In the Walls

Last year, I moved into a middle class house right around summer time. The move went smooth, and it seemed like everything was just…working. Nothing broke during the cycle, I had plenty of friends to help me out, hell I even found twenty bucks in my couch! Beer money? Hell yeah!

Anyway, back to the house. For the first day or two, I thought life couldn’t get any better; my girl was beautiful, my friends were happy, and my parents were fixing their relationship. However, I hadn’t realized – until it was too late – that I was doomed to remain in this prison, which I sit in now as I tell you this story.

The first time it happened, I was in my room. I was in the zone on my Xbox. You know what I mean, where you get 10 headshots without breaking a sweat? Yeah, that. As I was kicking fat terrorist ass I heard movement downstairs (My room was on the second floor). It sounded like someone was running around down there. Like, they were running from room to room banging on the walls, just being flat out obnoxious.

“Hey, Jeff! Get out of my house, I said three-o’clock, dumbass!”

The noise stopped.

I waited a few moments before turning back to my game, but it was too late. I was already doomed. I saw it come at me too late…A tank.

“Son of a…” I sighed.

The next few days were normal, there were no more sounds that shouldn’t be there, just the pipes, the heater, you know the sort. Yet, about 3 days later, that idiot Jeff snuck into my house and started beating up my shit.

“Alright, you aren’t getting off so easy this time!” I shouted as I charged down the stairs. As my foot hit the last step, something out of the corner of my eye moved. I looked over so fast that I got whiplash. “Oh, dammit!” I moaned. I didn’t even pay any attention to the fact that whatever was in my house – had disappeared.

After that, it got worse.

That same night, as I layed in bed, the banging started again. Not only was it worse, but it was on my floor of the house this time. I was sure I locked everything before I came up here, so here I was pissing my pants at 900 miles per hour while something destroyed my house. I actually pulled the blankets over me – hey, I was scared – as the noise approached my door. Just as I expected it to bash open my door and slaughter me, it stopped.

The next morning I grabbed my baseball bat as I got out of bed, if whatever that thing is, was still out there, it would regret it. I didn’t find anything, but my house was trashed. Almost everything was tipped over, torn, broken, missing, or worse. I just figured I had been robbed.

I called the police, they didn’t do shit. But the noises stopped for a week or so, and that made things easier. Sure I was pissed that some fuck destroyed my new place, but at least I was ok. But, of course, I know now that it wasn’t a robber, or Jeff, or the pipes in the walls…It was the thing IN the walls.
A week after the incident, it came back.

This time it was pissed. I was startled out of my slumber by the noise of a vase breaking into a thousand pieces downstairs. SMASH it went, with little pieces still breaking a few seconds after the initial smash as if to mock me.

Not long after, I began to hear more deep, guttural banging noises on the walls again. Coming from inside of them, no doubt. As I lie there in my bed, I let out the tiniest, quietest, timidest squeak by sheer mistake, and the noise stops.

Sharpest ears I’ve ever seen, those were.

After several painstakingly long moments of silence, I released the breath I was holding, thinking it was over for now. Big mistake, I realize, as the noises suddenly start to rampage up the stairs. Incredibly fast, incredibly loud, smack, crash, bang against my wooden floor.

The beast, which I could now accurately call it, broke my door open with intense force, thrusting it all the way to the opposite side of the room. Being an intelligent individual, I had already hidden under my impenetrable field of safety known as the common blanket.

The noise of this monster running through my room, it’s footsteps enough to damage my eardrums at this close, was the scariest thing I had ever experienced in my entire life.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I threw the blankets off in the direction of the…thing, somehow making a direct impact to its face. Whoever – or whatever – this was, was stunned. But not for long, and I knew that. I frantically moved across my room, attempting to make it out the door, downstairs, outside, where I could attract public attention.

This night, luck was not on my side. I knew this as a large hunk of my hair was grabbed from behind and pulled out with such force that pieces of skins came along with it, along with a shitload of blood. Before a scream escapes my voice box, I’m being held down by a dark, hairless beast that walks on all fours with a face I can hardly imagine again, that then smashes my head with it’s fist, sending me into a dark, welcoming sleep.

…

Someone new has moved in, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence, the jackass. I patiently watch, wait, hear, hoping that they will. But no. Not me. I’m not worth it to them.

Maybe if I bang on the walls.

By: Zithra.

The Closest Enemy

Some murderers see their work as an art form. If their piece is a success, they will continue on with their life, outside of jail. However, with the limited capability of understanding humans possess, combined with their narrow mindedness, the true secret of a killer can go entirely missed.

The following is a video log of young man recording his last moments. It spends its time quietly residing in a dark, silent evidence room, calling out to whoever may hear its cry. Upon deaf ears will its shrill screams always fall.

The video starts off recording the youth adjusting his camera. His room is entirely dark, not a single spec of light to be found. The camera records in night vision as the man looks directly into the lens and begins speaking.

“Hello. My name is…” The voice pauses for a moment, deciding how he should start off. “Ugh. No, I’m not beginning it like this. It sounds too much like I’m recording my last words. That isn’t what I want this to be. Instead, I’ll just get straight to the explanation. I’ll describe to you the hell that has been nipping at me for god only knows how long now. It started the night of my 18th birthday. January’s cold held reign over our outside activities. It was just a small party, if you could even call it that. A few presents from my family, cake, the norm. All irrelevant. It was that night, as I was lying in bed, my lights out with my TV providing the only light for the room, that my story begins. My curtains and blinds were closed, which gave the room a nice ominous feel at the time. I liked that sorta thing back then.”

The man takes a slow breath, looking away from the camera for the first time. His focus returns after a brief moment and once more he begins reciting his story.

“Right. Back to what I was saying. My TV was in front of me, and the light it gave out cast a shadow on the wall beside me. I was a bit bored, so I decided to entertain myself by interacting with the two dimensional doppelganger of myself. My hand traced along the wall, as if I was playing a game of tag with my shadow’s hand, which seemed to be trying to flee from me, going out in front of me. That was the first sign, but I didn’t notice it. I should’ve been more aware.”

A brief pause accompanied by a stressed exhale and quick inhale. His expressions seemed to show that he was trying to think.

“After that, I’m sure there were more signs, I’m positive. They were probably just too subtle for me to notice. By the time I did notice something wrong, it might as well have been written in big bold letters in front of me. It was later on in the day, and I was in the kitchen of our house by myself. It was mildly lit. Just enough to see where you’re going without needing the aid of a light. I got some snack out of a cabinet, but knocked over a box onto the ground in the process. No big deal. I bent over to pick it up, and noticed the presence of my shadow. It immediately struck me as awkward. There was no light in here to cast a shadow. I put the box and my snack on a nearby counter without letting my eyes leave my shadow. If they were deceiving me, I wanted to know right away.

My interest in the paranormal may have made me a bit paranoid, but I knew that the tenseness I was feeling now wasn’t unwarranted. I took a step towards the room’s exit, and of course my shadow mimicked me. I raised my left arm, as if tempting him to continue mirroring what I was doing. He raised his left arm. Then he raised his right arm. Mine was still at my side. My skin crawled like a trillion tiny little bugs were trying to make their way out from under it. Then in one swift movement his hands wrapped around his neck, and I was the one who felt its effects. My throat was pained and my breathing stopped. I struggled frantically, but against what? My attacker was my own shadow.
I don’t remember what happened after that. Only what I was told by my family when I woke up. My blood was on the corner of one of the cabinet doors I had left open. Apparently I knocked myself good and passed out on the floor. Back then, I was happy to believe that’s what really happened. After all, this kind of stuff only happens in stories.”

Once more he collects himself from the rough memories with a deep breath of air.

“After that, I was always suspicious of the me that didn’t talk, that didn’t have any facial expressions, that would never confess to what he did to me. But what I had thought happened had a perfectly logical explanation. I couldn’t doubt it. Instead, I carried on, always holding that distrust in the back of my mind. But he didn’t assault me again. Though several times I noticed things that just couldn’t have really happened. I’d brush my teeth with my right hand, he’d use his left. I’d scratch my back, he’d scratch his head. I’m sure he was just taunting me. Probably the same reason he let me live the first time he attacked me. For fun, no doubt.”

There is a creak off to the man’s left, which catches his attention. He stares at the origin of the sound intently for a moment before returning to his monologue.

“The next attack… I’m betting this one was planned to finish me off. Once again I was in the kitchen, home alone for the time. I had an apple on a plate, and I grabbed a steak knife from its group. Not entirely necessary for cutting an apple, but it was in easy reach. Only half way through grabbing the knife did I realize that when I had it, so did my shadow, my enemy. Stunned by my lack of thinking, I dropped the knife. As I feared, my shadow did not repeat this action. If he had a face, I’m sure it would have been filled by a crooked and malevolent smile. I whispered “No.” as best as I could. My voice was barely more than a whisper but I doubt it made any bit of a difference. My silhouette raised the knife, and then brought it down in one swift, uncaring motion.

The result was a jet of blood from my arm and a surge of pain that reverberated several times through out my body. But on instinct I turned around and ran. I didn’t know where, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t out run him. Another stab. This one brought me to my knees. The nearest room was the bathroom. I dragged myself across the carpet, slowly into the room, and shut the door behind me. There was no window to the outside, which made the room completely dark. I waited for him to return, I was expecting to be ended by something that was essentially me. Hours went by and nothing happened. That’s when I learned how to defeat him. He can’t exist in total darkness. He becomes nothing.”

The young man looked around his surroundings, devoid of any light, and then back to the camera.
“And that’s why I’m here now. I couldn’t do this at home. If I tried to explain, I would’ve been sent out to an asylum. I had to run away. I suppose he let me get this far as a sort of show sportsmanship. Twisted. Doesn’t matter, really. So long as I’m in this chamber of darkness, I’m safe. That’s all that matters for now. Although I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll be trapped in here. What do I do when I run out of food? What do I do-“

The sound of cars pulling up and parking outside stop the young man midsentence.

“Taylor? Taylor are you in there? Please, Taylor, say something!” A voice yelled just outside the door, and the young man’s previous moderately calm demeanor has changed to one of panic.

“Go away! Just go! I don’t want you here, go away damn it!” He screamed back. His voice was so angered that the woman on the other side was silent for a minute.

“Taylor, we’re coming in honey. It’s for your own good.”

There was a smash against the door. Then another, followed by a soft spoken “No…” from the young man. The third crash brought the door down with a tremendous thud. Light from outside flooded the room, and almost immediately the man was knocked to the ground by some invisible force. In the struggle, the camera is tipped backwards and only records the sounds of Taylor struggling for breath as his mother and the accompanying police officer try to help him in some manner, without avail.

Credited to Poizn.

The Black & White Slide

My grandma fell down last year and had to spend time in a nursing home. While she was gone, I was cleaning up old shit she had accumulated around the house so she could get around better, and mom and I could find any important papers.

I found an old (not really old, like 80′s or 90′s) black and white slide. It was of some guy laying in a coffin. Dead, of course. I thought it was creepy because he looked like me.

I asked my mom if she knew who it was. She said “It’s you.” (she was joking) Then she looked at it and her eyes got huge and she started crying and hugged me and said she was sorry she made that joke. I said “It doesn’t look like anyone BUT me, does it?” and she said “no, it really doesn’t.”

Gramma doesn’t remember anything about the slide. I still have it. I shit you not….it looks like me. Just like me.

Playing with Sounds

Does anyone remember talkboys? They weren’t anything special, just a nifty looking tape recorder. They came out roughly around the same Christmas that Home Alone 2 was released, there was a whole load of hype over them, remember the trailer where Kevin plays back his hotel order down the phone after recording it? He uses the function that let’s you slow down the voice, posing as his dad. I thought that was awesome, I figured if I had one of those I’d be able to fool adults with ease, calling people up and ordering a new TV and stuff for the house…maybe my dad would even keep it, he’s pretty forgetful – you never know!

I never got one that Christmas, never really knew why but the huge collection of presents that Santa did bring me were enough to distract me from it’s absence, I was pretty happy with my new bike, that was the obsession of the moment. I forgot all about asking for it, actually, although I do remember seeing the ads on TV for a while. Instead I just let the snow clear and spent the next few months obsessing over the toys and games that I was given.

My birthday came in November much later the next year, I remember turning eight and having a party thrown for me at the house. Thankfully, the talkboy came too – along with Home Alone 2 on video of course. It was great unwrapping it, I mean I was never selfish and I didn’t really demand much as a kid but getting what you’ve asked for is a fantastic feeling. I ripped it out of the box straight away, tore off the packaging and carefully lifted it out in front of my friends. I was so pleased with it, it even looked cool. The microphone was extended towards you and it was so easy to hold, I grinned and laughed and pressed the record button.

“Hello!” I yelled into it before rewinding and playing it back.

“Hello!”

My voice sounded so odd, I’d never actually heard myself speaking before, it was such a strange sensation to hear how different it seemed. I looked at my dad, puzzled, and he laughed. Everybody laughed and I eventually joined in. I remember that Andrew reached over and tried to take it off me, demanding a chance to play with it but I pushed him away and shook my head.

“Nuh uh, I’m not done yet.” I lifted the receiver again and spoke into it:

“Andrew smells!”

He huffed and folded his arms, pouting and looking angry with me but I wasn’t phased, this was why I’d wanted it so badly in the first place. I rewound quickly, flicked that little black switch to make the talkboy repeat what I had said in the slow, deep voice like in the movie, I held it up so that everybody could hear me insulting Andrew in slow motion.

”Yes, he does,” said the talkboy.

By: Soreface