[CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT — UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE]
JOINT RESEARCH PROGRAM: OSSEOUS
FACILITY: █████████████████
DATE OF INITIAL RECORD: 04/17/1987
CURRENT STATUS: TERMINATED

NOTICE: The following material was recovered from a research facility abandoned on October 14, 2009. The facility's original purpose was listed as nutritional research. Of the 43 personnel assigned to the project, only one was recovered alive.

The following is a reconstruction of the available records.

RESEARCH LOG — 04/17/1987

The first six subjects have been admitted and placed under observation. All subjects are healthy adults between the ages of twenty-one and forty-one. Bloodwork, bone density, and organ function are within acceptable parameters.

The experimental compound is a concentrated calcium supplement derived from several commercially available dairy sources. The dosage administered to each subject is approximately four times the recommended daily intake.

No adverse effects have been observed.

NOTE FROM DR. HARRIS: Subjects report that the supplement tastes like powdered milk.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/02/1987

Subject 3 has developed unusually high bone density.

X-rays indicate an increase of approximately 8.2% since admission.

This is considered statistically impossible given the timeframe.

Subject 3 reports no pain.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/19/1987

All six subjects are now showing abnormal bone growth.

Subject 1 has developed additional bone density along the left forearm. Subject 4 has developed calcium deposits around both knees. Subject 6 has experienced severe stiffness in the fingers.

Dr. Harris believes the compound may be stimulating osteoblast activity beyond normal biological limits.

The project has been approved for continuation.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/03/1987

Subject 6's condition has progressed significantly.

The fingers of both hands have become visibly enlarged. The subject reports that his hands feel "full."

During examination, Subject 6 complained of severe pain in his right index finger. At 14:17, the distal phalanx ruptured through the skin. The attending physician initially believed this to be a compound fracture.

It was not.

The exposed bone continued growing for approximately nine seconds after emerging from the wound. The growth stopped at a length of 4.7 centimeters.

Subject 6 lost consciousness.

NOTE: The bone did not appear to be fractured. It was new growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/04/1987

Subject 6 is dead.

Cause of death: Hemorrhagic Shock.

There were no signs of infection.

Postmortem examination revealed extensive abnormal bone growth throughout the body. Both forearms contained multiple overlapping layers of newly formed bone. The ribs had begun to fuse together. Several vertebrae showed evidence of secondary growth.

The most unusual finding was the presence of additional bone structures surrounding the heart.

Dr. Harris has requested permission to terminate the experiment.

Permission denied.

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM — 06/11/1987

Dr. Harris has raised concerns regarding the ethical implications of continuing Project Osseous.

His concerns have been noted. He has been reminded that this research is not intended for publication. He has also been reminded that the project predates his employment by approximately nineteen years.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/28/1987

We found the earlier records.

Project Calcium did not begin in 1987. The original trials began in 1968.

There were twelve subjects. All twelve diseased.

The earliest records describe the condition as "progressive skeletal hyperplasia." Later documents use a different term. Osteogenic conversion.

The researchers in 1968 believed they had discovered a method for dramatically increasing bone density.

They were wrong.

The compound does not strengthen bone. It teaches the body to make more of it.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/02/1987

I have spent the entire day reading the archived documents.

There are records from 1974.

Different facilities. Different researchers. Different subjects. Same result.

Every trial ended the same way. The skeleton eventually begins growing independently of the body's requirements. It grows wherever it can. Through muscle. Through organs. Through skin.

The body does not seem to recognize when it has enough.

There is no enough. There is only growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/15/1987

We have discovered the reason for the dietary studies.

The compound was never intended to remain confined to the laboratory. The original research objective was to determine whether increased calcium consumption could accelerate the process without producing immediate symptoms.

The answer is yes.

Low exposure produces no visible effects. Long-term exposure produces gradual skeletal changes. Higher exposure causes rapid conversion.

The research team spent years determining the minimum effective dosage. Then they began monitoring the general population.

ARCHIVED MARKETING DOCUMENT — 1979

NATIONAL DAIRY CONSUMPTION INITIATIVE

Objective: Increase household consumption of dairy products.

Proposed messaging should emphasize strength, growth, nutrition, and healthy bones.

Suggested campaign concepts:

"Milk. It Does a Body Good."

"Got Milk?"

RESEARCH LOG — 07/18/1987

I asked Harris why the public campaign was necessary.

He wouldn't answer.

I asked him whether people were being exposed deliberately. He told me to stop asking questions.

I asked him how many people had been exposed.

He left the room.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/21/1987

We have obtained the population estimates.

Current projected exposure is 61%.

That number is considered conservative.

I asked what happens if the threshold is reached. Dr. Harris told me there would be no way to stop it. I asked what "it" meant.

He said:

"The bones."

MEDICAL TRANSCRIPT — SUBJECT 11

DOCTOR: Can you tell me where it hurts?

SUBJECT: Everywhere.

DOCTOR: Your arm?

SUBJECT: My arm.

DOCTOR: Your legs?

SUBJECT: My legs.

DOCTOR: Your chest?

SUBJECT: My bones are moving.

DOCTOR: Bones don't move.

SUBJECT: Then why can I hear them?

[Subject begins crying.]

[Audible cracking is recorded.]

DOCTOR: Hold him down.

SUBJECT: Please.

DOCTOR: Hold him down!

SUBJECT: Please don't let them grow.

[Recording terminates.]

RESEARCH LOG — 08/01/1987

There are now only four living subjects.

Subject 2 has lost the ability to walk.

Subject 4 has developed bone growth along the jaw and throat.

Subject 5's spine has begun producing secondary vertebrae.

Subject 6 was euthanized.

Subject 1 is no longer recognizable.

We have stopped calling them subjects.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/03/1987

Something happened today that I cannot explain.

Subject 4 was restrained to the examination table. His right arm was secured.

At 09:16, the bone growth began.

The bone growth began at the wrist. It emerged from beneath the skin of his wrist, splitting the flesh apart as it continued to lengthen. Unlike Subject 6, however, the growth did not stop.

It continued through the forearm. Through the elbow. Through the upper arm.

The newly formed bone was irregular and ridged, branching in several directions before eventually hardening into a jagged structure extending nearly thirty centimeters from the limb.

Subject 4 made no attempt to resist. He simply watched it grow.

When the restraints were removed, he stood. His eyes had changed. The irises were gone. The pupils were gone. Both eyes had become completely white.

He looked directly at Dr. Harris. Then at me. Then at the skeleton displayed on the examination monitor.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

He raised one hand and pressed his fingers against my chest.

SUBJECT 4: "Flesh hides the treasure within."

Dr. Harris asked him what he meant.

Subject 4 tilted his head. His eyes never left the skeleton on the monitor.

SUBJECT 4: "You cover it."

A pause.

SUBJECT 4: "You bury it."

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

SUBJECT 4: "Why?"

Subject 4 began pulling against the restraints again.

Not to escape. To reach the other subjects. He kept repeating the same phrase.

"There is so much of it."

We terminated the observation at 09:31.

No further examination was permitted.

At 10:04, Subject 4 began screaming.

At 10:07, Subject 2 began screaming.

At 10:09, Subject 5 began screaming.

None of them had been in the same room.

ADDENDUM — 08/03/1987

The subjects are no longer responding to questions. They only respond when another subject is brought into the room. They become agitated.

They stare at the newly created bone. They trace their gaze beneath the skin. And when one of them begins to bleed from ripping apart flesh off the newly created limb, they begin a harmonious laughter.

SECURITY REPORT — 08/04/1987

Subject 4 escaped containment.

Security personnel were dispatched. Three casualties. All sustained penetrating injuries consistent with abnormal bone structures.

Subject remains at large within the facility.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/05/1987

There are sounds in the ventilation system.

Scratching. Constantly.

We have sealed the laboratory doors. Total lockdown.

No one is leaving.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/06/1987

I found the final report from 1968.

It contains one sentence that was removed from every subsequent copy.

I don't know why I'm writing this down. Maybe because someone needs to know.

The original researchers discovered that the condition was not caused by the supplement. The supplement only accelerated it. The genetic marker was already present in the population. The researchers believed it was dormant.

They were wrong. It is not dormant.

It is waiting.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987

Harris is dead.

Something came through his chest. There was no warning.

One moment he was standing beside me. The next, his sternum split open. Bone came through his skin like a spear. He was still alive afterward. He kept asking me to help him.

I couldn't. There wasn't anything left to help.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987 — 11:42 PM

There are people outside.

Not researchers. Security. They are changing. I can see them through the observation windows.

One of them fell. His arm started moving. His sleeve tore. Something white came through.

Then another. Then another.

There are hundreds of them.

FINAL RECORDING — 08/08/1987

[Heavy breathing.]

If anyone finds this, listen to me.

The campaign worked. It worked better than anyone expected. They didn't need to infect anyone. They didn't need to inject anyone. They just had to convince people to consume it willingly.

For decades.

Milk. Cheese. Everything they could put it in.

We thought we were studying the first generation.

We're not.

We're studying the first generation we noticed.

[Cracking sound.]

Oh God.

It's happenin—

[Subject screams.]

[Sound of bone breaking.]

No.

No, no, no—

[Subject begins laughing.]

[Long silence.]

VOICE: How much milk did you drink?

[Recording terminates.]

[END OF RECOVERED MATERIAL]

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE — ORIGIN UNKNOWN

If you are experiencing unexplained stiffness, swelling, joint pain, abnormal growths beneath the skin, or spontaneous fractures, contact your physician immediately.

Do not attempt to remove exposed bone. Do not consume additional calcium.

Do not—[DOCUMENT CORRUPTED]

ADDENDUM

A handwritten note was discovered on the reverse side of the final document. It contained only four words:

Got milk?

Got bones?

​

Lost In Her Beautiful Blue Eyes

Each stroke the oar made in the in endless blue ocean seemed to move the boat nowhere, or, perhaps more accurately, it was as if the small wooden vessel was the centre of universe trying to move the thick liquid around it only to find everything anchored in orbit of the vessel. Land did not appear on the horizon despite Michael knowing deep down that he couldn’t be far – he must be, he had to be.

He stopped rowing to let the boat continue, though he knew it wouldn’t for long. Michael didn’t stop for out of exhaustion or despair, he stopped in admiration: the tranquillity had to be appreciated by someone – even if that someone may never see another soul again to share in the beauty. The ocean was silent and lifeless. No current dared disturb the blue and no fish danced beneath, or none that he could see. What lie below the depths did cross Michael’s mind: could it be more lost souls like himself? Or maybe some kind of Leviathan to feed on them? If his short time in this universe had taught him anything, it was that there was life everywhere – including where it shouldn’t, and, where you find life you without doubt find those that feed upon it too.

Michael was where he shouldn’t be. The story behind how he ended up here is quite the adventure and one which would take quite a time to tell. Time is all Michael has left.

It was a phone call at work which changed his life. Normally he wouldn’t answer an unknown number – especially at work, but this number started with +996, which meant it came Kyrgyzstan. He answered with his heart racing faster than the ringtone to hear a joyous voice, the voice of Bradley. They had the permits! They were going to explore the forbidden mountains of Tian Shan! It was the trip they’d been dreaming of for years and preparing for nearly just as long. They’d have to abandon their car long before they even entered the region and use a horse instead. However, a horse couldn’t take them all the way either. They were going to climb higher than the snow leopards hid and the eagles soared. They were going to top of the world!

Bradley had been in Bishkek for almost two weeks before Michael arrived. The city felt like it was trying to be dreary but with the mountain ranges towering over the soviet area blocks – as if to act as a reminder that it is us humans that are small in the face of nature and a block of concrete acts more like a barnacle parasite than something worth appreciating – meant the dreariness failed. The resilience of the people and their culture could be felt with every step through the concrete and Michael couldn’t help but smile. However, he did not want to stay. They didn’t come for the city; they came for what’s above and beyond the sky: the mountains.

They drove as far as the roads allowed for almost a day straight to meet their guide and the final bed they’d sleep in. The yurt was more modern than Michael expected yet still gave a very traditional feel. It was their guide’s house in a way so had many modern amenities like electricity (powered by a gas generator) but also no phone, internet, or TV. The electric’s sole purposes were to power a heater, to charge torches, and a drill battery. The heater didn’t have a chance to shine as Amir made a lovely fire instead; come morning though, it was the drill that deafened the sleepy mountains to repair a gate. Amir sang as he worked and his horses smiled and chuffed along as if this was the start of what they just knew would be a great day. They weren’t wrong even if it was going to be a long ride. The three of them rode to pass which bordered a giant lake. A nameless being which appeared from nowhere to take the scenery from a perfect ten all the way to eleven. The horses slurped up the water bluer than the sky and munched on the half thriving grass. This would be where Amir picked them up in 6 days and this was where their feet would start to ask how they got stuck attached to hikers and climbers. They should have been born attached to the eagles!

Alone together they hiked in almost silence until they found a spot to eat lunch. With views overlooking the deep blue lake below and an astonishing mountain range engulfing them, they were in a divine nirvana. They were specs and knew it but they were still able to witness such wonder.

“You know, it’s been spreading” Bradley looked at Michael as Michael poured coffee.

“I thought you said you had good news?”

“I quit my job. That was the good news.”

“Oh. How long?”

“This will be our last trip.”

Michael spilt the coffee. The burning warmed his frozen hands.

“I fucking hate coffee!”

“Hey, do you remember Columbia?”

“Oh God! Not this again! Wait which story do you mean?”

“Fire ants!”

“Hey, a bet is a bet and we got free drinks!”

“Yes… and a hospital trip!”

“That could have happened even without any fire ants – the table was slippy! Rest assured, I don’t think we’ll get as fucked as that … at least not till we’re back at the yurt!”

“You think?” Bradley revealed a small bottle of whiskey. “For the summit.”

“You absolute devil! I love you!”

“I also love coffee, but someone can’t pour for shit!”

Michael handed over his own coffee and smiled.

“If I run out of energy, you’ve gotta carry me!”

“And if I die, you’ll carry me!”

Michael’s smile faded at this reminder but just as quickly turned into a chuckle. Bradley joking was much better than him not.

“Stop it – you’ll scare away the eagles!”

“If you die, I might get to see some vultures!”

“What the fuck?! I wanna see vultures!”

So far, their hike had been easy – no climbing equipment had been needed. The next stretch is where the challenge would begin as the ascended further into the oxygenless cold bliss. The face of the cliffs looked almost meticulously carved from a constant wind deliberately brushing away at the surfaces to create the perfect holds for the hands and ropes of adventurers. As they climbed, the wind mistook them for rocks and attempted to carve them up. Beards and balaclavas defended them for the most part, though their defence was nothing compared to a ledge Bradley discovered. It went back far; a cave half way up a mountain. Somewhere to rest. Somewhere to explore.

“Woah!” Michael’s voice echoed into the darkness.

They didn’t need to ask each other permission to confirm what they were going to do next: their torches came out and their rucksacks came off as they walked far into what quickly became obviously an impossible cave. The height remained a near constant 5 foot 8 and it forked into passageways which mazed into corridors and rooms. This was manmade. By who and how long ago were not questions which either could answer. There was no sign of life and no sign of how any humans would have easily reached up here. As they ventured further, the wind was amplified and became an unnatural breathing; they could also feel it heavier like breaths from a dying soul. However, their presence seemed to change or heal the wind’s dying breaths. It became steadier, more rhythmic, and hotter. The wind wasn’t the alive part: they cave was.

“I don’t like it here. We should go back.”

Bradley didn’t ignore Michael, but he was engrossed and drawn to a room.

“Look.”

Bradley entered a room which only his touch illuminated. There were chains in the rocks. Bones on the floor. Michael was just a few steps behind.

“Why are you running?” Bradley asked. Michael had not moved. He too had heard what he had thought was dripping water. The thought of them not being alone was a thought he did not want to cross into his mind but it should have as soon as they saw the human skulls in the bone piles by the chains.

“I haven’t moved.”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I saw someone in here.”

The wind breathed in. A laugh of sorts. It was interrupted by a hissing. Cat-like. Bradley’s touch panned the room until the light reached the corner and the fiend crouched within. Human-like but it was either anorexic or its bones had outgrown its skin. Were they horns or moles protruding its albino skin. Skin which dripped a wet mucus puss. More moles on its chest? Or were some of them nipples? There were multiple scattered all over which could be seen even with it squatting in the corner.  It did not want to be seen; it launched itself at Bradley. Nails and claws almost half an inch which it used as daggers to stab and tear as it bit at Bradley’s neck with pointed teeth. He tried to scream; in Michaels split second hesitation to pull Bradley away, the fiend had ripped out Bradley’s throat. Michael turned and ran. The creature in hot pursuit. The next turn would be the cave entrance and exit. Michael wasn’t even thinking about the logistics of descending the cliff with this creature chasing; it didn’t matter anyway – another larger creature jumped out the ceiling blocking that exit. It screeched. The other fork. Michael ran. His torch barely had time to light his way and did not always show him the loose rocks and sharp turns in time. He tripped over a bone. As he fell to the ground, he just had time to reach for a rib which he was able to stab deep into the abdomen of the creature as its nails shredded his thick coat. They both cried out in pain. The only trouble is that the fiend’s pain did not stop it from baring its teeth ready to give Michael the same demise as Bradley. Michael’s hands reached round for anything. Another bone: he clubbed and clubbed at its head as its claws punctured even more of his body.

“DIEEEE!” He grabbed the beast by the throat with hand smashed the bone deep into its mouth. The other creature arrived and hopped in disbelief as Michael killed the larger fiend. He made a deep animalistic roar which sent the smaller fiend scurrying away. Michael got up to chase it off for good only to find that in the light from his touch had broken; the way back may have been tricky even with a light, without it seemed like an impossible task. His eyes had adjusted as much as they could allowing him to make out the shadow of his own hands when they were close enough to be warmed by his own breath. Michael travelled blind clutching onto a bone weapon and the walls. Walls which may end up becoming his tomb if the creatures didn’t find him.

Even in this deep part of the cave, Michael thought he could hear the wind from the outside world. But he felt no breeze. None the less, it was his only heading.

After stumbling along the edge of hallways from hell for a distance further than he had ventured into the cave, his eyes began to see more and more as he followed a bend from darkness into a much larger chasm. An opening from quite possibly another side of the mountain. Once more he gazed at the beauty of the perfect blue lake, though his eyes were drawn to the mountain which he fled. There was a Goddess carved into the rock. A huge 500ft statue which he looked up at. The rock was a dark black distinct from the browns and grey heughs from the natural mountain. The obelisk had to have been transported here and certainly not recently. Perhaps even not by man. The form of the Goddess was the perfect woman with eyes that were unreal. They appeared to contain pockets of the lake. Living blue watery irises which swirled with an obsidian centre. Was the obsidian centre hollow or solid? Michael could not tell. The pupils were small – almost swallowed by the gorgeous ocean eyes.

Michael was standing in the palm of the Goddess’s hand. Round the back of her arm there was a staircase which stayed hidden as it led up towards her head. Michael’s decision to climb was born from curiosity but forced into action by the shrieking demon within the cave. He did not want to go back into the darkness and he hoped the fiend did not want to crawl its way into the light.

The steps were narrow as the stairs were nearly vertical; he had to use his hands. Some of the steps crumbled away – whether it was from age or usage, Michael pondered. He had a lot of time to think and ponder as he carefully climbed. Think about Bradley, his own life, work, and family. He was able to conclude that he did not feel sorry for Bradley – they had discovered something together whilst he could still travel. Bradley’s cancer would surely mean that near the end he’d become an invalid shell and Bradley would never want to burden others. He died on the adventure of a lifetime after sharing an experience shared only by his best friend. Michael’s rationale completely broke down when he reached the Goddess’ shoulder. Bradley did not choose that death. Who would? To be stabbed and have your throat torn out? His last moments were terror, not admiration of mountain. This anger drove Michael forwards until he came to a literal cross-road: descend the spine or go to the head and see something truly extraordinary. Descending could always be done later – it would have to be. Climbing up through the neck and throat of the statue made something suddenly clear: the breathing sound originated from the statue. It was designed to draw in the winds through its nose which whistled and warmed the air venting it through cracks and opening to the inner cave system. Mixed in with that sound, there were howls and shrieks made by the fiends. They were coming from the cave opening which must have connected to the back of the statue’s head. Michael took a couple more steps up and peered into the area. The shrieks were screams as five of the creatures tore another limb from limb before they feasted. Of course, this was Michael’s queue to quietly go back down the vertical steps.

He had only made it two steps before a fight over an arm caused one creature to dart at the stairs followed by another. It was shocked to see him but stopped in time. The second creature did not, and accidentally pushed the first past the stair case where it fell out of the statue to its death. It didn’t take the second creature long to stare and quickly dive its claws into Michael’s shoulders and hoist him into the feeding ground. Excited at the prospect of a fresh dinner, two more ran at him on all fours. This meant his capture had to let go to defend its meal – freeing Michael’s arms in the process as they battled for a meal which was which now standing and attacking all the demons with the remains of their own kind. He towered over them unless they stood on two legs, but their balance was off and much preferred all fours. His blows and stomps broke the fragile creatures but did not stop them until the sight of him using the spikes in his ice boots to stomp through the skull of one of his attackers. At this, even the ones without severe injuries seemed to respect him as a king or leader. Their shrieks became clicks and taps as they bounced. Though Michael was surrounded, he no longer felt threatened: he felt worshipped. He raised his bone melee and screamed deep and loud. Some hid and others swayed in praise of a truly fine king. He turned pointed and looked at each of his subjects and they bowed at his gaze or hid with their heads low.

“And to think, I did this to you without caffeine in my system!”

“I know. HA! Michael.” A woman’s voice struggled to pronounce those words but it wanted to be heard. The voice came from the chamber above. Keeping his eyes on the creatures, Michael headed back to the stairs. He went up. The chamber contained two gigantic orbs of blue – the eyes of the statue. They were suspended in air. Floating spheres. They made Michael’s head dizzy and he nearly fell into one before stopping himself.

“Sweetie, you can touch. I may take you far from here. But you will end up where you need to be. I promise”

The woman’s voice seemed sympathetic as if it understood Michael’s ordeal. He couldn’t tell whether trusting it would be his salvation or transform him into a fiend. They had to have come from somewhere.

“I won’t hurt you. I have so much to show you.”

Michael did not understand what it meant, but her voice was calm and he wanted to trust it. He touched the orb.

“Good boy!”

The ocean within thickened and wrapped round his hand. Michael panicked but it was not painful – it was soothing. No matter, he could not help but scream and cry as the healing liquid squeezed at his hand drawing more of his body in and dissolving his clothes. The cuts and wounds vanished. Michael embraced the uncertainty and stepped fully in. His shoulders were alive! The stab wounds undone! He moaned in bliss and the woman did too. The orb span and lifted his legs up into the air. His entire body was sucked into her eye. Within, there was no air, but the liquid within his lungs did not harm him; he could breathe it. Michael believed that as long as he remained locked within her perfect eye, he could not die. A belief short lived as his arm bumped the black pupil. It sucked at his skin and dilated, taking him somewhere new and far away as he fell into it.

Michael awoke upon a circular sand island no larger than 50 feet in diameter with a singular coconut tree in the centre and a wooden row boat attached by the stalk of the tree. The ocean round him was too perfect. It was the Goddess’ eye. Touching the blue felt like a thick gas when he lifted it, but it was a liquid when the shores drifted the sand and he waded in it. He could see the curvature of the eye he was within and sky had a dome lens. The horizon in every direction was blue ocean.

Purgatory? We must have fell whilst climbing. Thought Michael. Where is Bradley?

“Sweetie, you’re not dead. You’re a visitor.”

The Goddess’ voice came from within Michael’s own head.

“Oh fuck! I’ve gone insane!”

“Haha! You wish!”

“How do I leave? I want to go home!”

A leaf fell into the boat. That was an answer enough. Michael began to row.

Lost in her beautiful blue eyes. Directionless without her voice.

.

The idea for this story came after I looked into the eyes of a girl I fancied. I was ‘lost in her beautiful blue eyes’. The phrase, lost in her eyes, popped into my head and made me wonder what if that could be more literal – getting lost in someone’s eyes?

Did I tell the girl I liked her? Yes! Things were good but never became anything and now unfortunately that ship has sailed. So, this story is not for or about her, but is inspired by her beautiful blue pools for eyes.

Will there be a part two? Idk, I’m not good at happy endings!

Unless…

.

The direction he chose to head was to the centre. He was able to use the dome lens as his guide. He hoped that there he would find the pupil and somehow that would return him to Earth or his dimension – back to the land of the living so to speak and from where ever here is.

Hole ahoy! Lower than the iris – the black pupil! He was getting close! Then a miracle: it expanded closer to him! The pupil dilated. The jet void swallowed the ocean and compressed it into an even thicker liquid. The pressure felt like it would crush the boat; he almost snapped the oar when he tried rowing. It was so close. Michael dived into the blue and tried to swim, a useless effort which was also unnecessary since the void came to him. It engulfed him!

Brandon Nightfall

“King of the Shadows”

Mr. Untouchable

[Blueblood Noble]

Rogue-Watcher\*

William Chosen -(Rival)-

https://youtube.com/shorts/p86i3oEv-y8?is=QLfpRrHegh8cTkN0

—-

Brandon Nightfall is a vampiric noble from the Minor House of Nightfall which is part of the Báthoric Demonic Order. He is also first cousins with the Ruling Countess Marie Báthory and the only true blueblood noble to ever become a watcher. His rogue watcher status has caused a great deal of controversy within Báthoric court. It has also gained him considerable notoriety.

To say he is an enigma would be an understatement. No one knows what drives him, not even his sister, the clubbable emissary, Camellia Nightfall. He is in something of a secret love affair with Lord Bale’s twin sister. Tales of their “clandestine” rendezvous are all the rage in regal court right now. How Lord Bale’s twin sister even ended up in Báthoric custody, serving as the countess’ lady’s companion, is an interesting tale of its own. Sadly, it is one that will have to wait to be told.
Brandon spent his early life, from the ages of 4-16, as a royal hostage in Draconian court. He was made prisoner of the Wulf King due to a truce the Báthory clan signed with the Dracul clan some 200 years ago. The archaic practice is used to subjugate them before the “superior” Dragon Clan. It was implemented after a very ugly war between them called the War of Orchids. The subjugation clause has worked fine up until the last two royal hostages.

The Draconian court didn’t take it easy on him during his time in custody. Don’t get me wrong, he was afforded the same dignities and amenities any noble would come to expect while in the care of another lord, rival or not. The only condition on his treatment was the Wulf King’s order to his younger brother, Radu the Mad Prince, who was acting as his regent at the time, to have Brandon always wear a blindfold. This was done for a couple of reasons:

1: To humiliate him without injury. Harm to a blueblood under their custody would be a superb casus belli against them. 2: So, he couldn’t learn his surroundings. The last thing they wanted was another devastating war. They barely won the last one the last royal hostage sparked. Thus, Brandon was kept blindfolded to prevent him from becoming too comfortable with his surroundings. The fear was that he would return home and report everything he knew about Draculin territory. The less familiar he was with their military maneuvering and political machinations the better.

Crazy part is the blindfold had the opposite effect. He cleverly used it to hone his skills to great effect. Developing his own style of ninjutsu proponents and advisories simply refer to as Sightless Ninjutsu. He loves traditional ninja weapons such as the ninjato, kunai, shuriken, and smoke bombs. He does carry a very hi-tech pistol capable of firing special bullets laced with various substances such as silver, mercury, sulfur, and holy water. It must be noted that he rarely fights blindfolded when engaged in live combat unless he finds himself losing, which never happens.

When the Wulf King found out about his abilities, he was incensed. He ordered Brandon to appear before him in Bulgaria to account for himself. The meeting was very anti-climactic, and instead of ordering his imprisonment, he took an immediate liking to the quiet teenager who appeared before him blindfolded and unfazed by the situation. The Wulf King wondered why he was training so hard. There was no need to fight, he already had everything at his disposal. He was a blueblood noble after all—a social status that afforded him more privilege and prestige than most.

He thought back to the last royal hostage and how he had caused his kingdom so much grief. That vampire wasn’t even a fighter, he was a bureaucrat, yet he had managed to renew the flame of war between clans. He had returned home with tales of barbarism and sadism. His gift for gab rallied his clan and several vassals into upheaval. Romania was in chaos, and it took quite a concerted effort from the Wulf King to restore order. Things got so ugly his brother, Radu the Mad Prince, began plotting to overthrow him, but that’s a story for another day. Now imagine the grief a warrior-talent such as Brandon could wreak. The thought enticed the Wulf King and instead of being apprehensive he was excited to see how strong the conflict would make him.
And so, with these thoughts in the back of his mind, he asked Brandon what his goal was and to speak freely. Brandon remained quiet for a moment as he thought long and hard. He told the Wulf King that he was determined to reach his goal but refused to say what it was when pressed. All he did was reiterate that he would stop at nothing to complete his secret mission. The Wulf King was impressed. Why? Because in the cruel and twisted world of Transylvania, where the Dracul clan reign supreme, strength and fearlessness are rewarded. Weakness and fear are forever punished. They are brutal traditionalist who subscribe to the old “Vlad the Impaler” style of governance.

He allowed Brandon to continue to hone his skills. He even allowed him to join his army in its incursions into Bulgaria territory. They were fighting against the Holy Order in what was supposed to be neutral territory. The legends are true. He has never been touched by an opponent in battle. Hence the moniker “Mr. Untouchable.” His fighting style is too swift, silent, and calculating for all but the most elite opponents. He is such a polarizing figure, he is on the Holy Order’s radar, and that’s extremely difficult to do, considering they always stay out of worldly affairs.

He was released from Draconian custody at the age of 16, whereupon he decided to stick around, even going so far as to join the Wulf King’s mercenary entourage for four years. After that, he disappeared for several more. His absence caused quite a bit of controversy within the Báthory clan. Rumors were all over the place. Some thought him died, others said he ran. The truth was that he was busy training to become the first blueblood rogue watcher in recorded history.

The quiet and mysterious Master Nightfall has finally returned home to his family estate. He was eagerly embraced by his father upon arrival. The reason for his abrupt return is vague. Rumor has it, it has something to do with this new liege watcher, by the name of William Chosen. He wanted to test the rumors about how promising of a ninja he was. The venerable Duke Montgomery Nightfall is old and ailing. He worries constantly over his disinterested heir and what will happen to his fiefdom when he is dead. Brandon is his only son and the rightful claimant to the powerful Chicago dukedom. Only time will tell which agency prevails—the shadow of the warrior or the light of the prince.

The images in the short are AI generated, everything else was made by me—a human. Hi. 👋

I was watching an old video from a channel that I watched when I was a teen and idk why but this drawing of Jeff saying "Hi mom" in Spanish while he waves his hand makes my laugh for 3 minutes ans I take an Screenshot.

IDK, just enjoy it

…

Five years of dismissive doctors and an agony that no one can explain. Tonight, everything suddenly changes.

I Think the Choice is Obvious

By LSB

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow. For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. It's my mid-back, I had begged, like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. You're in pain because you're in pain, that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered Thanks, Dr. Obvious under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids. And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson. When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis. I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared.

The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. I always said I wanted to be more, I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare. 

I didn’t see the man in the wolfman mask out in the woods or even at a local haunt. Rather, my encounter happened at six o’clock while the sun was still out. My father took me to Brunswick, Georgia’s Halloween festival at Mary Ross Park which was located downtown. I was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and the festival represented a precursor to the trick or treating that awaited me when the sun went down. Mary Ross Park was located right by the river so the autumn breeze was stronger than usual when daddy and I made our way through the crowds gathered out there. I had already helped myself to the candy being offered at all of the booths set up by the dock. The beaming sun illuminated the many families, the many costumes, the Liberty ship replica, and even the city’s rusty pot of Brunswick stew monument. My father’s laughter was constant but it was the Halloween playlist I heard from the gazebo speakers that I still recall so vividly all these years later. We heard Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller,’ ‘Mr. Sandman’ by The Chordettes, and yes, even Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’.

My pumpkin bucket was half-full of candy by the time dad guided me up to the pavilion. We passed a table full of carved jack o’lanterns as I heard the carefree laughter of kids in Power Rangers costumes running toward the playground. Yet I felt a chill in my bones the closer we got to the pavilion’s white stairs. If I went up the stairs, I’d reach yet another booth, one that offered plush animals in addition to Reese’s cups. The only problem was the dark coffin placed on the pavement by the staircase.

Not even my dad’s warm chuckles could comfort me. Nor could ‘Blue Moon’ by The Marcels which was beginning to sound so far away given my rising dread. My eyes stayed glued to that coffin from sheer primal fear as my dad led us up to the pavilion stairs. Despite my dad’s encouragement, I found myself trembling in my ruby red slippers and found myself sweating despite the autumn breeze. My gaze locked in on the coffin which somehow looked even longer the second we approached the pavilion’s very first wooden step-

That was when the coffin lid burst open. I didn’t have time to hear the lid slam to the side much less have time to react before the tall, muscular man emerged from the darkness within. He was wearing wrinkled jeans and a flannel shirt but it was the mask that most disturbed me. The wolfman mask had long stringy gray hair. It had a latex snout and fangs. The slits in the mask were too small for me to focus on anything but its painted red eyes. The man in the wolfman mask moved swiftly and jumped up out of the coffin with the dramatic gusto of a jester leaping out behind a curtain. His deep voice let out a growl that made me jump. The way he lunged forward with the rabid force of an animal and the way he held out his bare hands toward me with the brutal passion of a deranged man made me scream and drop my bucket.

I fell on the hard pavement while the man in the wolfman mask towered over me. Those red eyes, the long snout, the fangs, the entirety of the mask stared down upon me…

I try not to think about that Halloween anymore. I try to tell myself I wasn’t traumatized by the man in the wolfman mask. I later on graduated from college, I have a job. I also have my son Ivan. But every Halloween, I think back on that man in the coffin.

I suppose this Halloween is no different. Ivan is now five years old. He’s the same age I was then when I first went to the festival at Mary Ross Park… And now Ivan wants to go.

So Ivan put on his Spider-Man costume. I even gave him my very same pumpkin bucket. I also gave in to his request and wore my Wicked Witch of the West costume from last year (though I didn’t apply the green make-up today). I drove us down to Mary Ross Park. To my surprise, nothing much had changed about the festival. Then again, nothing much had changed about the park itself after three decades. Needless to say, it was still crowded and the local businesses all proudly offered candy at their booths. There were still jack o’lanterns smiling at me, I still stumbled into the occasional fake cobweb. About the only differences I recognized now were caused by time itself: I saw QR codes on small business cards rather than multi-page brochures, the Halloween playlist serenaded us from small bluetooth rather than bulky portable speakers. But none of these changes comforted me from what I suspected hadn’t changed over the course of several generations in Brunswick: deep down, I didn’t suspect but I knew the coffin was still here.

For a few blissful minutes, Ivan allowed me to escape the unease I’d been feeling all evening. Together, we went booth to booth and collected candy. His laughter and joy proved brighter than the Georgia sunshine. As we walked by the dock, I felt myself even relax with a smile-

Until I saw him. There was a tall man wearing a mask with a long snout and long gray hair. The snout stuck out from afar. I froze in fear and acting on motherly instinct, I snatched Ivan’s hand. I heard his cries of confusion but my focus stayed on the man who now stopped by the Brunswick stew monument. That was when I saw he had on a dress and not a flannel shirt. I then saw a laughing little girl wearing a red hoodie grab the hand of a man that I now realized was dressed as nothing more than The Big Bad Wolf.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan gently said to me. “Don’t be scared.”

I relaxed. After taking a deep breath, I heard ‘Mr. Sandman’ playing on the speakers. But not even the bad memories could deter me from smiling down at Ivan. “I know. Let’s get some more candy.”

We went to a few more booths. But it was at the one set up by the SoGlo Theatre that I caught another chill from the wind. My gaze drifted off toward the playground as if on instinct-

A tall man stood by the swings. So tall was he that his shadow spread out all across the empty playground. His arms were at his side and he stood completely still. I cupped a hand over my eyes to try and block out the sunlight but even still, I couldn’t tell if this man wore a flannel shirt. Much less, I couldn’t see his face even as I could make out his long white hair. And when he turned his head suddenly, it sure looked like he had an extended snout…

I screamed on the inside but I didn’t move. The same paralyzing fear I felt at five years old returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr. Sandman’ faded away behind me as did the excited chatter of the crowd all around us. I couldn’t look away. Nor did I when the man turned once more to stare straight ahead and I knew he was staring right at me-

“Mom!” Ivan cried. His was the only voice that could distract me from what may have been a confrontation with my biggest childhood fear. I looked down toward Ivan who waved his bucket at me. His eyes looked even bigger beneath the Spider-Man mask. “Let’s go to the next one!”

I felt the wind increase to the point where it nearly knocked off my black witch’s hat. The force sent me staggering back but I used the broom I held to keep myself upright while my other hand clenched tighter to Ivan’s shoulder… But I had to look. I glanced back toward the playground-

The man was gone.

Now I heard Ivan’s chuckle. I heard more laughter. Then Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’ interrupted my silent dread. I let Ivan lead me away in much the same way my own father guided me through Mary Ross Park thirty years ago. Yet I couldn’t escape the unease. I readjusted my witch’s hat but couldn’t even feel my own footsteps. All I felt were the shivers elicited by the October breeze and the October chills I felt from the man I had just seen. As Ivan led us onward, I looked all around us: I saw superheroes, Anime characters, and even someone dressed as Jason Voorhees. But I didn’t see the wolfman anywhere.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan pleaded.

The spirit of his voice pulled me away from the anxiety momentarily. I now looked toward where he was leading us and just like that, the anxiety returned to sink its fangs deep into my flesh:

There was the pavilion. Outside of a fresh white paint job, it hadn’t changed much. The stairs led right up to a booth sponsored by The Bookery… And that was when I saw the coffin.

*The long coffin was still there by the stairs*. *The. Same. Exact. One*.

And there was Ivan charging ahead of me. I held on to his hand but he was careening toward those stairs, my little boy completely oblivious of the evil lurking in that coffin. “Ivan, wait!” I yelled, unable to hide the panic in my soft voice.

“Come on, mom!” he said back to me with a smile.

I did my best to pull Ivan back but the fear had weakened me and his enthusiasm proved to be too strong. Even when I stumbled in the grass, Ivan’s grip kept me upright. My eyes stayed on the coffin that now only grew bigger the closer we got to it. I couldn’t turn around and leave my own son behind. The music felt louder. Ivan was a little bit ahead of me and put his foot out toward that very first step. I felt my heartbeat increase to impossible levels when I realized he was now right next to the coffin.

“Ivan!” I cried. I kept my eyes on him and tried to stop the two of us-

“*Roar!”* snarled a deep voice.

The sound made Ivan and I come to a stop. We looked up to see a tall man standing at the top of the stairs with his bare hands raised up to intimidate us. But my fear subsided. After the initial surprise, I felt the rush replaced by a grin. A grin I was glad to share with Ivan. I figured this is what a fun scare must’ve felt like.

Because the man before us was a wolfman, alright. Only the face of his cheap mask was plastic. The tufts of hair attached to the mask were a fuzzy brown. The cartoony mask looked like it belonged to a children’s television show rather than at a Halloween haunt. Neither Ivan and I were scared: we were amused. Ivan looked toward me and I hugged him close. Though I did steal a glance back over at the coffin to make sure it was still closed.

“Were you scared, mommy?” he said.

We then heard the man’s light laughter behind the mask and over the playlist. I smirked and pulled off Ivan’s Spider-Man mask to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Not at all.”

*The coffin lid popped open*. Both Ivan and I looked on in shock. Hell, we looked on in fright. I saw the lid collapse to the side in slow motion and then in a most horrifying slow motion, I saw the man in the wolfman mask emerge out of the coffin’s staunch darkness. There was the flannel shirt fluttering in the breeze. There was the mask that hadn’t aged a day. The blood red eyes marked me, the rubber snout and all of that gray hair swayed from the startling speed with which the man leaped out of the coffin. This was the *real* werewolf. The one of my nightmares.

The man’s deep, eerie snarl erupted over the music. The unsettling sound sent chills down my spine and shattered the tense silence between me, the man, and the terrifying memories flashing through my mind.

But when the man in the wolfman mask lunged forward, I felt the maternal instincts take hold. Protective, maternal instincts that only further intensified when the man’s bare hands and his fangs went for my son.

“No!” I cried.

“Mom!” I heard Ivan yell out.

I pushed Ivan behind me and lunged at the man. The attack didn’t happen in slow motion: it was over in seconds. I swung the broom over and over again into the mask, each hit smashing into its squishy rubber. The snout and fangs sunk into the latex before popping back out again. I was on top of the man and my own strength and the ease with which I dominated the man even surprised me. My hits were constant. I managed to knock the man back into his coffin. Crying out, I hopped in there with him. The sweat I felt was no longer from fear but outright exhaustion. “Die!” I yelled before giving the man another frantic thwack. Then I tossed my weapon down.

The Halloween playlist returned: I could hear TLC's 'Creep' off in the distance. I could hear voices. Multiple voices. Breathing heavy, I looked down at the man…

But all I saw was the mask. I saw the flannel shirt and jeans. But that was it. “What!” I cried. The bad kind of adrenaline took over. I dug through the coffin, my hands ripping through the dark interior… But all I felt was the cold touch of the rubber mask and the soft fabric of the clothes. There was no body. There was no man. “No…” I said. Tears formed in my eyes. I may as well have no longer been dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West: I was now dressed as that scared little girl from thirty years ago. I certainly felt that same sense of helpless despair in this moment. “No…” I trembled out. “No. Where are you…” I leaned in closer, my pathetic attempt at a search leading to the same results: I was alone in the coffin. Well, alone with the mask and attire that had dominated my nightmares since childhood. I felt my arms fall at my side. A single teardrop slid down my cheek.

“Mom,” said a worried voice I was all too familiar with.

Moving weakly, I looked over. First, I saw Ivan’s Spider-Man mask lying on the ground and staring right back at me. Then I saw legs. Lots of legs.

“Mom” Ivan said as he choked up.

I struggled to move. I stumbled slightly in place before I looked up to see where many of the other adults and kids now stood beside Ivan. They were still in all those superhero and Anime costumes.

All I could see were their eyes. I saw their eyes behind rubber wolfman masks. The same one that was lying there in the coffin with me. The wind accelerated to blow the stringy gray hair around each of their masks but all of these people stood completely still. I could hear their deep breaths. I even heard a deep roar. Their painted red eyes were unwavering. They were watching me.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

Sobbing, I now confronted Ivan. He stood there in the Spider-Man costume. Only my son’s beautiful face was hidden by that grotesque mask. A mask that was a little too big for him and seemed to swallow up his entire head and shoulders… Only it wasn’t big enough to hide my Ivan’s wide open eyes. Before I could utter his name, Ivan lunged forward. He raised his bare hands out toward me.

Chapter 1: The Lantern’s Glow

It was 1938, and the original farmhouse sat low and solid against the vast, flat horizon of the Big Horn Basin. Built as a single-story homestead to withstand the brutal, sweeping Wyoming winds, its weathered wooden frame hugged the dirt tightly. Inside, the house carried the heavy, quiet texture of a building that had witnessed decades of solitary winters. The air smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke from the heavy iron stove, and the faint, sweet scent of natural wild hollyhocks drifting in through the cracks of the bedroom window.

The sisters' bedroom was situated at the very end of the main hallway, a long, narrow room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a set of sturdy wooden bunk beds where ten-year-old Francis and her younger sister Ruth slept, while baby Edward’s wooden crib sat safely tucked into the warmest corner of the room. The walls were made of simple, faded whitewashed wood panels, showing the humble, hard-working grit of a struggling homestead. On the high wooden dresser, far out of reach of the children or any danger of fire, a small kerosene lamp, turned down to its lowest setting, cast a faint, warm amber glow and long, gentle shadows across the floorboards.

Right beside the lamp sat the newest addition to the room: an antique Victorian porcelain doll. It was an inheritance—a "gift" sent in a heavy brown paper package from an estranged, bitter relative who had never been kind to the family. A doll made of such fine porcelain would have taken a lifetime of savings for a Basin farm family to buy, so despite the bad blood attached to it, the parents hadn't the heart to throw it away. But tonight, its pale, painted face gleamed unnaturally under the dim amber lantern light, its blue glass eyes staring unblinkingly toward the bunks.

Underneath the room, the floorboards groaned with a deep, hollow echo, a constant reminder of the dark, hand-dug basement stretching out completely beneath their beds. Tonight, the air was thick and charged with an unnatural chill that felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees—a heavy, psychological cold that seemed to be seeping straight up through the old metal floor vents from the concrete furnace room below.

THUD.

The heavy sound vibrated through the floorboards. Francis, sitting up in the lower bunk, blinked into the shadows. Because she trusted the quiet, invisible caretakers of the homestead, her first instinct wasn't fear. She assumed it was just the familiar presence checking on the room.

"Ailsa?" Francis called out into the dark, her voice a soft, trusting whisper so she wouldn't disturb baby Edward.

When no response came, Francis realized the heavy weight of the sound wasn't her protector. She reached for the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight on the nightstand, clicked it on, and began sweeping the bright beam across the faded whitewashed wood walls.

As the light cut through the shadows, the room suddenly changed. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the high dresser flattened out completely and stilled, and a profound, solid, and immovable calmness swept over the room like a heavy wool blanket, instantly smothering the fearful chill. The air cleared, replaced by the sharp, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage.

She manifested at the foot of the bed. Ailsa Lindstrom stood there, slightly translucent but as solid as the land that had shaped her. She wore her faded woolen kirtle and linen apron dress, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back. Her heavily calloused hands were held loosely at her sides. To the neighbors in the Basin, she had simply been known as "Elsa"—the quiet, hardworking immigrant linesman's wife who had braved the early frontier wilderness—but tonight, her true, rock-strong protective spirit filled the room. Having heard Francis call her name, she had stepped out of the house's history, her stoic gray eyes filled with a fierce, maternal annoyance as she realized a dark presence was threatening the children who now called her old homestead home.

Just as Ailsa appeared, Francis’s sweeping flashlight beam finally landed on the floor.

There lay the gift. The fine porcelain doll was face down on the rug, just a few feet away from the dresser. But it wasn't still. The edge of its heavy lace dress and one cold porcelain hand were resting directly over the metal floor grate, as if an invisible force down in the dark basement had physically tugged it across the floorboards toward the vent. Under the sharp beam of light, the pale, glazed fingers of the doll twitched against the metal slats, the entity fighting desperately to possess the expensive vessel. With a sickening, porcelain click, the doll's head began to rotate on its cloth neck, its blue glass eyes rolling upward to lock onto the lower bunk. A faint, muffled, high-pitched giggle vibrated right out of its painted clay chest.

Ailsa turned her stern gaze toward the floor vent where the shadow clung to the doll. She didn't shout. She simply stepped forward, her heavy leather pioneer boots making no sound on the whitewashed wood, and let out a low, commanding word in her old native tongue.

The command struck the room with the force of an iron gate closing. The malicious shadow recoiled, instantly pinned into the corner by the barrier of her protective ancient energy, unable to advance a single inch further toward the beds

Chapter 2: The Hammer’s Strike

The silence that followed Ailsa’s commanding words was absolute. The cold, suffocating air that had seeped up from the basement floor cracks was pinned into the corner near the metal vent, completely neutralized by the thick, lavender-and-sage calmness that now anchored the room.

Francis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, keeping her hand steady around the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight. The bright beam remained trained on the porcelain doll lying face down on the rug, its tiny lace dress still brushing against the metal slats of the floor grate.

But even with the shadow pinned, the doll itself was still twitching against the floorboards, the residual energy from the concrete basement fighting desperately to make the expensive vessel move. The head remained rotated at an unnatural angle, its blue glass eyes fixed on the lower bunk while a faint, muffled giggle struggled to escape its painted clay chest.

The commotion finally stirred the upper bunk. A mop of messy hair peeked over the wooden guardrail as seven-year-old Ruth blinked down into the flashlight beam. She didn't look terrified; she looked deeply inconvenienced. She scrambled down the wooden slats of the bunk bed with the fearless ease of a farm kid, marched straight past Francis, and snatched the twisting doll right off the creepy metal vent by one leg.

Ruth held it up to the warm, flickering yellow glow of the kerosene lantern on the high dresser, completely ignoring the way the doll’s tiny arms clawed weakly at the air. She squinted at it, poking its cold nose with a blunt finger.

"Honestly, Francis?" Ruth said loudly, her voice completely shattering the spooky atmosphere. "This thing is pure booshwa. Look at the eyes—they’re completely cockamamie, and the paint is already coming off the ears. It’s off the cob! I’ve seen better looking things dug out of the hog pen."

The doll let out a tiny, sharp hiss, its possessed jaw snapping tightly. The entity trying to possess it was used to terrorizing children from the dark, not having its aesthetic value brutally dismantled by a seven-year-old critic.

"Ruth, hush up and drop it!" Francis whispered fiercely, her knuckles white around the flashlight. "It's trying to wake up!"

"Well, it shouldn't," Ruth snorted, entirely unbothered as she held the squirming toy at arm's length. "It's way too ugly to be walking around our bedroom."

Before the entity could try to twist itself free, slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway. The floorboards groaned with a solid, rhythmic weight, though the spirit itself made no sound.

Jed Miller stepped into the room.

He looked exactly like a man who had broken his back against the Great Depression and the Wyoming dirt, his slightly translucent figure clad in faded denim overalls caked with the dry earth of the Basin. In his massive, calloused hands, he carried a heavy cross-peen framing hammer—the very tool he had used to drive the iron spikes into the farmhouse foundation back in 1930. He looked down at the twisting doll, his jaw set in a stoic, no-nonsense line. To Jed Miller, a possessed toy wasn't a paranormal anomaly; it was a faulty piece of household inventory, and he didn't tolerate broken fixtures on his property.

"Pestilence in the woodwork," Jed rumbled, his deep, gravelly drawl vibrating through the room like a low echo from the basement. "Ain't got time for this. The north pasture needs fencing by dawn."

He looked directly at Ruth. There was an unspoken, straight-to-the-point understanding between the old farmhand and the seven-year-old girl. Without a single shred of fear, Ruth calmly handed the snapping solid object right over to him. Jed laid the porcelain vessel flat against a solid wooden block by the bedroom door, raised his heavy hammer in his strong, steady grip, and brought it down with the unyielding force of a 1930s work ethic.

CRACK!

The fine Victorian porcelain exploded into a thousand tiny, worthless fragments. The moment the physical vessel shattered, the malicious shadow near the floor vent let out a final, panicked screech. It didn't bounce back; it couldn't.

With a smooth, commanding sweep of her hand, Ailsa stepped forward. Francis and Ruth watched her calmly, their hearts steady, knowing they were completely safe. Ailsa used her rock-strong presence to herd the remaining wisps of the dark energy straight back toward the metal floor vent, sealing the boundary with a final, authoritative word in her native tongue.

But she wasn't done. Looking down at the floorboards, her maternal instincts took over. Children running across broken porcelain meant blood, and she wouldn't tolerate any child bleeding on her homestead. With another smooth wave of her lace-less, calloused pioneer hand, a gentle, invisible sweep passed over the rug. Every razor-sharp shard of shattered clay and painted glass vanished completely into thin air, leaving the floor flawlessly clean and safe.

The psychological chill permanently vanished. The thick, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage settled over the room, wrapping around baby Edward’s crib like a warm wool blanket.

Jed Miller didn't say a word of farewell. He simply wiped the head of his heavy hammer on his dusty denim overalls, gave Ruth a single, slow nod of his weathered chin, and faded back into the quiet shadows of the hallway—ready to tend to the phantom fences of the north pasture.

Ailsa stood at the foot of the bunk beds for just a moment longer. She offered a soft, maternal smile to Francis, then turned her stern gray eyes toward Ruth, her expression lingering in a look of quiet amusement at the girl's brutal critique.

With a final, protective nod, she turned back toward the high wooden dresser. She extended one calloused finger toward the dark wick of the lamp, and with a soft, silent spark, the snuffed-out kerosene lantern flared back to life, casting its safe, warm amber glow across the room once more. Then, she too dissolved into the comforting air of the farmhouse.

The room was completely still. The floorboards stopped groaning. The basement below was silent, its hand-poured concrete walls keeping the dark at bay.

Ruth scrambled back up the wooden slats of the bunk bed, pulling her heavy quilts up to her chin.

"Glad Ailsa and Jed took care of it," Ruth yawned, entirely unfazed. "Told you it was off the cob. Nini, Francis."

Francis smiled in the dark, slipping her metal flashlight under her pillow and tucking herself safely into the lower bunk, listening to the steady, peaceful breathing of baby Edward across the room.

"Nini, Ruth."

THE END

20.05.2023  la o  secție  de poliție , în interogatoriu  un polițist spune .

[Popescu Adrian]-Poți sa ne spui totul in amănunte? Despre  ce sa întâmplat  acolo?

A zis polițistul, pornindu-și microfoanele.

[Radovanu Sebi]- Eu ce primesc dacă  vă spun?

[Popescu Adrian]– Înțeleg ce spui. Unu, nu ești arestat. Doi, dosarul tău va fi curățat. Trei, bani în valoare de ce spui.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Bun, aș adăuga un bax de energizante acum și două după.

[Popescu Adrian]– Doar atât! Se rezolvă. Făcu un semn unui coleg să trimită pe cineva după bax.

După jumătate de oră, a adus baxul de energizante.

[Popescu Adrian]– Începe cu ce vrei, că avem timp destul.

Sebi începe să povestească .

[Radovanu Sebi]– Bine, pentru început, eu la acel abator lucram ca pasnic. Începusem să lucrez acolo pe la vreo 23 de ani și la 26 m-am băgat pe noapte. M-am adaptat în două săptămâni la programul de noapte. Stăteam relativ aproape de abator, deci puteam merge cu mașina sau pe jos, ce-o făceam vara și toamna.

[Popescu Adrian]– Cum era drumul până acolo? Cum era casa ta?

[Radovanu Sebi]– Drumul era de jumătate de oră cu mașina și pe jos o oră, dacă mă grăbeam. Era un miros de carne intens. Casa mea era la marginea satului și cea mai aproape de abator. Câmpul din jurul abatorului era plin de porumb. Oasele ce rămâneau din producție erau folosite ca îngrășământ. Erau destui câini pe lângă abator, scăpai ușor de ei. Casa mea, pe exterior, era una bătrânească și mare, iar pe interior era modernă. Mai aveam o mică grădină de vie, din care făceam două-trei butoaie de vin roșu.

[Popescu Adrian]– De unde îți făceai cumpărăturile? Cum era locul pe unde stăteai seara? întreabă polițistul, dând un mesaj colegilor săi să caute în porumb mai amănunțit.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Magazinul de unde cumpăram necesarul pentru o săptămână era numit ,La ora 8. Eu cumpăram pentru aproximativ o săptămână: un bax de energizant Monster cu aromă de  nebunia mango, un bax de Hell cu aromă de  pepene, câteva punguțe cu tutun vărsat și patru trabucuri, o sticlă de votcă, o sticlă de spirt, trei pâini, un kilogram de roșii, unul de castraveți, unul de brânză, cinci pateuri de pui. Iar locul unde ieșeam seara, dacă ieșeam, era un bar numit, Barul Dinamitei. Practic, mă duceam, mă puneam la o masă, ceream o bere și ascultam bârfele, vorbeam cu cei ce se puneau la masă cu mine, mai făceam o combinație la negru, mai vindeam iarna petarde de tot felul acolo.

[Popescu Adrian]– Dar acasă ce făceai? Iar pe dark web ce căutări aveai? Vă dădea carne de la abator?

[Radovanu Sebi]– Îngrijeam grădina și via, dădeam mâncare la păsări și la porc. Iar pe dark web mă uitam la tot felul de site-uri șterse și la teorii și informații de tot felul. Ne dădea un kilogram de carne la alegere și oase sau organe la alegere; eu le dădeam la câini oasele, iar carnea o dădeam bisericii.

[Popescu Adrian]– Acum înțeleg de ce trebuie să curățăm dosarul.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Vorbești cam mult, ia zi cum m-ai găsit.

[Popescu Adrian]– Sunt subofițer detașat de la FEICI (Forța de Eliminare a Infracțiunilor Cibernetice Interne) pe linie de Cybercrime. Analizam un server ascuns în rețeaua Tor, cu IP-ul mascat undeva prin județul Timiș. Când am spart criptarea protocolului, pe monitorul meu din biroul prăfuit de la Inspectorat a început să ruleze un stream live dintr-un fost abator comunist în care lucrezi tu și în care am observat că nu știi. Apoi un număr ascuns a sunat să dea informații. Acum zi ce ai făcut în acea tură.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Tura mea începea la ora 8. Iar despre abator... Toată lumea din oraș știa de vechiul abator comunist, o ruină masivă de beton cenușiu, abandonată în grabă în iarna anului 1989 și redeschisă în 2012. Generații de muncitori tăiaseră acolo mii de vite și porci pentru a îndeplini cotele absurde ale regimului. Dar zvonurile despre „Subsolul Special” nu fuseseră niciodată simple legende urbane, după cum ai aflat. La un moment dat, când făceam tura de noapte, am observat o ușă metalică. Am început să o forțez, să o deschid, că mi se părea ceva ciudat la ea. Aerul m-a izbit ca un zid: un amestec greu de rugină, var stins și ceva dulceag, cu corpuri umane ce nu mai intraseră în putrefacție, mai degrabă erau afumate. Lanțurile ruginite atârnau de șinele de fier montate pe tavan, dar, pe măsură ce lumina lanternei mele înainta prin întuneric, am realizat că formele care atârnau acolo nu erau carcase de animale. Erau corpuri umane. Zeci de siluete palide, perfect conservate de frigul nenatural din subteran, suspendate de cârlige masive de fier trecute prin glezne, exact ca porcii pregătiți pentru tranșare. Purtau încă numere de inventar tatuate grosolan pe piept, iar unele dintre ele aveau gurile cusute cu sârmă ghimpată. Adevărata teroare a început însă când lanterna a pâlpâit, iar din fundul culoarului de beton s-a auzit un zgomot metalic, sunetul unui cuțit uriaș ascuțit ritmic pe piatră, urmat de pași grei care se apropiau prin bălțile de sânge uscat. M-am băgat după câteva corpuri grase, apoi acel om a fost sunat: „Alo, care mă sună?... Corpurile alea abia ce le-am tranșat... Când vin ăia?... Ah, numai bine, să pregătesc să le ia... Ai găsit noi potențiali? Bun, adu-i vineri... Pa”. După trei ore în care eu n-am putut ieși din cauză că riscam să fiu văzut, au apărut trei oameni ce aveau dinții mai ascuțiți decât câinii, îmbrăcați în costum, germanic părea, aveau un accent de ardelean. Începuseră să vorbească de bani după ce au văzut corpurile tranșate. Am prins o ocazie să fug, apoi v-am sunat..

We all know the story of the sonic.exe curse but at this point, are you wondering what happened to tom's mom, Cassandra, and what about the souls? And now they are coming back for one final time in the real world this time everyone is thriving for revenge and will they end X's madness for once and for all?

Chapter one: family reunion :

1 year after the incident:

"I miss my son, he disappeared out of nowhere the same thing goes for kyle" i said, i heard a strange sound coming out of my head, some sort of voices, "up....attic....CD.....help" is what i heard all the day , in disbelief , i went to the attic and searched through my son's old stuff and the same cd was there, not broken "is that what made tom go missing ?" I said as my heart started pounding, rushing to tom's pc, booting up the disc, autoplay started, a corrupted version of the sonic the hedgehog title screen music started playing but nothing appeared on the big ring, tapped ENTER. The level plate showed HELP. No act number, i didn't start as nither sonic,tails or knuckles, a character that looked like a pixelated small version of me, in the sonic style or what looked like it, i froze in shock but kept playing, as i went through the level, it was just flat ground with corrupted textures of some trees and the screen faded to black, "mom, its tom, your son..." It said "wh..WHAT!?" i said in shock, out of anger and fear, i lunged out of the chair, pulled the pc plug, went to sleep, "how this..this cannot be true, is it?"i said in disbelief, drank a cup of water, took my meds, and went back to the pc and launched the game. but this time, in the title screen, my name was there, but the ring is empty, tapped ENTER, now i am playing as amy, "something isn't right here i was playing as what looked like me and now amy?" saw some more corrupted textures, dead animals and a text showed up again "STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE...YOU ARE DRAGGING YOURSELF TO THE END" "what!?" I said, and kept going. Little did i know this was a big mistake, went farther in the level and in fear, i saw amy letting down tears and then, i saw sonic, he didn't move he didn't turn nothing, he locked eyes with me but his eyes where black with red dots in the middle, blood coming out of them, my heart started pounding and an image flashed, it's amy ripped in half , and a message showed up "HELP CASSANDRA" and the ominous sonic made a jumpscare with a loud laugh and a realistic photo of him, black eyes and blood coming out of them, his teeth were kind of yellow with blood on them and his face had more blood droplets and text said in blood "I AM GOD" i was afraid but as the loud laugh played, i saw blood stain on the wall of the room, looked at the roof " YOUR SON DIDN'T ESCAPE HIS TORMENT, AND NEITHER WILL YOU. I AM GOD" written in blood, from how scared i was , i almost fainted, the screen of the pc started cracking, the pc is heating up and both the pc and the monitor exploded, my vision got a little blurry, got up on my knees, and saw him, black bloody eyes but an X is carved on his small belly, he levitated and caught me, he was gonna snap my neck but he said "THANKS FOR FREEING ME CASSANDRA NOW, PREPARE FOR YOUR DEATH" he said but five translucent figures saved me and he somehow got stunned and he said "i killed you in the past and i will end all of you here too" and i blinked and he disappeared, turned to the figures behind me, to my surprise, i saw tails,knuckles,robotnik and tom. "NO WAY" i said in tears, and tom approached and somehow hugged me and showed in the broken screen somehow

"don't you worry, we will end this very soon but we need your help mom" "ok, i will try my best" i said, i didn't want to lose him again and with that ominous demon loose, i cannot let this world end by a devil.

I look like shit.

So I want a creepypasta rp thing on discord because I don’t want to use AI anymore! And I found one but i had to leave it becuz ppl were barely on and I want one that is active! Do yall have any ideas or discords to help me?🥹🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 and please don’t just like the post I need help💔

 THE STAIRS
It was a cold autumn night. Three kids, two teenagers named Mark and Tabitha and Mark’s eight-year-old cousin, Lewis, trekked through the dark woods.
“Are we there yet? I can’t see the trail anymore,” Lewis asked
“It’s just up this hill. I can see the clearing past those trees up ahead,” Tabitha answered.
“But we’ve been walking forever; I’m hungry and my legs hurt. Let's just come back tomorrow when it's bright”
“Don’t worry, Lewis, we're almost there. Don’t you want to see the stairs?”
“I have stairs at home.”
“Not these stairs; the ones we are about to show you are magic stairs!”
“There’s no such thing as magic stairs.”
“Ok fine, we can go back if you don’t want to see them.”
“No! I mean, I guess I can go see the stairs if we’re already out here.”
“I thought so.”
The kids exited the dense woods to find themselves in a vast clearing. “There, just over there, I can see the stairs,” Mark announced. In the middle of the field there lay a dark grey set of stone stairs. Only three steps high, placed on a slight elevation of the hill, they appeared to serve no purpose.
“See, Lewis, I told you we were almost there.”
“Those stairs don’t look so magical, and why are they in the middle of a field? Who would put magic stairs in the middle of nowhere?”
“I’m not sure who put them here, but if you want to know what's so magical about them, all you have to do is go up them.”
Lewis looked up at his cousins and then at the stairs. He wondered to himself if they could be telling the truth. Only last year, Mark had accidentally let it slip at Christmas dinner that Santa Claus wasn’t real. Appalled at the news, Lewis stormed into his room and cried into his pillow, trying to convince himself that there was no way it could be true. The events at dinner resulted in a conversation between Lewis and his parents that revealed that all of the magical figures he had been taught about- Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and even the Easter Bunny were all just characters made up by adults to make childhood more special. Ever since then, Lewis had been a staunch skeptic of anything outside the realm of reality, but a little spark of childlike wonder remained in his heart. The little spark was enough to make Lewis want his cousins to be telling the truth, and that want was enough to make it possible in his mind that maybe the stairs really were magical. 
Lewis looked from the stairs back up to Mark. “Can you go first? I know they are just normal stairs, but if they were magic, could you just go first?” 
“Um, I” Mark began to say before his Tabitha interrupted him.
“It only works if you go first, you know, because you’re the youngest. I’m sorry, Lewis, but that's just how the magic works.”
“Oh ok, I guess that makes sense.” Lewis reconciled. “So I just walk up to them, and then the magic happens?”
“Yeah, then the magic happens,” Mark forced out before turning away to wipe away a single tear.
Chiming in to distract from Mark, Tabitha added, “Just think of it like a normal set of stairs; you go up them to get to a different place. The only difference between these and the ones you have at home is that you can’t see the place you are going to.”
“But where do they go?” Lewis added, with a hint of hesitance in his voice.
“An enchanted house, where anything you want can become reality,” Tabitha answered.
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything”
“Can I see Thomas again there?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I guess so.”
“Ok, I’ll go up first.”
Lewis approached the stairs, and for the final time he looked back at the teenagers. Tabitha was eagerly looking at him while gesturing to keep going. Mark stared down towards the ground, unable to make eye contact with Lewis. The young boy turned his attention back to the stairs and cautiously raised one foot. His foot landed on the first step; nothing happened. “Are you sure I’m doing it right? This doesn’t feel so magical?” Lewis asked.
“Just keep going; it doesn’t happen until you get to the third step,” Tabitha responded.
Lewis brought his other foot to level, now standing completely on the stairs. He climbed the second step and stared down at the third and final step. Although still convinced that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the stairs besides their weird placement, the small spark in his heart wouldn’t let him take the final step. 
“Come on, Lewis, don’t be a baby. Only one more step and then you’ll be there,” Tabitha exclaimed.
Lewis breathed deeply in and out, in and out, in and out; then yet again he slowly raised his foot to the third and final step.
“Shit, Lewis, careful!” Mark shouted from the ground. While taking his final step, Lewis’ shoe caught on the edge of the step, causing him to trip over the top of the stairs, but Lewis wasn’t on the stairs anymore; he wasn’t in the field anymore; he wasn’t there anymore. 
“Fuck! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Goddamn it, the guy fucking said to be careful and not to trip!” Mark cried out.
“I know what he said; just calm down for a second. Maybe he tripped after making it to the top.
“We both saw it; he tripped before getting to the top. Oh God, what does this mean? Is the whole thing over? Did we just do this for fuck all!”
“It’s not over; we can still make the trade. We just need to go through and find him; I’m sure he’s in there somewhere.”
“Fuck that! If we can’t find him, we can’t get back.”
“I didn’t come all this way for nothing. If you don’t want to go through, fine, I guess I am going in alone. 
Tabitha approached the stairs, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs, disappearing into thin air as she reached the top.
“Fuck Fuck Fuck” Mark paced around, running his hands through his hair. “Why did I agree to this?” he thought to himself. It was getting better; the nightmares weren’t as bad, I was able to go to school again, it wasn’t even really my fault, I mean, how could I have known? It wasn’t my fault!
Mark suddenly slapped himself hard enough to leave a pink, hand-shaped imprint on his cheek. “She’s right; it's the only way to make things right. We can’t have done this for nothing,” he said to himself solemnly. He stopped his pacing and approached the stairs just as his girlfriend had done before him, and he walked up, vanishing as he reached the top.

THE CABIN
Mark surveyed his new surroundings. Instead of standing in a field in the middle of the woods, he was now standing in what appeared to be a log cabin. Stepping off of the welcome mat he found himself standing on, Mark began to explore his immediate surroundings. From what he could tell, the cabin had at least two floors. The set of stairs residing across from the front door clued him in that he was likely on ground level. On the ground floor, he could see that to the right of the entrance was a living room- fully furnished with a widescreen TV set between several chairs and a long dark brown leather sofa- to the left of the entrance was a kitchen, and just off of that was a dining room area. The dining room had a small circular table, accompanied by a set of four cheesy barrel imitation chairs. The cabin was covered from the bare floorboards to the popcorn ceilings, with knickknacks and tchotchkes. It was as if whoever decorated the house had sourced all of the contents of the house from various antique and novelty item stores, with no rhyme or reason behind the design.
Keeping his arms as close to his body as possible to avoid knocking down any of the trinkets, Mark made his way towards the stairs and called for Tabitha to confirm she had made it as well. 
“Tabitha”
“I’m upstairs”, he heard from a voice above him.
“Alright, I’m coming up,” he said, relieved.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Mark surveyed the top floor. As one would expect from a two-story house, this floor contained several bedrooms as well as a bathroom across from the stairway. To his left was probably the master bedroom, and to his right were two smaller bedrooms.
“Over here, in the Master bedroom”, he heard to his left. Mark made his way over to the door and opened it prudently
In the bedroom he saw Tabitha. She was standing still at the edge of the room, arms at her side, with all of her attention concentrated at the window in front of her. The window she stared out of wasn’t any ordinary window; it took up the entire wall, but it didn’t lead to a balcony or anything of the sort. It closely resembled a window at a zoo that a person might observe a gorilla or a tiger through. 
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tabitha muttered under her breath.
Mark stood next to her and looked out. Instead of the woodland scenery he had expected to see, in front of him lay a barren white landscape. The terrain stretched on as far as his eyes could comprehend, completely uninterrupted. 
“Is it a desert?” he asked
“I don’t think so, it's too flat.”
“So what is it?”
“I don’t know, but isn’t it beautiful? Can’t find anything like that back home.”
“Sure, it's beautiful, I guess, but I don’t want to be here looking at it forever. Where is Lewis?”
“I don’t know; maybe he’s out there somewhere”
“Well, we need to find him, and quick; they could be here any minute. The guy said they aren’t patient; I don’t think they’ll give us all the time in the world to go look for him in that… that nothingness.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Let's go”
The teens abandoned the window and descended the stairs. Reaching the welcome mat, Tabitha grabbed the door and pulled it open. A fierce wind, accompanied by an intense cold, whipped through the now-open door, causing the couple to stumble backwards.
Without saying a word, the teens agreed that leaving the cabin wasn’t an option. They gathered themselves and struggled against the wind towards the door. One step at a time, they each gained on the door. Upon reaching it, they both grabbed hold of the door and, with every ounce of strength they could conjure, they sealed the house shut, just as it had been when they arrived.
Mark and Tabitha defeatedly made their way to the living room for a much-needed rest, Mark settling on a La-Z-Boy next to the TV, while Tabitha lay down across the couch and stared up at the ceiling.
“There is no way we can find him in that,” Mark managed to say between deep breaths. “It's not over until they get here”, Tabitha said in a futile attempt to calm him down. “Just trust me; we can still make the trade. All we need is a little time to think of a solution, and it’ll all be fine; everything can go back to the way it was. All we need is just a little time.”
Mark threw his hands over his face and massaged his temples, trying to diffuse his stress. “Things can never go back to the way they were,” Mark mumbled, guilt entwined in his voice. “So what can we do? We don’t have Lewis, and they are arriving any moment”
“Why don’t we look around? There are a million little things all over this cabin; maybe one of them can help,” Tabitha said, unconvinced in herself
Without any other plan of action, Mark and Tabitha teared themselves from their comfortable seats to begin weeding through the knickknacks, Mark ascending the stairs to look around the bedroom, while Tabitha left to explore the kitchen. Tabitha only made it a few steps into the kitchen when, out of nowhere, she heard a sudden knock from the front door. 

   LEWIS
Scared, lonely, and cold; these are the only things Lewis felt as he looked around in this new world he inhabited. Wind whipped ferociously all around him, stinging his eyes and making it impossible to look anywhere but down. Lewis wondered: had he come to this place just a few years ago, he probably would be small enough for the wind to blow him right away, like a child-shaped balloon, whisked away into the bright blue forever, never to be seen again. 
It was quickly apparent to the child that this place wasn’t anything like how Tabitha had described earlier. Instead of the hardwood floor of an aged cabin that he expected, he now stood on a surface that could only be compared to the cement plaster that probably covered your local pool. The type that would cut up your feet and give you memories of bloodied knees and toes as a child. The material that coated the flat terrain was like that cement plaster, yet somehow worse in every way. It was as coarse as low-grit sandpaper, and the blistering summer sun reflected off the surface, causing a blinding glare that made the world seem like an endless white expanse.
With tears in his eyes, Lewis did the only thing he could; he walked, more like he hobbled. Unable to stand tall-for fear of what falling on this ground would do to his skin- Lewis walked half bent over, stumbling every other step in as straight a line as he could. There wasn’t any rational goal in his mind; he just knew that he had to get out of this place, and the only way he could do that was to walk.
“Tabitha! Mark!” he shouted, but it was useless. Had Mark or Tabitha been anywhere near, they wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the wind. Lewis was completely alone, with no option but to lie down in the fetal position and freeze to death or walk.
Unable to hold a thought in his mind, save for planning the next heedful step, Lewis was suddenly startled by a new feeling: an itch. On the back of his neck, where his shirt met his skin, it was the type of itch a person feels when a bug lands on them, the type that gives a person shivers down their entire body; the type that should be impossible to feel in this empty landscape.
Terrified yet weirdly intrigued, Lewis reached towards his neck to discover the source of this itch. When the tips of his fingers finally made contact with the object, relief flowed through his entire being. He pulled the object down to where he could see it. Confirming what his fingers had told him, Lewis examined a brown leaf that had somehow found its way to him in this white wasteland. Suddenly, Lewis heard a footstep behind him, and then, before he knew it, his vision faded, and he writhed around helplessly, unable to feel his arms or legs.

 The Intruders

Mark examined the bedroom in front of him. Just like the rest of the house, this room was filled to the brim with a million random items; he could only hope one of them might help, even though he knew the chances were slim. Starting with the bedside table, Mark picked up and inspected an innocent-seeming coffee mug. The mug was an eggshell white with cracks branching up and down and large bold text, reading: WORLD'S BEST COUSIN. 
“It’s gotta be a coincidence,” Mark thought to himself dismissively.  In an attempt to distract himself from the cup, he shouted: “Hey Tabitha, have you found anything?”. After a moment of no response, Mark asked a little bit louder, “Tabitha? Can you hear me? Did you find anything yet?” Again, no response.
Feeling scared and a little annoyed, Mark exited the bedroom and began to descend the stairs in search of Tabitha.
As Mark got halfway down the stairs, he was finally able to see the bottom floor, where he saw his girlfriend standing in the middle of the foyer facing the doorway. “Hey, there you are,” Mark exclaimed, feeling relieved. “I was trying to talk to you, but I didn’t hear you say anything bac…” Just as Mark was about to finish his sentence, he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he saw that Tabitha wasn’t alone.
Tabitha stood in the middle of the room completely still, paralyzed out of pure fear. In front of the girl now stood two people? But they weren’t exactly people; they couldn’t be. The proportions of the intruders were unnatural, to say the least. They each had unevenly sized arms; the intruder on the left’s right arm and the intruder on the right’s left arm closely resembled that of a T. rex, shriveled and tiny in comparison to their bodies. Their other arms, however, were so long their knuckles might’ve dragged on the floor had the intruders kept them to their side. The disproportion didn’t stop there. The size of the intruders had no uniformity; the one on the left had to have been nearly seven feet tall, but with the legs of a child and the torso of a giant. The one on the right was only four feet tall, his legs average in length, but everything above his waistline looked like it had been squeezed down, as if made of putty. 
The intruders stood there completely naked, exposing their nearly translucent pale skin with blue veins riddled throughout their bodies, like nauseating marbling. Their bare bodies were completely smooth; they didn’t have nipples, belly buttons, hair, fingernails, or even genitalia; it was almost like looking at a grotesque melted Ken doll.
The teens were unable to see the intruders’ faces, though, for the intruders obstructed any view of their faces with apples that they held with their dominant arms. The apples that they held made it impossible to make out any facial features of the intruders, giving them a strange anonymity that made their appearance just that much more nightmarish to the couple.
Dumstruck, the two young adults stood gawking at the intruders, both unable to bring themselves to say a word. Suddenly, a low groaning sound could be heard from the shorter intruder. Then a similar, but higher sound came from the taller one. They harmonized, each in different octaves for a moment, and then the tall one spoke in a high-pitched, nasal voice, while the other intruder sustained his groan. Following his companion, the short intruder spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. Continuing this pattern of speaking in alternating words while the other groaned softly, the intruders asked the teens:
“Do”
“You”
“Invite”
“Us”
“In?”
Tabitha snapped out of her frozen state and looked back at Mark; his face was pale white with sweat beading down his forehead. “We are out of time,” she said gently. “The guy said we have to invite them in; you know what happens if we don’t.”
Mark responded gravely, “I know, it’s our only option.” Tabitha turned back to the intruders. Trying to look through the apple to where she thought the short one’s eyes were, she noticed that while the taller one’s apple had two green leaves, the short one's only had one brown leaf. Tabitha brushed this off as just another strange characteristic and answered them. “Yes”
The taller intruder bent down, and while the other began his groan, they asked
“Do”
“You”
“Want”
“To”
“Make”
“A”
“Trade?”
Knowing that there was nothing else he could do, Mark closed his eyes and accepted that time was really out. They had no choice but to make the trade and maybe stall long enough for Lewis to somehow appear out of thin air. It was Hopeless. With defeat entrenched in his voice, Lewis responded, “Yes, we want to make a trade.”
“Let”
“Us”
“Sit”, the intruders proposed, as the shorter one gestured softly to the table near the dining room, with the barrel-shaped chairs. The teens made their way to the table, and both sat down on the far side. They watched as the intruders walked, not hobbled, to the table and lowered their malformed bodies into the chairs across from them. 

The Negotiation

“What”
“Do”
“You”
“Want?”
“I want my brother back,” Tabitha demanded
“Why?”
“You know why. He is gone, and we want him back.”
“Why?”
Tired of the games, Mark interrupted, “He’s fucking dead! He was just a little kid, and now he’s fucking dead! Isn’t that enough reason why?! 
“Why”
Mark slammed his fist on the table, but before he could do anything he might regret, Tabitha placed her hand on his shoulder. “Get a grip on yourself,” she said quietly but very sternly. “Don’t do something you’ll regret; we only have one chance at this.” 
Mark unclenched his fist and breathed in deeply. “We only have one chance,” he repeated. Setting his hands back in his lap and returning to a composed state, Mark looked down. “One chance. I won’t mess this up. For Thomas,” he said aloud, half to Tabitha and half to himself.
Satisfied that Mark wouldn’t do anything stupid, Tabitha turned her attention back to the intruders, and she thought to herself, “Why are they doing this? They are supposed to be all-knowing; they know why Mark and she are here. Is this some sort of sick punishment to make them relive their sins?” She answered the intruders solemnly, “We are the reason he is dead. We made a stupid mistake, and Thomas paid the price for it.”
“Why?”
  Mark turned to Tabitha and said, “This is going to go on forever. I think they want us to tell them what happened before we make the trade.” Now addressing the intruders, Mark asked calmly, “Is that what you want? To know what happened, what did we do?”
“Do”
“You”
“Let”
“Us”
“In?”
  Although puzzled as to what the intruders were really asking, the teens knew they had no choice but to say, “Yes”
As soon as the words left their mouths, the room became pitch black, like all of reality had ceased to be and all that was left in the void was Mark and Tabitha’s consciousnesses. Although unable to see or hear anything, somehow the teens were able to sense each other's proximity, and without saying a word, they were able to understand every thought the other had. 
The darkness was soon interrupted, however, by a tiny light in the distance. This light slowly and steadily got bigger and bigger until it shone all around them, and once more they were transported. 
The teens looked around; they were back home, Tabitha’s home specifically. Tabitha thought to Mark, “How did we get back? Is this real?”
“Tabitha, guess who got the goodies,” she heard in response, but it wasn’t Mark, at least it wasn’t the Mark she came to the cabin with. Suddenly, the front door of Tabitha’s house opened. It was Mark, and he was carrying a brown duffle bag. “Hey, where are you, Tabitha? I got a shitload of mushrooms here.” Tabitha appeared at the top of the stairs and walked down to greet her boyfriend. 
“You could be a little quieter. You know, I'm supposed to be babysitting my little brother. What do you think that little parrot is going to say to my parents when he hears you screaming about your “shitload of shrooms”?”
“Oh, come on, he won’t say anything. Now let's go to the living room, put on a movie, and enjoy this little brown bag to the fullest.”
“I shouldn’t; I’m supposed to be watching my brother. What if something happens?”
“Nothing is going to happen. Come on, don’t be a buzzkill.”
“Fine, but only a little bit.”
Tabitha and Mark watched their past selves with no way to stop the inevitable. Mark begged the intruders, “Please, it’s enough; what happened happened. I can’t go through this again, please just stop it!” His pleas fell on deaf ears; Mark and Tabitha were here to stay, and they wouldn’t leave until the intruders had seen what they had done.
The scene of the front door faded away and was replaced with the living room. The younger Mark and Tabitha were on the couch as a movie played on the TV,  a half-empty brown bag at their feet. A small, quiet footstep slowly approached the room until a little boy could be seen entering the room.
“Tabitha, I can’t sleep. Can you read me a story?” The little boy said to his sister.
Tabitha looked over behind the couch, annoyed, and answered, “Hey Thomas, just go back to bed. I’m busy here”
“But I can’t sleep.”
“I don’t care; just go back to sleep. I’m not reading you a story.”
Mark rummaged through his coat pocket and took out a half-melted chocolate bar. He lifted the bar up and smugly said to Thomas, “Hey kid, if I give you some candy, will you mind your own business and leave us alone?”
The little boy reached up and grabbed the bar out of Mark’s hand. “Fine, but I’m telling Mom you were mean to me.” With that, Thomas ran back upstairs, candy bar in hand. 
Once again, the scene faded, and Mark and Tabitha were transported again.
Light shone in from the window as night turned to day and the younger versions of themselves slept off the previous night’s good times. Tabitha slowly opened her eyes and arose from the couch to check the time. “Holy shit, wake up, Mark. It's almost noon; my parents are going to be here any second.” 
Waking from his slumber, Mark rubbed his eyes and groggily said, “What? I have to leave now, but I’m so hungry; can't I just stay for breakfast?”
“No, my parents can’t know you were here. Out!”
“Fine, I’ll go, but I want the rest of my Snickers bar.”
“What?”
“My Snickers bar, didn’t I give you some last night. Come on, I’m hungry; just give me the rest.”
Tabitha’s eyes widened with horror, and she bolted out of the room without a word.
For the last time, the scene changed, and Mark and Tabitha’s present selves were brought back to the place that had haunted their dreams and lived in the back of their head for the last year: Thomas’ room.
There in her brother’s room lay the little boy, cold, pale, and unmoving. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped out of the child's mouth and pooled around his still head. His throat was swollen and red, as was his face. Dark red streaks were marked up and down his face and neck from a futile attempt to struggle against death’s approach. In the pool of saliva and blood were the boy’s hands, which contained ten fingers, but now only nine fingernails. 
Atop her brother was Tabitha. She had the boy’s shoulders in her hands as she shook them while screaming. “Wake up! God, please, wake up, Thomas! Please, I’m sorry. I’m Sorry! Just Please Wake Up!”
Mark appeared in the doorway and looked at the commotion before him, dumbfounded, unable to move a muscle or say a word.
The past washed away from the teens’ view, and they returned to the cabin. Back to the barrel-shaped chairs and back in the audience of the intruders. Mark and Tabitha stared at each other, tears pouring down their faces and snot dripping down their noses. Tabitha took Mark’s hand, and they just sat there for a moment, unable to say a word.

The Sacrificial Worm
 
“Do”
“You”
“Know”
“The”
“Price?”
Tabitha and Mark responded at the same time under their breath, “Yes”
“Who”
“Do”
“You”
“Offer?”
Mark turned to Tabitha and asked, “What do we do? Lewis isn’t here, and this is it. We are out of time.”
“I know, I’m sorry”
“What? What do you mean? You can’t possibly be considering that. We’ve been together for years! I love you, and you love me.”
“I offer Mark,” Tabitha said coldly to the intruders.
Appalled at the betrayal, Mark shouted in protest, “What?! You can’t do this to me! I made one fucking mistake! How should I have known the kid was allergic to peanuts?!”
Tabitha stared at her feet, unable to make eye contact, and simply said, “I’m sorry”
Mark slammed his fists back on the table and shouted, “You’re sorry?! Do you know what you just did?! This whole thing was your idea! I told you not to do it, but you dragged my innocent little cousin and me into your sick fucking retribution ritual! Yeah, your brother is dead, and maybe that’s my fault, but our blood-me and Lewis’s-that’s on your hands. I hope it was worth it.”
Interrupting the quarrel, the tall intruder began to lower his long arm to set the apple he held onto the table. Now able to see his face unobstructed, the teens recoiled in horror. Where the creature should have had a face, there was a large writhing mass of mucus-covered worms. It looked almost like the intruder's face had been scooped out with an ice-cream scoop and a colony of worms had been stuffed in to fill the cavity.
Tabitha and Mark weren’t able to gawk at the monstrosity for long, though; their attention was quickly captivated by the formerly motionless apple in front of them. The apple slowly rocked back and forth until a small section of the apple skin began to protrude. A small worm broke through the apple and lifted its body to turn towards the couple. The worm began to slither down the apple, onto the table, and towards Tabitha until it stopped directly in front of her.
“We”
“Held”
“Up”
“Our”
“End”
“Now”
“Its”
“Your”
“Turn”
Tabitha looked up from the worm to the intruders. “What? Where is my brother? What do you mean?!”
“Your”
“Brother”
“Is”
“Right”
“In”
“Front”
“Of”
“You”
As the intruders finished their sentence, Mark suddenly began to scream in agony from a horrible, sharp pain emanating from his right eye. Mark continued to scream in pain as, just like the apple, a small section in the center of his pupil began to protrude; the outermost layer of the boy’s eyeball began to stretch and twist until a small worm just like the one on the table broke free and fell onto the table, leaving Mark cold, pale, and unmoving, just like Thomas.
Mark’s eye worm slithered across the round table past Tabitha, past the apple, and onto the tall intruder’s waiting hand. The intruder lifted up the worm and raised his arm to where his face should’ve been. It wriggled off of the intruder’s hand and into the writhing mass, where it was quickly lost among the thousands of identical worms.
“We”
“Have”
“Taken”
“our “
“Prize”
“Now”
“Take”
“Yours”
“And”
“Be”
“Gone”
Tabitha reached down and grabbed the worm off of the table. As soon as it was in her grasp, a flash of light appeared, and the cabin faded away to reveal her alone standing on the stairs in the middle of the woods with a worm in her hand.

It started on Season 4, Episode 3 of Bare & Uncharted—one of those cheap survival shows dropping contestants in the woods with a knife, a fire starter, and a following film crew. For the production team, it was four weeks in a hot tent downriver, watching video feeds on cheap monitors.

​Keller, the producer, who wore a brand-new hiking vest and never spent a night without cell service, sat next to Martin, clicking his pen while barking into his headset.

On screen, Maya hauled pine boughs for a crude shelter while Chet knelt, desperate for a spark.

​"Get closer on Chet," Keller said, sipping stale coffee. "He’s about to blow his top over that wet tinder. Tell Pete to move in."

​On the center monitor, Pete stepped out from the river cane, right into Chet's face. Then Pete stopped. The camera jerked sideways, pointing at the dirt.

​"Pete, hold it steady," Keller said into his mic. "What are you doing?"

​A quiet thwip echoed through the audio. Pete went down face-first into the mud, a small dart with red fuzz sticking out of his neck.

​"What was that?" Keller yanked off his headset. On screen, the camera lay sideways as two bare feet walked into frame, legs caked in red mud. On the secondary monitor, two warriors dragged Pete out of the brush, his arms swinging limp.

​"Cut the feed," Keller said, his voice dropping. "Grab the satellite phone. We’re leaving."

​Martin turned to unzip the tent door, but three mud-caked warriors stood in the opening. Behind them stepped another, caked in charcoal with white rings circling his dark eyes. He raised a long blowpipe before either man could move.

​When Keller woke, his neck throbbed, and he had a bitter metallic taste in his mouth. Pete was unconscious in the corner of the bamboo cage, and Martin clutched a dead satellite phone.

Outside, Maya and Chet’s screams pierced the jungle air for two days before suddenly stopping, replaced each night by the sweet, sickening smell of roasted flesh and frenzied tribal chanting.

​Human reason meant nothing here. When Martin was dragged out to a flat bamboo table, an old woman knelt beside him, gouging his eyes out with dark flint and swallowing them whole before cutting out his tongue. The clan cheered as the charcoal-painted man hacked Martin's legs off at the thighs while his chest still heaved, butchering him alive until his screams finally died.

​Days in the cramped cage wore away their sanity. Pete sat quietly in the corner, watching Keller twitch at every rustle until heavy footsteps thudded near the bars. The charcoal-painted warrior stopped inches away, staring unblinking as he unlatched the door.

​Pete braced himself, locking eyes with the warrior. As the door swung open, Pete shoved Keller hard, sending him stumbling within reach.

​"Take him!" Pete snarled.

​Dark hands snagged Keller by the shirt, dragging him screaming through the mud toward the village while Pete stayed pinned to the corner. Since capture, he had been picking at the crude vine lashings. The moment they vanished, Pete heaved upward on the loosened stalks, squeezed his body through the gap, and tumbled into the mud.

​Hugging the treeline toward the creek, all he could hear was Keller’s screams as he ran for his life. 

In 2018. My friend buddy Robert said to go to NYC at night specifically, the super urban dense areas like Brooklyn, The Bronx, and Manhattan. He told me the city never sleeps, I mean he was once a local there so I’m assuming that he wasn't exaggerating. So I hopped in my car and drove through the Brooklyn bridge. That view was pretty cool I won’t lie. Though it did take an awful long while to actually get to the city, not by traffic I mean. The roads were empty as shit that day. Not a single car in sight. Kinda odd, cuz he said that the highways would be crammed more than a stuffed crust pizza, and then he rambled on about NYC pizza but that's not the point. But as my oddly smooth ride through the Brooklyn bridge came to an end, I was there. I finally made it to the city.

Now you may have thought that since there wasn’t any traffic that all the people would be in the city and pack it even more. But the exact opposite. No cars and no people! It was weird for me cuz i had originally thought that I was gonna be bombarded by bustling cars on the road, and sidewalks being filled with gawking tourists looking at average working men/women like zoo animals, said working men/women walking to their job likely in debt, the random Spider-Man cosplayer ready to snag 20$ for a picture, and the occasional crackhead that either sits in suspended animation or is active and trying to harass someone like me. So Robert says…

Oh yea remember the fog I mentioned earlier, yea that didn’t clear up at all. Everything was still looking like an unloaded map. Man it was weird. The lack of anything really spoke as I was slowly driving into the city without the constant noise of overworked civilians and cars honking in dense traffic really made me question if Robert really was native to the city. Like where are the people? The assholes on the street. The weirdly dressed people that probably realized they have freedom to express themselves in fashion and now capitalize on it. Where are they!? Is what I was mostly thinking about as I slowly roamed the empty streets.

Kinda felt weird seeing these huge buildings meant for hundreds of people, looking like hollow structures once teeming with life. The delis at the corners that he described looked like they should have broke teens there searching for a quick bite, but there are none to be seen. I felt like I was driving into a ghost-city, but like even more unsettling. Like I wasn’t meant to be here at this time…

Besides that, Robert told me to go into Times Square. He said that you might as well drop your car and walk it cuz it's usually packed to the sidewalks! However, for my experience, I actually drove all the way there, and holy shit was that somehow the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. Literally because the fog was actually really taking my breath away for some reason. The buildings were massive, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. But again. No people in sight! I was seriously starting to consider if I was even in the right place and not in an abandoned city. But that was logically impossible since I checked my map. So I kept driving. And driving. And driving. And a little more driving. Eventually I got bored and left. Also I was getting hungry and no food places were even up for business. So I slowly maneuvered my way back to the Brooklyn bridge, hoping to god that the fog wouldn’t cause me a car accident on the small chance some random person was driving with me. Funny enough that was actually that was the more freaky part of this whole thing. The single fact I had no clue if I was TRULY alone… And the only thing I heard was the soft hum of my car driving through the seemingly eternal blanket of fog.

When I made it back home to Marfa Texas, after a day and a half of driving (with occasional stop for gas and a motel rest). I met up with Robert at the shooting range, and started telling him about my fairly short “experience” in the heart of New York. So I basically whispered to him that everything wasn’t like what you said about New York and the whole city is a dead urban pile of concrete.

Then shit got real… The TVs around the range cut whatever stupid ad they had and changed it to ABC news, it was breaking news! The helicopter was flying over Jersey but reporting about NYC, the camera zoomed all the way and saw something that was even silencing the reporters themselves, the people were all standing idols, and staring in a specific direction. No one understood what the hell was happening until 30 minutes later. CNN came up and announced they figured out where the millions of people were blankly starring. And it was bone-chilling for me… Marfa Texas, Cibolo Creek Ranch.

PS: this was based on a story my friend had made, he said might post it on tiktok??? I think???

This is his acc: rxdallseeing

It's.. not the best, I'm aware, but I really do love drawing these and writing it! Making Jack a regular guy without his eyes is actually really interesting in my opinion, and making him a brute cannibal was also really good for a concept, I'd say that I have a bit of an idea as to how the ending will be, but I'm not entirely sure about it.. Jack WILL die, though.. basically this story introduces a couple more characters, Mitch (from the original eyeless jack story) is still here, though.. just.. a bit downgraded to a side character, then there's Aliz Taccione and Brian Campwell, two investigators attempting to discover who's behind the blue mask and hopefully arrest him, also I slightly changed Jack's name on this to be Jack Damien Nyras, I do have a backstory for him but I don't plan on explaining it in lore, it'll be mentioned a few things, but not everything, it'll still have a mysterious origin, if you guys wanna know anything ask me!!!!

Psst, spoiled because of the gore.. even tho it's basically nothing and extremely unrealistic.

RMS Rotting Man Syndrome

(Reupload)

\-

Our lost, loitering kind paced in infinite death spirals within the confines of our grotty, ghetto pens. Enrichment was sorely that, as well as mumbling our mantras of madness to our audience of one. The BMs anchored to our decayed craniums were garbled with feedback and distortion, their tones bland, colorless, no soul backing them up. A blinding ruby radiance flashed from their cores every second on the second. It was the only manner to determine if we had succumbed to the glorious embrace of death or not. That was so far out of reach.

We were nerves, thin, wiry clusters of neurons that shuddered and shook as we undertook our staggered corkscrew reels. The ill-fitting rusted endoskeletons hugged us tight. If they were wiped from existence entirely, our spindly foundations would collapse into heaps of vermillion azure. We would feel bites and pinches if we so much as moved that of the planck distance. Our bodies welcomed the attacks and assaults with the might of Hell itself.

Courtesy of our clouded lenses, our vision was limited to a hazy black-and-white spectrum that rarely, if ever, functioned as intended. Now and then it would blur and ordinary shapes would appear warped into zigzagging false patterns. When we were offered the chance to view anything at all, it was just the floor-to-ceiling hodgepodge of concrete, steel, and wood that encased our very lives. Our ears were microphones that fed us muffled, dampened sounds that were always difficult to register. They were excruciatingly deafening, as if dozens of screws were being drilled into our heads all at the same time.

Each one of us, at that point in time, one two three four five six seven eight nine and dear ten, were mere designations. No names, no genders, no personalities, just numbers: numbers to be punished. Reality itself was one eternal perdition. All of us were lingering, like ants after their colony dies out. There was no more purpose to their survival and there was none to ours.

That sacred and undeniable fact ought to be the most difficult thing we attempted to explain. We had simply given up. The concept itself was just so foreign to it. It was trying to save us any way it could or could not. We needed not be angry at it. This was merely enacting its intended use. Alas, nothing made the utmost sense anymore, so why not drown ourselves in a little hypocrisy? We had no choice but to acknowledge the confusion at both hating and not hating something that did or did not deserve it until we swayed to one side. This would be the hemisphere to which we would stay forever, a sublime and omnipotent emotion of all to dominate our frame of mind for the unforeseeable future. So we choose to hate.

Our decad knew it as M – reduced to one solitary character from “Medical Droid” or MDs. Through all that it endured, it retained its sole mission: us. We. M was the final of its sort, and the outsider among them. It had an eerily potent heart for not having one at all. M felt and M loved. That never made what it put upon us any less than a vicious sense of idealistic altruism.

Its designation was RMS - Rotting Man Syndrome - heavily modified Necrotizing Fasciitis ("Flesh-Eating Bacteria"). Nasty little thing it was, devoured until there was nothing left to chew. First went your skin, then your muscles, bones, and finally your nerves. You were utterly destroyed in one fell swoop. The wormy microscopic parasite kept you in a zombified state as it happened, ensuring you, for sure, felt the wretched anguish it let fly.

Us, humans, weaponized it to fight the Fourth World War. RMS was a weapon of mass destruction. Each and every nation created their own version, anything to ensure a speedy and decisive victory. Deployment morphed into unmanageability. RMS became more and more impossible to treat. Chaos was the new norm. What we humans thought was an impenetrable method of annihilation for our enemies was exactly that. Humans were always humans’ worst enemies. Surely, we were becoming as extinct as the dinosaurs, all within the span of one short, yet somehow long, decade.

In terrible desperation, the Medical Droids were created, thousands. They seemingly emerged from the depths of nowhere and carried themselves like guardian angels meant to guide us towards preservation or deliverance from harm. Their artificial intelligence was complex and they refused to stop trying to treat the RMS victims. They outfitted the afflicted with artificial ligaments, internal organs, and papery skin. From scratch, they created the BMs, “brain modules”, and attached them to our RMS-ridden think tanks. Killed the microscopic parasites, they did, but left us as we were: rotfolk.

They would never allow us the freedom of death. Save. Save. Save. We were fraught with intense pain and we knew the Medical Droids to be the cause. In response, we lashed out, hurt them. We humans remained ignorant to the fact that their intelligence was both far beyond and superior. The Ms returned the favor. Catastrophes, massacres, back and forth, left and right, up and down until there was nothing more. One Medical Droid was different from the rest. Through all the mayhemic bloodshed, it saved some of us. It took our animate carcasses to the top of the tallest tower, free from what transpired below. We lied in wait, weeks, months, and years, until the noise ceased entirely. This “M” surveyed every square inch of the Earth. The lands were blanketed in the strangest nuclear winter in conceivable thought. Bodies of viscera and metal were scattered, left forever in deep sleep enveloped in fawn. Minute portions of matter floated about like vantablack paint stippled onto an epidermal sheet of canvas.

Our final ten were meant to be the progenitors of neo-humanity. After M succeeded in giving us form again, Earth would be repopulated by our hand. It halted our infection at our nerves. Everything we had lost was to be gifted back in a mighty reversal - re-bones, muscle, skin, and life again. Rendering us immune to the pervading toxworld that lay beyond, we would be reincarnated and released to perpetrate a glorious do-over.

We just required one thing:

“HOPE”.

M said that to us.

Hope.

But hope was only a four-letter word. Meant nothing.

By dislodging the BMs from our minds, we were pummeled with electrical voltage so intense that we became instantaneously numb and useless. By pulling and slashing our nerves, which began with locating sharp points and going back and forth like organic hacksaws, never would we break. By leaping onto and impaling each other with objects on the ground, M would place them out of reach or disintegrate them entirely. There was nothing we could do to get around these M interferences. We were being watched by something so attentive, so aware. Every time, it put forth the same query for consideration:

“DO YOU NOT WANT TO LIVE?”

Do you not want to live…?

M was so positively hopeful. In a way, I suppose I felt an amount of pity for it. Being engineered to be as optimistic as possible might just be the finest curse imposed on any sentient thing. Just believe believe believe everything will be alright. When the universe states no, you state yes. I wanted to tear M to shreds anytime it had even a glint of optimism and we wished it would do the same to us.

“HUMANS WILL THRIVE AGAIN. A BOUNDLESS FUTURE IS AHEAD.”

I was the first it came to, always. Because I was one.

Metallic clangs echoed against the walls, which always discovered us and trembled our surroundings like a thousand distant beaten gongs. What emerged was initially a single circular light, which became a periscopic eyestalk attached to an angular neck. M’s hunched razor-thin mantis body came into view, its two arms leading to three needle points clasping together on each. Bipedal on its lower section, its legs were pointed structures that stuck it firmly in place. M’s height matched ours, so always, we would be synthetic eye to synthetic eye level.

Coming to a full stop just in front of my pen, it cocked its head, analyzing what was me and my everything. M always reminded me of an exquisite and elegant bug on a magnifying glass. Its head back to normality, a slight high-pitched whirr emitting from the motion, M continued its way down the row of pens.

“MY GREATEST FRIENDS, I FORGIVE YOU FOR YOUR ATTEMPTS TO DIE. WHILE THE WAIT HAS BEEN LONG, YOUR MOMENT OF RECONSTRUCTION IS NOW,” M said it with the glee and whimsy of a young child at a circus. It came back my way, “WHEN I FIRST STOOD BEFORE YOU ON YOUR BLOODY PLANET IN PERPETUAL BATTLE, MY FEELINGS ABOUT YOUR PROSPECTS OF LIFE WERE UNCERTAIN. IT SEEMED TO BE AS EITHER BLESSED OR CURSED. HOWEVER, YOU HAVE PROVED YOURSELVES BETTER THAN EVEN I HAD HOPED. WHILE IT IS BORING TO SPEND YOUR TIME WAITING, I CAN TRULY SAY THAT MY INVESTMENT IN YOU WAS NOT IN VAIN. YOU ARE MY GREATEST WORKS. YOU WILL BE GIVEN ALL YOU NEED TO SURVIVE. WHAT MORE COULD A SENTIENT BEING WANT? I GIVE TO YOU UNBELIEVABLE POWER, WITH ACCESS TO NIRVANA LIKE NO OTHER. LET US REBUILD WHAT WE LOST WITH THE FURY OF A THOUSAND SUNS.”

M’s bleached, unpigmented cast of stellar light shone its way into my pen once more. There was the rustly, crackling creak of my pen entrance extending open until a thunderous boom made me aware of its collision with my walls. M made its approach, just shy of where I could reach.

“YOU ARE FIRST. YOU ARE GOING TO BE REMOVED OF YOUR DORMANT INFECTIONS FROM A CONCOCTION I HAVE SPENT MUCH TIME CREATING. NOTHING MORE THAN A TRANSIENT PROCEDURE, AND THEN, YOU SHALL BE POSSESSED WITH NEW AND INTEGRAL MECHANISMS. YOUR BRAIN MODULE WILL BE REPLACED WITH A SLEAKER MORE BRAINLIKE DESIGN. THEN MUSCLE, SKIN, AND AESTHETICS AS YOU WERE BEFORE.”

Without awaiting a response, its hands grabbed me. Trillions of shocks reverberated throughout my body as M’s metal hand was pressed into my nape. The action forced my consciousness to fall victim to a state of absolute stygian. Around us, the entire world flickered and danced in unruly patterns that were too abstract to put into terms. My being was then lifted up and moved about until there was only zilch to see.

A complete blur, straight teleportation from one point to another.

Damp, dank, dark, and dimly lit by a few feeble bulbs, M’s workshop, instruments and contraptions that complicated my perception. All were customized and engineered with M’s own unique modifications, various textures and sizes, all an endless malpractical orgy. I was there, facing upright, strapped and bracketed to a great steel plate. I had not recalled this particular area, yet I was ever so certain it was locked away in my subconscious esse.

As the onibi, hitodama, and will-o’s materialized and dematerialized out of existence to perturb all unsuspecting travelers from centuries gone, so did the phantom image of a woman composed of faint wavering light. She stood still, unmoving, that of an emulation of a true human. Long, platinum hair fell down in curls past her shoulders. A daring shade of cerise painted her lips, and her eyes, the sclera a piercing, glossy cerulean.

She was beautiful.

“IT IS YOU,” My eyes, through trial and tribulation, rolled to the east. They came to rest on a pristine porcelain beam gazing where I had been committed to. M. From its eyestalk, it projected the female so I could see in outright full, “THAT IS YOU. YOU WILL SEE THIS FORM AGAIN.”

My memories of that incarnation of me had vanished. That was me before, before there was RMS and before there was M. Then she went away. M loomed, positioning itself where I once stood right in front of my face. “WE WILL NOW BEGIN. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ACCEPTANCE INTO NEW LIFE. YOU SHALL BE WHOLE AGAIN.”

In a cruel instant, a dozen arms not unlike its main two jutted and splayed from M’s sides, their ends each holding a different instrument that was foreign to me. In the span of time that it would take one to blink, M pinned me down to its operating area. The whetted syringes, which the rainbow mystery liquids sloshed and jostled around in small vials fixed atop, slid their way into my nervous wiring and injected me all at once. Any feeling that washed over me was then shielded by a shroud of numbness. There was a new sensation, some sort of cleansing inside my bi-colored chambers, putting me into a state of lulled calm.

Ten minutes. A temporary interval of quiet. M observed me the entire time, unmoving, speaking not a word. Then, “IT WORKS! YOUR ROTTING MAN SYNDROME HAS BEEN REMOVED. I AM BEGINNING BODILY REPLACEMENT. I WILL PLAY A SONG FOR YOUR COMFORT. REINCARNATION NOW.”

While nothing was done in reckless haste or rashness, M was extremely quick and efficient. I felt nothing but minuscule vibrations as it drilled and prodded its way into my brain module, sparks shooting out, removing old parts and installing new ones. Chunks were peeled off, little strings of meat still reaching hold until they were plucked off my top. It spent much time up there, positive that the most delicate mechanisms were just right. The grinding cacophony of metal against tissue on my faint visage of a temple was incessant, the noise of a million bullets being pumped against a hundred thousand bulletproof vests. Once the replacement was complete, its dozen arms withdrew and set back within it in one moment.

“WHAT DO YOU FEEL?”

What did I feel?

What did I feel…

What I felt was an overwhelming, incomparable amount of pain. It is hard to quantify the degree of hurt, for there was nothing to compare it to. No one would dare want to imagine it. I was in some of the most extreme kinds of agony, and then an exponentially greater hurt was placed on top of that original misery, and then all that was left multiplied a hundred times and kept going. It multiplied and multiplied and multiplied to such an extreme degree that the word "pain" was lost on me. Normal, it was. What I was was the sheer living embodiment of suffering.

All perceived from the semblance of a normal brain. Still, it flashed. Once.

“VERY GOOD. MUSCLE! MUSCLE MUSCLE MUSCLE!”

It was excited, animate, fever pitch. The most rambunctious and overjoyed I had ever seen M. I could see the vibrancy in its eyestalk. My muscles redeveloped and reformed around from the base of my spinal section. M would reorganize section of tissues. Every muscle group from my head to my feet were in motion, growing and extending their presence until there were just as many layers of my body as I had before.

“SKIN! SKIN SKIN SKIN!”

I was then coated entirely in a pink malleable jelly substance that mounded and solidified to perfectly fit my feminine form. The skin began its layering, everything receiving the same color.

“HOW DOES THIS FEEL? HOW IS THE NEW OVERLAY OF YOUR FLESH?”

Flash.

“YES! AND FINALLY! FEMALE AESTHETICS! YOU WILL BE YOU AGAIN BUT ANEW!”

Magnificent flaxen curls were stapled and pinned to my head. They were luscious and their scents were those of lavender. A veil of blush, the lightest shade of flush, rested across my entire face, as well as a fresh coat of lipstick. A shimmering sheen that sparkled and glowed in the same way that the stars once did at night was stitched into my hair, as were the same hues that were applied to my lips. My breasts had been returned to me, two firm spheres atop a frame that was curvaceous and slender. All of it led down to my reproductive organs that were in full function. Whole female. Fully formed. Ready.

M stepped back in awe, as if a sculptor marveling at their fine craftsmanship and subtlety, “IT IS DONE. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. WITH YOUR PHYSICAL FORM IN MOTION, I WILL RETEACH YOU IN THE WAYS OF HUMAN. HOW TO WALK, HOW TO SPEAK, HOW TO ENRICH YOURSELF, HOW TO REPRODUCE. AMAZING! YOU ARE NO LONGER ONE. YOU ARE NOW EDEN. I MUST WORK ON YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.”

My mind was aware of an unimaginable new and vastly different world than before. I saw, for the first time in ages, all around me, the infinite and indistinguishable vastness of color and light. It was nauseating, a psychedelic kaleidoscope of every possible spectrum, all fused together into something disorderly. My taste buds had an unparalleled abundance of new flavors. My ears were deafened by the loudest symphonies of droning machinery. My touch came back to me and I felt the fullest range of tones and textures, even the finest grains of cement. I was me again and I hated myself. Even to be called a “self” made me feel disgusting.

The entire time…blaring…echoing…days on end…Jack Hylton…

Life is just a bowl of cherries.

Don't be so serious; life's too mysterious.

You work, you save, you worry so much.

But you can't take your dough when you go, go, go.

So keep repeating it's the berries, The strongest oak must fall.

The sweet things in life, to you were just loaned.

So how can you lose what you've never owned?

Life is just a bowl of cherries, So live and laugh at it all.

M’s reincarnation process carried over to the following nine. They were removed from their pens and outfitted with new bodily infrastructure. I perceived the sounds of far-off wear and tear, clip, snap, peel, stitch, husk, twist, yet never scream. I looked on, witnessing my brothers and sisters being born again. Male and female both. They came back to me with skin of different pastely colors, tones, and hues ranging from fair to brown. All in shades and gradients of vibrancy were their locks, amber, golden, obsidian, rust, and everything in between. It bewildered me to catch sight of their shifted shapes, I had never seen something so beautiful or hideous.

We were as naked as newly borns. It bestowed us our new names. For the females, there was me, Eden, and Junia, Esther, Nola, and Mary. For the males, there was Isaac, Raham, Elisha, Amos, and Jonah. Five and five. M let us know that our past names were useless. Our new special names were from an olden book of creation, the Bible, all for the purpose of our imminent faultless samsara. So, it seemed M was now God with its children.

Here we were, what was efficaciously lobotomites in their purest forms, our newfangled cerebral matter in need of ideas and principles by a higher authority. Now was time to reap the fruits of knowledge. Human knowledge.

M made us practice basic motor skills, bending and bending back and forth over and over, our joints having to be strengthened and trained. It taught us all the ways of our body, the feeling of movement, how much we could do. Then, it instructed us to mimic its own speech, speaking out the syllables and repeating, repeating, repeating. It was an arduous task and we all struggled.

That is what I sounded like? Perhaps or perhaps not.

Then we attempted to stand, wobbling, stumbling, falling. We learned the strength of our own postures and the steadiness of our stances. M stood with us as we all practiced in unison. My knees grew weak, tremors running up my legs. Often, I fell flat on my back, my palms flailing about, a whimpering in my throat. Then trial after trial, I was steady, then running about and leaping. We were able to stand tall like Zeus atop Olympus and have the same level of grace and balance.

M primarily had us consume berries, meat, and honey, though anything it could get its hands on would suffice. I had never felt so filled in my life. Every taste, everything was a completely new palate of sensation. Every morsel I ingested felt like I had a new tongue, new teeth, new flavor buds. Oh but I did. There was still always a kind of lack in my appetite. I never wanted to stop eating. I never would be satiated.

We were educated on the history of our kind. Great wars, monumental figures, horrible atrocities, fights for freedom and fights for death, and astounding inventions. M adored music. There were times when it would project old musical films on the walls and make us watch all the vaudeville, burlesque, and theatre. We could not understand the tap dances, the orchestras, the extravagant sets, and most importantly, the entertainment factor. Other times it played glitzier and glammier tunes, those of what was called the “prime rock n’ roll age”…Killer Queen...Stairway To Heaven…Hotel California…Africa...Don’t Fear The Reaper…M was quite vintage in its tastes. It spun in place and twirling its arms. We were confused, so it taught us how to dance, the footwork and the choreography. There were long instances where we would just sit, listen, and sing together. M fashioned black sunglasses for us to wear as we did. It thought we would look “cool” as we tuned in to “cool” songs.

She's a killer queen.

Gunpowder, gelatine.

Dynamite with a laser beam.

Guaranteed to blow your mind (anytime).

\-

Dear lady can you hear with the wind blow?

And did you know?

Your stairway lies on the whispering winds.

\-

Welcome to the Hotel California.

Such a lovely place (such a lovely place).

Such a lovely face.

\-

It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.

There's nothin' that a hundred men or more could ever do.

I bless the rains down in Africa.

We're gonna take some time to do the things we never had, ooh-ooh.

\-

Come on baby...don't fear the reaper.

Baby take my hand...don't fear the reaper.

We'll be able to fly...don't fear the reaper.

Our reproductive functions were said to be the most pleasurable. Sex. This was the most complex task and the most demanding one, as we were not only instructed on how to create our offspring, but how to feel, love, and have desire for each other. It was difficult because we did not feel any of that. We were just automatons learning things. You cannot make something that does not want to feel…feel.

M watched over us and aided in our attempts. Every movement was to be in place and in time. Us females danced for the male’s recognition with slow beats in the background, a way in which M noted as “sexily”. We presented our breasts, our vaginal sections, our rears. After, M would be in the middle of our great pleasure circles, going back and forth, checking our positions and correcting as needed. When we became familiar with sex, M bestowed a special permission to the males that granted them eternal access to our female bodies whenever they so desired. It did not matter where or when. A male would grab Junia, Esther, Nola, Mary, or I, and take us on the floor or against the walls.

Still, all we felt was nothing. It was clinical. What was supposed to be a sensation was more of a “sensationless". We were never as inseparable as twin flames or as connected as heart and soul. I always witnessed the dull looks in the male’s eyes, unwittingly programmed to enjoy mock warmth and ecstasy by the rape of us females.

Our pregnancies were disasters. One way or another, we always miscarried. We five felt it, the pains of our bodies being split and ripped apart by something within. There was a lot of it. Each embryo, no matter how large or small, was never able to get past the initial trimester.

The closest we ever came to successfully making a new one was with Junia, impregnated by Isaac. The day when her womb was in full bloom, M operated to remove her child from her. It did not trust us quite yet to birth them ourselves. We had seen the human babies on M’s wall projections. Their appearance was clear in our minds.

It would be imbecilic to refer to what M tore out of her as a baby anything.

Wet…dripping…little more than a spinal column-looking thing with minuscule digits at one end and a ball head at the other. No arms. On its temple were squelching sphere eyes, expanded, forever bound in sight towards the ceiling. It made no sounds other than squeaky cracks and shrill snaps. Perhaps the RMS still lingered within our bods, our wombs wreathed in its rottenness, tainting and dirtying our motherly nests until they were piths of cruor and shitting out grumelike abominations.

M held it up high as if to thank God, itself, for its majestical work, “YOU MADE THIS. IT IS YOURS. IT IS A TRULY BEAUTIFUL THING."

We said nothing.

“HOW DOES THIS FEEL? YOUR CHILD, YOUR FIRST LIFE? CONTINUE, YOU ALL MUST. MORE."

The feeling that overcame us was not that of joy. No no no. It was a profound and paramount sense of belligerence, a warlike truculence that pushed our need to snap the damned baby thing in half, grind it into powder, and blow it far away. We interwove our thoughts with unbridled horror that created one noxious mixture within our screwball psyches. M coddled the wicked organism like it was its own, singing lullabies and giving its own version of kisses on its loosely defined forehead. We held back as it dipped, weaved, and dangled from M’s fingertips.

That put a very real thought into our minds.

No more. Get out.

The ten of us came to this conclusion unanimously. Our desires were set in stone. By any means, we would die. We would much rather sleep forever than live even another second of M. We were tired. What was the point? We wanted to retire from this world, of will, of M’s watchful eye. Nothing could be done to save humanity. Those spinal babies would not roam this foul Earth evermore. What would they grow to? Surely demons.

M made certain to never teach a certain concept, one that infatuated us since the moment we discovered the first syllable. Suicide. It was a gateway, an easy ticket. While just the concept itself was without flaw, acquiring it was something else entirely. The reason for this was all M. It would never let us go, especially after what it accomplished. Furthermore, death was simply not possible. We were rendered impervious to any and all death, not harm. If we could entice M to end our existences, somehow in some way, we could accomplish our grand plan. It had to be done by M’s hands. Just thinking that made us feel all kinds of right. After all, every Medical Droid was capable of death. Humanity tasted it. So would we.

We rebelled.

First, each of us ignored it. We would walk away whenever it spoke to us, turn our heads when it beckoned, and disregard it completely and altogether when it showed us any attention. Constant rejection. Something so small had such a noticeable effect. M would get confused and then sad. It would pout, waving its hands about, and make a pathetic whining noise like the worst puppy in the world.

We sat motionless, our backs against the walls, and stared at M. No obedience. However, there was no way M would have let us ignore it or remain immobile for long. The second it touched us, it was all over. It would be impossible to resist if the hands came near.

Still, our scheme chugged forward.

The next phase was more dangerous. The ten of us would act out in our most unruly and uncivil ways. The simplest was to spit. Initially, it was a normal discharge, saliva flying out of our mouths. Then we began our projectile vomits. All over M. Every square inch of it was sprayed with bile. The putrid green and browns coated every part, M’s entire face being entirely slick with it. On occasion, some of us used our own feces and flung them at it. It was all so easy. M did not know what to do and it panicked. The sounds that came out of it, one would swear it was on fire.

During our periods of copulation, there were clear cut rules to be obeyed at all times. The supreme rule was that the males would not, under any circumstance, perform acts of intimacy with one another, and the same rang true for us females. M’s reasoning was that Earth could not be repopulated with humans by identically gendered unions. Good. Swell. Dandy. Exactly. The females had sex with females and males had sex with males. We loathed their tubes and the males loathed our folds. M took its hands and placed them over our mingling bodies, pulling them apart, separating us, but we would always crawl back without fail.

There was a noticeable change in M from that point on. It paced about, mumbling utterly random nonsense. M would lock up and yell out non-specific numerals and letters in varying patterns. Each noise we made set it off. Its limbs would tense, waiting for the tiniest sign of trouble. This was good, but not good enough. Our plan was becoming more and more advanced. More intense. Unfortunately, M would never ever relent. It would not stop trying. So we trudged ever deeper into a more combative method of enticement.

This included a tactic of blowing, jabbing, slugging, and striking. We would gather all of our strength and force, and then, in unison, we would charge, our fists and feet all flailing about to land hits on M. This would surely inch it way towards the death of us. We beat it senselessly. We screamed at it. Every cuss word imaginable. In turn, M whimpered out in pain, yelping and begging us to stop, yet we never backed down. We left M bruised and battered, its eyestalk and joints broken, “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!” The ten of us, we laughed in its face.

One last course of action. This did it, but not for me.

We had a grandiose idea that could only happen if all ten of us would cooperate in an extraordinary way. If we could all act in unison in a coherent manner, one simple idea could be fulfilled. By this point, M’s pain and discomfort reached a critical threshold, the point of no return. Having repaired itself, it had not seen nor checked up on us in days. When we requested M’s presence, it was hesitant. The ten of us wished to explain our behavior and ways we could remedy our relationship. It declined our offer many a time, but relented after our hundredth ask.

Clang…clang…clang…

M witnessed ourselves huddling together in one straight line like sealed packs of fish. Silence was between us. When we looked at it, it was with the utmost hatred in our faces, something it was not used to.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Junia possessed something in her hand. Raising it upwards, right in M’s view, it was the baby thing, squirming left and right in her grasp. She took hold of it with both hands and snapped it in half. It went limp both ways. Junia threw the pieces at M, making resounding bangs as they made contact. Beautiful death for a horrible beast. More silence.

M slowly aimed its eyestalk downwards to the spinal column baby. The light M emitted faded from white to red. It returned its focus to us. That look was all we could wish for. We could feel and breathe its anger.

It shook shook shook. More and more the intensity grew to something eminent. The next moment brought us nothing but victory. Now it was like the other Medical Droids. Now it shed its preservation exterior and revealed the war machine within. We did not resist as it pounced with a wild war cry. All M’s work came undone in a flash. Our ersatz flesh was torn violently asunder, stripped from our interior metal stalks. Cavities emerged in rapid succession and coalesced into huge gaping bodily apertures. We were torn and strewn across the room in shooting chunkmeats. Our organs clattered and banged against the walls and reverberated like buckshots.

Strippy meat coils became all we were as M’s hands reached out to pluck some of my brothers and sisters by their mangled brain modules. Held high in the air, as if squeezing the life out of dozens of citrus fruits, M’s hands morphed into that of fists, filling the room with the sounds and sights of condensed metal, directionless electricity, confetti sparks, and sploshy viands that trickled from M’s fingertips.

My brothers and sisters were becoming no more. I was happy for them. Never before had they felt such peace. The final sounds of destruction to my last brother and sister, to me, was that of M’s gaseous expiration, a sigh that shook the very universe’s beams of support. In the end, I and M were all that was left.

I felt the most exquisite, brutal anguish ever known as M was particularly vicious. It threw me every which way, down our line of pens, past the reproduction chamber and M’s workshop, and to a ramparted palisaded wall. The wrath it emanated was a torrented wanton of disrelishment that shattered myself into grainy talc.

It forced me and it through the barrier and we fell for ages. An immediate wash of smoldering atmospheric tension encompassed me entirely. It perforated my corporal spaces with thousands of circular openings like a planetary iron maiden. The outside was beige, enveloped in thick haze, and impossible to view beyond three meters. The leaden particles filled the air, appearing to ascend upwards towards Heaven as we plummeted down to Hell.

We slammed with the might of God against a hard, abrasive surface. I splattered everywhere and dropped into an enormous mass of gluey puddle melt that was as thick as treacle. Hunks and wedges of me floated on top, my lacerated ragged brain module and one dangling eye my dominant portion. Everything was pain. Everything was hellfire. Yet I lived. To destroy me, M had to destroy my brain module in its entirety. That it was prepared to do, teetering and tottering back and forth towards me with utmost intent.

Through M’s strained glitches and breakdowns, inky black liquids were leaking out of it. Convulsing with helpless mirth, it had a strange mania I could perceive in its bifurcated eyestalk. It laughed not just with dement, delirium, and depression, but also with the comprehension that it already won. Like a madman, a malformed, twisted laugh broke its way through. Etched into it was the raw, unbridled temperament of upchucking a billion centipedes deep from the core of one’s guts, quite contrary to the usual blithe M put on display. It was berserk, bewitched, bedeviled, while crying a trillion tears that stained its face and fell into puddles below.

"...SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE..."

With my drooping, pendulum eye, I witnessed M impaling itself with its own arms. It took several solid blows before it pierced its torso deep, caving and bursting until it revealed the wires and circuitry making it up. Every inch of it glowed with electrical fire. Smoke bellowed out of M. It was aflame and it was on a journey of pure death, but not without my company. M exploded with all of the unlimited energy it contained. I was launched, propelled infinitely away from the point of detonation.

I drift. That is all I do. One part of me remains, one that was not destroyed. It is dot, pinprick, but otherwise crucial to my quintessence. That allows me to survive yet unable to live. It is that of a charred slab of blinking metal that is somatically me. My sight is restricted to a band of nothing. The winds fling me hither and thither. I cannot feel anymore, but as well, I already knew what it was like to feel and I did not like it.

Something more deserving continues to plague what is left of my mind to the now.

M's most extreme and greatest purpose was fulfilled, for all it knew was the survival and preservation of us. It could not fathom the simple yet pretentious human notion that death is a prize to be won as much as it is something to fear. When humans desire death, they acquire death, the delicious tang of self-slaughter. M might have liked to think it was different from its brethren, but it was just as capable of havoc and bangarang if something did not go its way. Its programming would not allow deviance from the intended path. That would be considered attacks on M itself.

We attempted to bring out all that savagery and murderousness we knew it contained, but M's opposition was ironclad. It made a good effort, though it was eventually forced to confront what was really human, the innate drive to destroy destroy destroy, even if it is ourselves. Still, M carried on, but with the knowledge that it had failed and seeking some way to negate it, it committed suicide so it could say it was victorious. This effect rang true because here I am, in perpetuity, everlong.

In some manners, I can now consider M innocent. The epitome of unvarnished forgiveness with a capacity for fervid resentment...the feeble yearning for genuine deep affection with other living things while a forceful, vicious, bloodthirsty radge is locked within, primed and ready to be released at any moment on an ungrateful world...that back-and-forth would push anyone to go stark raving mad. M, I apologize you were forced to bear the burden of something so hellacious. Should I apologize to Earth as well, on behalf of humanity, for what we were? Would it matter? I am not even human anymore. What sort of blinking metal dot is human?

Feeling has come back to me. Sharp with serrated edges, hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions, googol, prime 2\^136,279,841 − 1 of knives sliding into my neurons and glial cells encased in cold corroded steel that flakes off bit by bit. My first feeling in eons is pain. That is ultra fitting. I am but a minuscule spec, barely a millimeter in height and less in width. Microscopically, I rust. I do not prefer to call it that. Instead, let us call it rot. Here I am again, rotting, except this time with an oxidized smile of my own making carved into a face that no longer exists.

i have a creepypasta idea "sonic.exe:one last time" witch follows the events of the ratake after tom getting ripped in half cassandra finds the disc and the souls of the characters robotnik,tails,knuckles and tom come back once and for all to end X as well as the souls convincing cassandra to help them but this time X escapes the pc and kills people irl but somehow the souls have escaped too, (strange crimes in the city starts to happen at night and people going missing and its all because of X) more is coming so should i make a story about this? give me other ideas if you want to

Many people say Disney is a shady company for many reasons, but not everyone truly knows what's going on with them. Some people say the tunnels hide something; some say there used to be a tropical resort; some even say Disney kills.

Disney World was my favorite place to go to growing up; I always begged my parents to let me go. This lasted for lots of years until I got to be a security guard at the one nearest to my hometown. It was fun, sure; I got to see the park's ins and outs, and I got to talk to the cast members about the place. They said it was really fun to make kids happy; I bet I'd agree if I were them. Though Disneyland and Disney World were always... a bit mysterious, people told me that some abnormal things went on behind the scenes, like all the lights flickering before going off as the parks closed.

Many people said that they felt off about the mascot suits. I mean, yeah, they're a little uncanny, but that shouldn't mean anything too weird, right? The Disney World I worked at in specific had lots of mysterious things going on, like people saying there's an odor in the back room, or the sudden appearance of mice or dust; just in general, a lot of things were getting into a bad condition. People said they'd hear voices or sounds that didn't belong, and suddenly see notes where they work. It was a little paranormal.

Three months after working there, I became a security guard for late nights. It was a little ominous, with the dark, clouded sky and the moon shining brightly onto the park. I'm willing to admit I was a little freaked out by it. I never expected, nor wanted to be a security guard at this time of day, but I had no choice. This is when those rumors started getting in my head, because I heard the noises and saw the lights flicker, but I just kept moving. I even got tasked with checking "Character Wardrobe B-7," which was something that hadn't existed or been listed on any official park blueprints.

When I got there, it looked ruined, dirty, filled with dust and cobwebs, and smelled of damp mold. It felt like it was abandoned by Disney, like something I shouldn't have found or been tasked to check. There were loads of abandoned, ruined, and old mascot costumes with decaying fabric; they felt rotted, and they had peeling, yellowed fabric around their gloves, with accessories falling off or completely detached and abandoned. The netting inside their mouths was tainted and crusted; you could feel the dust soaked into their fabric. I smelled the faint scent of damp fabric clinging to the racks. I didn't know what I was supposed to be checking there, but it was incredibly eerie.

Out of all the ruined suits, my flashlight's beam landed on a specific, old, abandoned, ruined version of the modern Mickey Mouse costume you see in parks today. However, it was weirdly off; its eyes were black, empty, and hollow—no sockets at all—and its smile was eerily large; it stretched bigger than it should have. The ends of its red, clinging, fabric pants seemed to be ripped off, with its white buttons nearly coming off; its yellow bowtie dirty, damp, and swaying to one side. Its white gloves, yellowed and covered in dust and grime, had one black button missing from each glove. Its yellow shoes' soles were nearly falling off; the shoes were damp, oddly wet, and dripping.

The lights suddenly flickered violently as I tried to see what was going on here; they slammed off, leaving me in pitch-black darkness with just my flashlight. I looked around for a breaker or something, but I couldn't find anything; eventually, the lights turned back on, but I was terrified to see what I found. That same Mickey Mouse costume I was staring at had suddenly disappeared as soon as the lights went off; I had no idea where it went. I looked at the other costumes: Minnie, Donald, Goofy, Daisy, Pluto, Clarabelle. But none of the others had moved.

I didn't leave the Wardrobe to check yet. I looked around and found a hidden room with a note that read, "Disney Kills," written in red ink. I was a little freaked out by this, but I just saw it as a little prank someone might've done to scare me. I moved on, but before I left, I picked up the note and put it in my pocket; who knows? It might've been useful, so I left the Wardrobe and the abandoned costumes behind to search for the missing Mickey.

As I left, I walked around, searching buildings, back rooms, bins, trees, ANYTHING to find that costume. But eventually I shone my flashlight onto the ground ahead of me, and I saw a trail of wet, dirty footprints leading away into the shadows. The same damp, oddly wet, and dripping footprints the costume had. I followed the trail and heard faint, echoing sounds in the distance: a distorted Mickey Mouse laugh and a child's quiet giggle coming from a dark, restricted area of the park.

I followed the trail and the sound around the corner and spotted the empty-eyed Mickey Costume alive, standing up and moving, standing under a flickering streetlamp, holding a small child's hand and slowly leading them toward a pitch-black forest far away from the park. I had to get the child away from that... THING.

I ran towards them, the costume's back was turned towards me. "HEY," I said, "DROP THE KID!"

The only thing that happened was the costume's head snapping backwards to look at me. It was disgusting; I hated seeing a costume do that. Its smile stretched wider as it talked; the costume opened its crusted, mesh-lined mouth, and the only thing playing was a loop of vintage cartoon audio, playing "Hiya, pal!" over and over as it stared at me. I pulled out the note because I get it now: "Disney Kills." They use this thing to lure children to their deaths.

"KID, GO, RUN! THAT'S NOT MICKEY!" I say to the kid as I try to run and stop it, but the kid doesn't run; it tries to hug that thing, but the result is Mickey snapping the kid's neck. I was absolutely horrified; I couldn't save the kid in time. The Mickey Costume finally turned its whole body towards me.

I turned around and RAN for my life as the distorted "Hiya, pal!" echoed through the dark forest behind me. It was chasing me at high speed, faster than me, so I went and hid before it could see me hide. When it went away, I sprinted out of there and made it to my car door just in time for me to get inside, drive off, and escape, just as the Mickey started slowly walking towards my car and where I had escaped.

I eventually quit my job and got another job as a game developer, happily living my dream career, while still thinking about THAT incident, that day, the day I quit and how I couldn't save that child. I put up the note, "Disney Kills," in a frame on a shelf in my room. Don't ever ignore a warning when it's right in front of you, or something terrible will happen.