Let them laugh. Let them enjoy what they can in their insane little lives. Only I have some idea as to what I am holding at bay.

Entry 5

The staff has turned against me here as well! The broadcasts! The people! And that Goddamned Bear!

I can’t believe this. Soon after falling asleep the new staff person, [ S ], knocked on my door and told me I had to wake up. As I walked into the office, she had all the knives that were usually locked up in a cabinet arranged on her desk. When she saw my wide-eyed expression she merely laughed and then stared deeply into my eyes.

“What’s the matter?” she asked and licked the inside of her cheek. “Can’t handle a few knives? Hell, if you were a real man, you would at least have a gun on you. You are so good at bitch work. Maybe you are just a bitch. Who else would cuddle with a teddy bear at night?”

“How do you know-” I started, interrupted by her cackling laughter.

“We all know!” she told me. “Staff meetings are a riot here with all the talk of Poor Wittle Chuckles and his bear!”

She continued to laugh as she picked up one of the steak knives. Smiling, she pressed it into her skin just below her wrist and pulled down, the blade slicing into her fair skin. The dark red blood welled up at the initial cut, and then flowed down her arm as her eyes rolled up into her head and she moaned softly.

“You should try it, Big Boy,” she said as she opened her eyes. “Feels sooo good. And the taste is just delish.”

She put the tip of he tongue to her arm and slowly moved it up, gathering the blood onto it before pulling it into her mouth. I could only stand there, frozen in shock as she extended her arm to me, pushing the knife towards my chest. I think I tried to reach out to push the knife away, because I remember feeling the blade slowly bite into my hand. In the long run, nothing I did mattered.

The next thing I knew, I was back in my bed. I opened my eyes as I felt something heavy on my chest. My vision cleared soon to reveal the teddy bear I always keep hidden in my dresser sitting there, staring into my eyes. My mouth slowly opened, wishing to scream, and yet I was too terrified to make even the slightest sound.

Just a dream, I could hear in my mind, the bear’s same deep and rough words once again. Rest now.

And then just like that I must have been out again. I woke up in the morning to my alarm and checked the dresser, surprised to see the bear there. Now that I write this, I cannot be entirely sure he is the same way I left him, but nonetheless he is there. I don’t know what to think. Surely [ S ] will deny this. Tell me my memories are but dreams, some sort of symptom of a made-up illness. I need to go to the psycho-social rehab school now.

I don’t know what I am going to do.

Entry 6

I think Jesse and the bear had an argument. He would not so much as look at me and the girls seem to be trying to cheer him up by pretending to accidently stab each other with scissors. There's no blood, and they tell me it doesn't hurt.

Seriously, though. There is something wrong with them or my subconscious.

Entry 7

[This entry was crossed out and then scribbled over, so I guess he did not want us reading it.]

Entry 8

What is real? What is it like to live in space you can easily call reality and rest assured that your sleep takes you on flights of imagination only to deposit you back into the real world in the morning? I would really like to know.

The playground…may be different forever. The night before last, I found myself waking up there after falling asleep as per usual. Jesse was talking to the two girls. It sounded like he was reassuring them, but I could not make out the words. He then looked to me, and as the black haired girl let out a sniffle he ran out past the playground and into the empty field of rusted dirt. I couldn’t think of what to do until I saw that large black bird in the direction where he ran. Slowly I got myself to my feet only to find the two girls holding my hands.

“Don’t do it,” the red headed Beth told me as they both pulled on my arms. “He said he just had to know.”

Grumbling, I quickly shrugged them off and ran after the delusional boy. It is hard to explain, but no matter how much I ran, the teenaged boy seemed to not get any closer Even after he stopped running and stood by it. Once again, I could not make out the words but I could tell he was yelling at the bird, speaking not only with his voice but with grand motions of his arms. Just as my mind started to realize that I was neither tiring out from the running nor getting any closer, my vision faded to black rather quickly. I had to stop and hold my head to regain my balance, and when I opened my eyes, the black veil slowly opened, letting me see the young man being carried by the shoulders off into the sky by the bird. Now the black-feathered beast was much larger, dwarfing the child in size as it carried him off beyond the horizon. I stood there in shock for several moments before making my way back to the playground slowly. The two girls were looking to the giant bear as he slowly roused himself awake.

“Where did he go?” Theresa asked, her voice quivering. Now, I have never been particularly good with kids, but I put a hand on the girls’ shoulders to offer what comfort I could.

To Death, came the reply from the bear. Both girls immediately turned to me and collapsed into sobs. I kneeled and did my best to hold them, looking up angrily at the bear for the needlessly caustic reply.

Never approach The Raven. He will take you only to Death. And you must not believe His lies.

I did my best to comfort them. I let them cry, held them, and did everything I could think of to make them feel better. The next night, I was surprised to find that Jesse was still not there. I tried to lead the girls in games, tell them stories, and even a few jokes from my younger days. I know. Me telling jokes does not seem likely, but I did my best to keep them in good cheer as Jesse did. He meant the world to them, and now I am finally starting to understand this. In a way, losing him seems like the most real thing that has happened since I was given this damn bear. And this is what I see when I go to bed, not in the waking world. This makes no sense to me. So again, I ask…what is real?

Entry 9

[Patient J] from the asylum is coming. I overheard this from [C], when he was talking to the staff members. This is bad. I have no way of knowing if anyone will ever read this, and even less faith that anyone would be able to read both this journal and the last one. Suffice it to say, the evil behind the bear’s voice wants me to give the bear to [Patient J]. So far, since Jesse was taken, the bear has been pretty silent, so that is good. The broadcasts have been coming in louder…and yet right now they are more easily ignored. The children say the bear needs to sleep more, and I find myself more inclined to believe them lately. To be honest I have been feeling really down now that Jesse is gone. Maybe I should talk to the psychiatrist about this. Not about Jesse, obviously, but maybe about my moods. He seems rather eager at times to give me more drugs sometimes, and I should try to hold it together for the girls.

Anyways, I have to be extra careful to keep this teddy bear away from [Patient J].

Entry 10

[Patient J] is here. He is just as nervous as he was at the asylum. Oddly enough, the bear is not calling for me to give him to [Patient J] so far.

Entry 11

The trips to the playground as I close my eyes have become rather depressing. Only the girls are there of course, but that is obviously not the reason. They don’t seem to appreciate the new card games I teach them and instead they usually run off to chase each other with sharp implements. Sometimes they try to entice me onto the nightmare of a merry-go-round, but I would prefer to not vomit in my sleep. Sometimes Beth will leave her playmate to sit at the edge of the playground and stare off into space. I try to tell Theresa not to worry when she does this, and at least she appreciates some of the stories I try to remember from my youth. Old yarns the grown-ups would tell me, you know. But even then I half expect to see Jesse walking back to the playground.

The other night while the girls were playing their own games, I spotted the large black bird standing out in the endless field beyond. After telling myself over and over this is all still just some odd dream, I walked out of the playground and towards the bird. Behind me, I could hear the giant Captain Cuddles rise to his feet and the sounds of the little girls scampering towards him. I kept walking though. I had to have some answers, even if I knew they would probably only make sense in this strange world my brain had conjured up.

After what seemed an impossible distance I was a good stone’s throw away from the critter when it hopped up closer to me, no longer the giant winged beast, but merely the size of a large black bird. It cocked its head to the side as I looked it over, and then emitted a low raspy laugh from its beak that sent chills down my spine.

You seem perplexed by all of this, I heard its voice in my mind, smooth and cultured. It had an accent to it that I could not place, yet I understood its words perfectly. I can see that your mind does not readily understand the difference between reality and the wild flights of your brain chemistry, so I shall forgo the usual game.

“T-the usual game,” I asked angrily. “What the hell are you? And what is this game? And where the hell is Jesse? Did he fail your little test?”

The game only allows for three questions. Jesse was wise enough to only ask three, and thus, no, he did not lose. I am simply known as The Raven, and yet I am much more than that. You could consider me the ruler of this realm, that giant plush toy back there one of my subjects, though a rather disobedient one. And Jesse woke up from this world, back in his bed, being fawned over by his concerned parents.

“Seems like you expect me to believe that,” I grumbled, now careful not to ask questions. This is just what I needed, another critter coming along and saying I’m “confused.” Just a nice way to say that it too thinks I’m crazy. I considered for a moment playing into this obvious ruse when I looked back to the playground and saw only what looked like the shimmering of distant heat in the air. As I looked back to the bird it hopped closer and looked up at me.

Don’t be too concerned. You are not connected to the bear like the children are. You will wake up on your own, no harm done, yet. It seems he is hiding from you too now, so sadly this is not the time that I find his little playground. I will though. As for you, your part to play in all this is coming to an end. Again, there’s no need for you to worry. You will not be the hero of this story. So I advise you try to relax.

With that this Raven flew off, without so much as a “Nevermore.”  I could not find the playground to return to that night, but the next night I woke up there again. The girls asked me what the beast and I talked about, but I felt it was best to not tell them. The bear could be right, he could just be a liar. And I could just be a loon in the end anyways. It’s too bad I have had to use up the extra pain pills to keep the bear at bay, from forcing my cooperation with headaches. It might be nice to put an end to all this.

Entry 12

The bear is gone! He is no longer in my dresser. I know what you are thinking but I did not just misplace him. Sure I thought it was oddly cold the other night, but that was because someone opened my window, probably from the outside. The doctors, the staff here, maybe even [Patient J] think they are so clever. They think I don’t know that this is all some sort of game they are playing. The truth of the matter is that I am well aware of what they are doing!

Last night, when they thought I was asleep, all of the staff came into my room. They watched me. Yep, that’s it, they watched me. All of them staring intently down at my bed and all I could do was try to close my eyes and pretend. Pretend to not see their true faces! Black, colorless eyes staring down at me! I know I am not a human, I am a thing they don’t understand. But at the very least they could let me rest. Let me take the smallest of breaks from the constant transmissions that have finally found me.

Oh yes, that’s a new thing. The man that my skull somehow resonates with is now talking directly to me. He’s all too eager to explain to me how weak I am, and how I am learning to do a bitch’s work in the cooking and cleaning. And he keeps droning on and on about how I might be able to make it in this world if it weren’t for all the illegal immigrants who keep flooding into the country! Just like [C]. No, [C] is just a guy. He was born here. Whoever his parents are don’t fucking matter you son of a bitch! Stop it right now the people need to know what sort of evil this bear might bring upon the whole freaking world!

It is an Evil Thing that was never meant to be in this world!! If you find it you must burn it to cinders and then spread them far and wide!

Entry 13

[C] is such a great guy. Assuming he did not hide the bear. You see, it stopped asking to be with [Patient J], so I figured it had gotten smart. I asked [C] to take a look around his room. He did not find anything. So I took a look. The morning staff were so busy getting some of the residents in the home to go out to the school that I was able to walk right in. He is one messy son of a bitch, but I managed to do a thorough search. Nothing. No bear. Not even a stuffed rabbit.

I checked under the bed, in his dresser and closet. Hell, I made sure it was not in the damn bathroom. The transmissions tell me they probably search my room when I am not around. That’s no bother. He does not have the bear. It is gone. Furthermore, I have not seen the children since it’s been gone. I may never know what the Raven thing was on about, but the more I think about it, the more I realize He might be the only hope in all of this. No, I am not looking for some Hero to come save me! I am not some Mexican Harlot Gypsy hoping to be saved by Mr. Fucking Moneybags! Damn could you just tone it down for a few minutes!

I can’t think anymore, sorry. It took me a few minutes to get back to writing this. The transmissions are screaming their garbage into my mind now. The man knows my name. The bear is loose. Stuffed animals can’t open windows. Can they? If you find it, destroy it. With prejudice. It cannot be allowed to wrangle in more children. In the hands of a weaker person, it could make the streets red with human blood.

I hope you find this journal. I hope my words get out before it is too late.

End of Journal

It is very important that you keep reading.

Keep your eyes focused on the screen. The bear has escaped from Chuckles. And now…it is right behind you. Don’t look, just keep looking at the screen. Unless, the bear is now you!

LOL, just kidding. I have no idea what happened to the stuffed critter. Yeah, I have had a few weird dreams after transcribing all of this, but that is to be expected. Couldn’t get the weird bits in the margins and all into a text document, you know. I’ll see if I can find some pictures to keep you all on the lookout. Like Chuckles said, this thing is apparently not of our world and all. Oh, yeah, nearly forgot to tell you about him. You are probably wondering why my buddy is sending me the journal and all. Well, apparently some time after he stopped writing in the journal, he became even more of a fucking recluse. I mean, I would get depressed too if I had a teddy bear wander off on me. So, he gets real quiet, still being the model citizen there, and then one day he calmly walks into the kitchen and puts his hand down in a pot of boiling oil. Staff must have been making French fries or something. Obviously not planning on having fried Chuckles. He was sent to the ER and I guess will be sent to another mental hospital. Maybe back to the one I work at, yay! I’ll update you on him when I can.

I don’t know what to think of this Raven. I have read a few Rituals about this bird, but the mythology is all over the place, if you believe that stuff. Anyways, if anything comes up, I’ll keep you posted. Happy dreams!

Nightmares are the worst, right?
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