Do Try

Found the shit on my porch one night… Fucking ding-dong ditch or whatever. A little baggie with two blue capsules. And a stupid note with two words… “Do try”

I figured it was some shitty prank from my “experimental” friends from down the street. We’ve tried nearly every reasonable drug there is, trying to get the most psychadelic trips, maintain the best highs..

DMT, E, Acid, some experimental shit this dude sold me for wayy too much. Shit fucked me up… I tripped I was dust floating down from the ceiling. Lasted like eight hours. Fucked… me… up…

Anyway, the pills had like an orange 17 on them… Looked them up online, and couldn’t find anything.

I threw it on my dresser and crashed for the night.

I called all my friends the next afternoon. They all “claimed” they had nothing to do with it. “Wasn’t them”. I figured one of them would fess up eventually…

Over the next week, I pretty much forgot about it. None of my friends said anything, so either they forgot, or it really wasn’t them. I didn’t feel like mentioning it, we had some concentrated Salvia, so we lit that up.

The next day, curiousity killed me, I picked up the bag. Glanced at the note again… “Do it”… I swore it said “Do try” but I was high when I picked it up, so I dont know. But it entrigued me even more. I examined the pill. I reasoned with myself. I just couldn’t take it, it could be anything, but I was so curious. What if it was THE best high, the MOST psychadelic trip. I talked myself out of it. I set it down again, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing out…

The next few days were hell… I had a fever, and I felt like literal shit. Probably strep. I slept most of the day, but I awoke from the sound of my own heartbeat. My thoughts went instantly to the pill… I picked it up. It was practically calling my name. What the fuck did I have to lose. If I die, I die. I felt like dying anyway. For all I know, it could be some fucking antibiotics. I hoped for the latter. I looked at it one last time.

I downed it.

I remember “waking up”. The world was in negative. I was strapped to a chair, and these dark pulsating lights were eating away at my vision. I had no Idea what was going on, but I wasn’t scared. I was used to fucked up trips, but this was different. I felt empty. Time was moving backwards. Light was inverted. These dark lamps pulsing energy through my brain. A bass tone vibrating my body. I couldn’t close my eyes… I needed these “lights”. They were blackening the world. My world. The world where I resided and wasted time in the light. I finally understood. I was in the dark.

I started seeing the figures after what seemed like an eternity. Black masses of energy crawling towards me from every angle. I was seeing them in strobe. As the dark flashed, they crept closer and closer. I recognized them as friend. They were to free me from the light. Take me away from this white hell we all know so well. I wanted to go to them, but I made no attempt. I focused on the strobe. I needed them to move faster. To rid me of luminescence. Once and for all.

The strobe frequency slowed. Time started to speed up. The figures were stationary. The light was coming.

My cornea’s burned as the trip wore off. My emptyness enveloped me. The stobe was near out.. The figures no longer visible. I finally closed my eyes. Such a pale dark compared to true darkness.

When I opened them, I was in my bed. I shut them back immediately. I hated light. I hated our world. I wanted nothing more than to return to the chair. I couldn’t live here anymore. I couldn’t open my eyes. I reasoned with myself for hours to get up, to open my eyes. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I didn’t. I prayed for darkness. It meant nothing. I was in the white. The only way I knew to return to the black was the pill. I had one left, but I had to open my eyes.

My luminous mind was telling me it was just a trip. Don’t go back. Forget the abyss and return to normal life. The darkness was in favor. I didn’t want to go back, I needed it. It was the realization the world needed. But I didn’t care about the world. Only the dark.

Night came. I finally opened my eyes. Not to let the light in, but to get the pill. The last pill. As far as I knew, it was the last pill on earth. My want for darkness convinced me I only needed one. The figures would take me this time. I would forsake the light for the wondrous dark. I cared not what was in the dark. As long as it was unlit.

My body was weak. My eyes so adjusted to our world’s pathetic darkness, I felt as though I was looking at the sun. I needed the eclipse. I grabbed the bag. And without hesitation, swallowed the capsule. I would be home soon. I closed my eyes.

I “awoke”

I was back. Again in the chair. The dark was so comforting. Time moving the way I remembered. My frail body energized by the tones. The strobe showing me truths. The darkness was truth. I waited for the figures. I was confident they would take me this time.

Finally they limped into view. I praised them. Every strobe showed promise that I would soon forget light. Their movements were choppy and slow. But promising.

I urged them closer. Watching intently between strobes for their presence. They were getting close. I could feel them. Their pulses heavy on my chest. Our hearts beating in unison with the strobes. They were here.

The saviours were had arrived. They circled me. Crippled creatures that would transform my world. They opened my eyes to the dark, and closed them to the light. They held out their hands as the strobe slowed to a near stop. Everything was speeding up. I thought they took me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was in complete darkness. Beautiful, astonishing darkness. Every direction, an endless abyss void of light. This was what I had prayed for. Where I belonged. I never had to see light again. To open my eyes to anything but black was impossible. I loved it.

I got up to walk around my uncontaminated world. The dark Eden.

I stumbled over something. Something in the void? I felt around. This overewhelming darkness contained something familiar.

My old world.

Credited to Pill.

Daddy's Little Angel

She has her mother’s bright blue eyes, Daddy’s Little Angel does. And the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. She could melt an iceberg, she could. Everyone that knows her just loves her to death, and I’m so proud to call myself her father. She’s a gift from above, I know it, which is why I must protect her, no matter what the cost!

Some people just don’t understand.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. Some nasty little girl was teasing Katie, my Little Angel, and she just wouldn’t leave her alone. She was saying nasty things, saying how poor she was and saying she was dirty and such. She just had the filthiest mouth; little girls shouldn’t be so nasty. Well she followed Katie home that day throwing dirt at her and telling her to take a bath in it. Well my Katie showed her what’s what, yes she did! And Daddy couldn’t be more proud. I don’t think anyone should hurt a child, even if they don’t mean it! Don’t get me wrong! But Katie never did anything to anyone, and I love her to death.

You’ve gotta understand.

I was only being a loving father when I hid the body. You see we live in a very rural area, and that nasty mouthed little girl clearly had no business following my Katie in the first place. But I know no one would understand, and I just can’t let anything happen to my Little Angel!

Of course that’s when my wife came home and saw that our little girl had a few bruises. Can you believe she actually glared at me? As if I’d ever so much as think of hurting my Little Angel! Of course I was upset, but the sweetheart that she is, Katie set her on track sure enough. She told her how the filthy little girl harassed her and wouldn’t leave her be. And I tell you, that lit my wife right up, she was so angry. I had to restrain her, she was gonna call her parents then and there. It was nine in the evening!

Well, I finally talked her down, even though she was furious with me that I hadn’t handled it sooner. Of course by then she just didn’t trust me to settle it no matter what I told her. I said I’d do it first thing after work the next day but no, no! She insisted she’d call them herself the next day. Even Katie pleaded with her not to call her parents, she said she’d be so embarrassed at school if everyone found out she’d run home and told mommy.

Of course we both knew we couldn’t explain that the filthy little girl had gone “missing” after their little scuffle, now could we? I mean, she’s my wife and I loved her, but she just wouldn’t understand. But she just sent Katie straight up to bed and wouldn’t hear another word from me on the matter, her mind was made up. And she’s a very headstrong woman (it’s part of her charm, you see) so there’s no arguing with her once she’s made up her mind on a matter.

Well after that I went to tuck the Little Angel in and read her a bedtime story, and she begged me not to let mommy call the filthy girl’s parents, but I told her how persistent Mommy is, and that she wouldn’t listen to me. Of course that didn’t sit well with Katie at all. She knew that Mommy wouldn’t understand…and neither would her schoolmate’s mommy, no, especially not her. I told Katie I would think of something, and I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her…but Daddy’s Little Angel is clever. Daddy’s Little Angel already had her mind made up.

I shoulda understood.

The next day I came home to see my wife lying at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled bloody heap. There was so much blood, and it had long since dried into the carpet when I got home. She had never made it to work that morning. The official story was that she had taken a nasty fall down the stairs and cracked her head open like an egg on her tumble…but as I look into Katie’s eyes, so empty, so emotionless. No, no, no! Daddy’s Little Angel did not hurt anyone that didn’t try to hurt her first! She’s special…

Anyhow, there was a funeral and the whole family showed up. Katie couldn’t have been more bored; she just sat there staring into nothingness as the eulogy was given. When it came time to view the corpse she barely gave it a glance. I like to think she’s coping with the loss her own way. Daddy’s Little Angel loved her mommy more than anything.

It was just before the burial the next day that an investigator showed up at the door. It was Katie that answered as I was rushing to get ready. I rushed to the door as this man was questioning my little girl, gently scooted Katie outta the way and stepped up to the door.

“May I help you?” I asked, trying to sound polite.

“I need to ask you some questions about the circumstances of your wife’s death,” the investigator said.

“Who are you?” I think some of my frustration was coming through, but it might have been my self-consciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a laugh. “Detective Kimble, local PD. I just got the results back from the autopsy, and the blunt trauma your wife suffered, and the bloodstains found on the carpet don’t exactly match up. I was wondering if you could give me a little more insight…”

“Well I’d love to, Detective, but as I told the responding officers, I only found the body when I came home from work. I wasn’t here to see it happen.” The detective tried to speak again, I think, but I cut him off. Frustration was filling me. “If you’ll excuse me, we have a burial to attend.” I grabbed Katie’s hand and walked her out the door, locking it behind me. I glanced back to see that the detective was watching me as we drove away.

Katie was silent the entire trip there and back, and as soon as we got home she retreated to her room. The poor baby has it so rough, all this death surrounding her. I shampooed the carpet the best I could to get the stains out, and fixed up dinner for us. We ate in silence, and it filled me with pain to see her suffering. I’ll never forget, just before she got up to take her plate to the sink she looked at me and smiled so softly. Oh my little Angel has the sweetest smile you ever did see.

A couple days passed, and I thought things were getting back to normal–well as normal as they could be, without my beautiful wife to come home to–when it happened. You see I rush home each day to meet Katie as she’s coming in from school, but yesterday I was lost in thought and took my time getting home. You see, the day before my wife’s sister suggested that she come over and bring Katie’s cousin to visit, and I couldn’t refuse. So I had to get in the mindset…I had to show her we were coping.

The house was quiet when I got there, but that wasn’t so unusual as Daddy’s Little Angel tends to keep to herself and spends most of her time in her room playing with her dollhouse. She’s always so clean, and always so quiet, I couldn’t have asked for a better little girl.

I walked up to check Katie’s room and it was empty. I then proceeded to check the rest of the house and found her nowhere, until I came to the door leading to the cellar. Odd, it was cracked. I pushed it open and started down the stairs. I could see the light spilling across the floor at the bottom of the staircase, illuminating a small puddle of blood just a foot from the bottom step.

“Just hand me the gun,” a voice said softly. “I’ll get you out of here, take you somewhere safe.”

I rushed down the stairs and found Katie standing a mere two feet away from Detective Kimble, who sat bound with rope and bleeding from the head. I approached my daughter and eased the gun from her hands as the detective seemed to eye me with the most dreadful gaze anyone’s ever given me in my life. I took the gun in my hands, and was surprised at how natural it felt, though I’d never held a gun in my life. The exhilaration that filled me as I lifted the gun and watched the detective’s face contort in horror almost sickened me.

“Why have you come,” I asked him as I aimed the gun at his head.

“Your wife’s death was not an accident,” he replied.

“I was at work when it happened, and Katie was at school. It’s been deemed an accident. What did you hope to find here?”

“The coroner stated that she died in the early morning, around the same time you leave for work.”

“I loved my wife!” Unconsciously I began to pull the hammer back.

“If you kill me, the police will know where to look,” Kimble pleaded. “There’s no way out of this. Do the right thing. Do it for your little girl!”

“If only you understood…”

I put a bullet in his head. It’s all I could do. Of course I knew he was right, I knew the cops would come soon, looking for him. I turned to my girl–she stood staring at Kimble, vacantly–and I told her to run and get the tarp from the corner. She did. Daddy’s Little Angel is so good, she even helped me wrap the body.

And I carved.

My sister-in-law showed up that night with her husband and kid, as she said she would…and dinner was ready by eight thirty. I really think they loved it, my new recipe. I think they’ll be back for more.

Credited to Chris Phoenix.

Arthur

You volunteer at the mental health clinic. Given the dangerous nature of the residents, they assigned you the rooms of the less violent patients. The suicidal. Those who hear voices. Those that don’t say anything at all.

You become close to a mute man named Arthur. He is a rapt listener, willing to nod his head for hours as you tell him the story of your life. You mention your past, your present. The people involved in both. Your hopes for the future.

And Arthur just nods.

After several months of listening, you figure that you owe it to Arthur to get him out of the clinic. He can’t be happy sitting in a room by himself nodding at interns everyday. You talk to the supervisor of the clinic. You argue that he isn’t harming anyone. That he grooms and feeds himself with no problems. That perhaps his condition is a physical aliment.

The day comes when your arguing pays off. The supervisor has agreed to let Arthur go. You rush to his room to tell him the news. “You’re free!” You shout. “Isn’t that great?”

And Arthur just nods.

You write your name and address on a piece of paper. Hand it to him. “I’m going to miss having someone to talk to.” You say. “But now you can write me. I can learn all about you. Like why they were so insistent in having you in here, pal. I had to fight Dr. Thanner everyday to get you out.”

He looks at you and takes the paper. Just nods.

You go home, feeling good about yourself. You brag to everyone you can tell, friends, family, classmates, co-workers, about how you came through for Arthur. You even fall asleep with a smile.

That night, your eyes snap open. Screams, unearthly screams wake you up.

Then you see them. Your mother. Your father. Your friends. Your classmates. Your co-workers. Lying on your floor, their blood soaking into your carpet. Your walls stained with carnage. Their heads bashed in, their eyes missing from their sockets. Everyone you know dead or dying.

You whimper and see a man standing in the doorway.

It’s Arthur, holding the piece of paper you gave him.

Your entire body shaking, you choke out. “Are you here to kill me?”

And Arthur just nods.

The Real Monsters

When I was a little boy, I was afraid of monsters. They always lurked in the dark places where the light didn’t reach. It didn’t matter how many times my father shone a flashlight into the dark corners of my closet: I knew, the moment that the light was gone, the monsters would come back.

And they always did.

When I grew up, I learned why: the real monsters don’t hide in dark corners and closets. The real monsters are the ones that live behind your eyes, in the darkness of your mind, and it takes more than a flashlight to send them away.

You’ll find what you’re looking for in my basement. She’s still alive, but the others are long dead. (I’ve kept their teeth in ziploc bags in my file cabinet. Maybe you can identify them from dental records.) She hasn’t eaten in days, and she’s lost a lot of blood, but she might still live if you hurry.

All I ask is that you leave the light on when you go. This prison cell is very dark, and I’m afraid that the monsters will come out when you leave.

The Text Message

Driving home from a friends house, you sit at a red light when you hear a familiar tone from your phone, sitting in the passenger seat. A text message. Probably from your friend; you always leave things at their homes. Being a responsible driver, and the light still red, you open the message and wait for a moment for the image to load. Suddenly, a photo pops into view. Red, obscured, strange contrast. And no text accompanying it.

But the light is green, so you close your phone and go back to driving, wondering vaguely what that was, and who would have sent you it. Perhaps someone accidentally took a picture of the inside of their bag or pocket and sent it to you. You’re still caught wondering as you pull up to the next light, also red, and another little tone from your phone. You flip it open, hoping for an apology from a friend, but find yourself waiting as another photo loads on the screen. This one, still mostly red, but textured now with scraps of blue, yet still indiscernible. This time, it takes an impatient honk from behind you before you realize you can pass through the light and be on your way home. Closing the phone, and continue on your way.

You sit uncomfortable now as the tone rings again, at yet another stop signal. You pause, hesitate, and then open the phone. The picture now is suddenly much more clear. That scrap of blue seems to be the ragged edge of a bit of denim, half blood soaked and laying across a pile of entrails, torn straight through the back of a human torso. You can only see from the bottom of the shoulder blade to the tops of the thighs, but its unmistakably human. Blue-white spinal bone smeared in blood, tubes of intestine trailing out between ragged looking spinal tissue and going out of the frame of the picture. You choke back a throat full of bile and throw the phone back into the passenger seat, happy to be on your way again, and dreading the knowledge that you won’t be able to not look as you hear that tone again.

There is some relief as you realize there are no more stoplights before you reach your home. But as you pull up to that red stop sign, the bottom of your stomach drops out and you feel a cold sweat build on the back of your neck. You have already picked up the phone, even before that tell-tale little tone has told you there is a message. The cell vibrates in your hand as you flip it open, your mind gone on auto-pilot, driving home with your eyes on the screen as the newest photo loads. Intestines piled almost artistically to the side of the body, scalp ripped free and no hair discernable, and that sickening contrast of darkening red on blue. For some reason, you expected that, even as you taste bile on the back of your tongue.

Its not as close or obscured. Flesh torn apart by God knows what means, torn denim, and blood soaked so far into the threadbare fabric of a hand-me-down couch. The one you have in your living room. You pull your car into park, hands shaking as you make your way up to your front door. You can’t stop yourself now, your body’s just doing as it normally would, but your finger frantically scrolls down the screen, finding no name, no phone number, and a time dated on the message three minutes from now.

You put the key in the door as you try shrug off your denim jacket.

Credited to The Flea!

The Gift of Mercy

!MESSAGE BEGINS

We made a mistake. That is the simple, undeniable truth of the matter, however painful it might be. The flaw was not in our Observatories, for those machines were as perfect as we could make, and they showed us only the unfiltered light of truth. The flaw was not in the Predictor, for it is a device of pure, infallible logic, turning raw data into meaningful information without the taint of emotion or bias. No, the flaw was within us, the Orchestrators of this disaster, the sentients who thought themselves beyond such failings. We are responsible.

It began a short while ago, as these things are measured, less than 6^6 Deeli ago, though I suspect our systems of measure will mean very little by the time anyone receives this transmission. We detected faint radio signals from a blossoming intelligence 2^14 Deelis outward from the Galactic Core, as photons travel. At first crude and unstructured, these leaking broadcasts quickly grew in complexity and strength, as did the messages they carried. Through our Observatories we watched a world of strife and violence, populated by a barbaric race of short-lived, fast breeding vermin. They were brutal and uncultured things which stabbed and shot and burned each other with no regard for life or purpose. Even their concepts of Art spoke of conflict and pain. They divided themselves according to some bizarre cultural patterns and set their every industry to cause of death.

They terrified us, but we were older and wiser and so very far away, so we did not fret. Then we watched them split the atom and breach the heavens within the breadth of one of their single, short generations, and we began to worry. When they began actively transmitting messages and greetings into space, we felt fear and horror. Their transmissions promised peace and camaraderie to any who were listening, but we had watched them for too long to buy into such transparent deceptions. They knew we were out here, and they were coming for us.

The Orchestrators consulted the Predictor, and the output was dire. They would multiply and grow and flood out of their home system like some uncountable tide of Devourer worms, consuming all that lay in their path. It might take 6^8 Deelis, but they would destroy us if left unchecked. With aching carapaces we decided to act, and sealed our fate.

The Gift of Mercy was 8^4 strides long with a mouth 2/4 that in diameter, filled with many 4^4 weights of machinery, fuel, and ballast. It would push itself up to 2/8th of light speed with its onboard fuel, and then begin to consume interstellar Primary Element 2/2 to feed its unlimited acceleration. It would be traveling at nearly light speed when it hit. They would never see it coming. Its launch was a day of mourning, celebration, and reflection. The horror of the act we had committed weighted heavily upon us all; the necessity of our crime did little to comfort us.

The Gift had barely cleared the outer cometary halo when the mistake was realized, but it was too late. The Gift could not be caught, could not be recalled or diverted from its path. The architects and work crews, horrified at the awful power of the thing upon which they labored, had quietly self-terminated in droves, walking unshielded into radiation zones, neglecting proper null pressure safety or simple ceasing their nutrient consumption until their metabolic functions stopped. The appalling cost in lives had forced the Orchestrators to streamline the Gift’s design and construction. There had been no time for the design or implementation of anything beyond the simple, massive engines and the stabilizing systems. We could only watch in shame and horror as the light of genocide faded into infrared against the distant void.

They grew, and they changed, in a handful of lifetimes they abolished war, abandoned their violent tendencies and turned themselves to the grand purposes of life and Art. We watched them remake first themselves, and then their world. Their frail, soft bodies gave way to gleaming metals and plastics, they unified their people through an omnipresent communications grid and produced Art of such power and emotion, the likes of which the Galaxy has never seen before. Or again, because of us.

They converted their home world into a paradise (by their standards) and many 10^6s of them poured out into the surrounding system with a rapidity and vigor that we could only envy. With bodies built to survive every environment from the day lit surface of their innermost world, to the atmosphere of their largest gas giant and the cold void in-between, they set out to sculpt their system into something beautiful. At first we thought them simple miners, stripping the rocky planets and moons for vital resources, but then we began to see the purpose to their constructions, the artworks carved into every surface, and traced across the system in glittering lights and dancing fusion trails. And still, our terrible Gift approached.

They had less than 2^2 Deeli to see it, following so closely on the tail of its own light. In that time, oh so brief even by their fleeting lives, more than 10^10 sentients prepared for death. Lovers exchanged last words, separated by worlds and the tyranny of light speed. Their planetside engineers worked frantically to build sufficient transmission infrastructure to upload the countless masses with the necessary neural modifications, while those above dumped lifetimes of music and literature from their databanks to make room for passengers. Those lacking the required hardware or the time to acquire it consigned themselves to death, lashed out in fear and pain, or simply went about their lives as best they could under the circumstances.

The Gift arrived suddenly, the light of its impact visible in our skies, shining bright and cruel even to the unaugmented ocular receptor. We watched and we wept for our victims, dead so many Deelis before the light of their doom had even reached us. Many 6^4s of those who had been directly or even tangentially involved in the creation of the Gift sealed their spiracles with paste as a final penance for the small roles they had played in this atrocity. The light dimmed, the dust cleared, and our Observatories refocused upon the place where their shining blue world had once hung in the void, and found only dust and the pale gleam of an orphaned moon, wrapped in a thin, burning wisp of atmosphere that had once belonged to its parent.

Radiation and relativistic shrapnel had wiped out much of the inner system, and continent sized chunks of molten rock carried screaming ghosts outward at interstellar escape velocities, damned to wander the great void for an eternity. The damage was apocalyptic, but not complete, from the shadows of the outer worlds, tiny points of light emerged, thousands of fusion trails of single ships and world ships and everything in between, many 10^6s of survivors in flesh and steel and memory banks, ready to rebuild. For a few moments we felt relief, even joy, and we were filled with the hope that their culture and Art would survive the terrible blow we had dealt them. Then came the message, tightly focused at our star, transmitted simultaneously by hundreds of their ships.

“We know you are out there, and we are coming for you.”

!MESSAGE ENDS

The Church Cellar

In the small town of Stull, Kansas, there once stood an old one room chapel on top of a hill, surrounded by graves. Beside the church was a cellar that was very difficult to find, as its doors had grass grown upon them. In front of it church was great tree that was always bare. None of the towns members could recall ever having seen a leaf upon its branches.

In the towns earliest years, well before the civil war, there were several farming families that lived there. The minister’s daughter had fallen madly in love with a boy from nearby, but had her heart broken when that young man was discovered to have impregnated a certain flirtatious townsgirl. The two were married, and all the while the reverend’s daughter saw them, happy together, and her hatred brewed until after 9 months of painful endurance, that despise boiled over. Shortly after the young couple's child was born the minister’s daughter went to their house.

They greeted her cheerfully but noticed, all too late, how she eyed the child blood-thirstily. She slit the throats of those two who’d made her life so miserable and then dragged their bodies, along with the newborn child, up the hill to the church. She put the bodies in the cellar and left the baby there, between their bodies, to starve to death. She locked the cellar shut and hung herself on the tree in front of the church. The bodies in the cellar were not found for three weeks.

From that day on leaves never grew on that tree. If you walk the graveyard late at night you can just hear the sound of a baby’s chilling cry. The towns people burnt down the tree many years ago, in the hopes of putting the ministers daughter’s spirit to rest. And more recently the church collapsed onto itself, burying the already difficult to find cellar.

Many have looked for its doors, but the few who have found them and ventured beneath its depths have seldom returned, with the exception of a few who came back to the sunlight after 3 weeks beneath- starved nearly to death and covered in blood that was not their own.

Chemical

If you asked me how long we’ve been down here, I wouldn’t know. We don’t see the sun, and nobody seems to have a watch. It doesn’t matter anyway; we don’t have anywhere to be. For all we know there isn’t anywhere left to be. The surface has surely been overrun with death and decay by now.

There are six of us left. Until just recently there were seven. Her screaming has stopped now and I feel relief. It was hard to sleep with those agonizing screams and the banging on the steel door. Huddled in my blankets, I look around at the other survivors; four men and a woman, all of us unkempt and haggard. At one point we all worked here, but since the accident it’s become our prison. The painfully low amount of food is in a pile in the center of the room, so we can all keep an eye on it to make sure nobody is taking more then we’re allowed per day. There’s enough food for three, maybe four meals. None of us want to think about it. We just stare.

There are no beds, just piles of blankets and paper that make crude sleeping areas. There’s one bathroom at the far end of the complex and it has running water. There are three other rooms, rooms we used to work in, filled with computers and lab equipment that has accumulated a fine layer of dust. We still have power somehow, so all the security cameras and lights still work. Unfortunately none of the computers work because they’ve been shut and locked, as per emergency protocol. Any contact with the outside world is non-existent.

We worked for the military, doing basic chemical research. Somewhere along the line a chemical was leaked, and the results were fatal. People who came into direct contact with the chemical succumbed to vomiting, mild at first, then intense, until they had nothing to excrete except for their own blood. Nobody lasted more then a couple hours once they had touched the chemical. It also spread through saliva, bile and blood, so those with the misfortune of coming into contact with even a single drop are doomed. We had to toss that woman out because we caught her vomiting in the toilet. She said she was pregnant and that it was only morning sickness, but you can’t be sure. Her fiancé, Barry, tried to intervene, calling us animals. We clubbed him over the head, then tied and gagged him to a thick pipe at one end of the room. He strains against the bonds and screams into the gag occasionally, a fierce and wild-eyed look on is face. It’s for his own good and the good of everyone here. He might hurt someone. He needs to be untied and fed eventually, but nobody wants to be the one to do it. So we just sit and stare at the pile of food on the floor that gets lower with each rationed meal. He’s another mouth to feed that we can’t afford.

Everyone is on edge, twitchy and jumpy. Every movement is watched intently, with suspicious and unrelenting eyes. Nobody talks anymore. They just stare. We all know we’re going to die, it’s just a matter of time before hunger or the chemical gets us. It’s all in the backs of our minds, eating away at our sanity.

It’s been awhile now since the incident with the sick woman. Barry died while I was asleep, and our food supplies have run out. I draw the blanket over my head and drift into a fitful sleep, filled with hunger pangs. I’m awakened some time later by the sound of whispers. I can see three members of our group huddled in a circle and identify them as Marcus, Daniel and Eileen. My stirring causes them to look over, piercing me with savage eyes. They start moving towards me with a hungry look on their faces. Their intent hits me with a sudden burst of fear, and I scramble to my feet. Marcus grabs me by the collar, and it tears as I break loose from his grip. Daniel grabs at my blanket and I shove him hard against the third attacker, Eileen. They go sprawling and I spring past them and into the computer room, locking the door as fast as I can. Dragging desks and cabinets, I make a crude and hopefully secure barricade. I see them banging themselves against the door and the windows, glaring at me with feral eyes. Something catches their attention down the hall, and they stop, heads snapping sharply in the direction of the bathroom.

The fifth man, Jackson, must have finished using the facilities, unaware of the intent of the other three. He approaches and peers into the window, a puzzled look on his face. I try to scream a warning, but all that escapes my throat is a hoarse rattle. It’s too late anyway, and his face is smashed against the glass by one of the others. I stare in horror as his face is smashed to a pulp, each thud resounding through the room like a slow heartbeat. Then his body is taken away and there is silence.
They’re gone for now, but they’ll be back. Hunger gnaws at my stomach and I search frantically for any morsel of food. With extreme luck, I manage to find a candy bar in one of the desk drawers and hungrily devour it, thanking whoever it was who had the sweet tooth. My bliss soon passes, and the hunger pains return. I try to sleep, but even the slightest sound jolts me awake. I have no idea how much time has passed but suddenly they were bashing the blood smeared window with a pipe. They’re going to get in, and I will need to defend myself.

There’s an emergency axe in one corner of the room, inside a glass case. I smash the glass and retrieve it, and it makes me fell a little better. My anxiety grows along the spider web cracks on the window with each passing moment. After God knows how many attempts, the window finally shatters and the wild, barely human face of Marcus peers in. I sit in a chair, with the axe out of view, and wait. I’m going to die anyway, so I might as well go out fighting. He climbs in, followed by Eileen and finally Daniel. They approach slowly, in a mini skirmish line. When they get close enough, Marcus raises the pipe for a killing blow. Before he has time to bring it down, I swing the axe and slice him in the chest. The pipe clatters to the floor and as I spring to my feet. Eileen lunges at where I was and crashes into the now empty chair. I swing the axe, catching Daniel off guard and delivering a blow to the temple. His blood showers me and stings my eyes, blinding me. Eileen lunges for me again and tackles me around the ankles, sending me to the ground. I managed to hang on to my axe, and as her hands clasp around my neck I slash her throat. The hands grip tighter for a moment and then loosen, and her lifeless body crumples on top of me.

Pushing her off, I stagger towards Marcus, gagging from the strangling I had just received. He was still alive, dragging himself through his own blood towards the fallen pipe. I stick my foot on his back and swing the axe onto his skull. My heart racing, I stumble backwards and am grabbed by hands from behind. The axe is wrenched from my hand and I feel a sharp prick on my neck. I lose all muscle control and slump to the floor. Through blurred vision I see men in hazmat suits all around me. I hear the sound of their voices, but they seem distorted and far away. Then the man nearest me speaks and the words register into my brain with horror.

“The experiment has gone on long enough,” he says, before I sink into total darkness.

Credited to Kilkenny.

The Army of The Dead

A laundress, newly moved to Charleston following the Civil War, found herself awakened at the stroke of twelve each night by the rumble of heavy wheels passing in the street. But she lived on a dead end street, and had no explanation for the noise. Her husband would not allow her to look out the window when she heard the sounds, telling her to leave well enough alone.

Finally, she asked the woman who washed at the tub next to hers. The woman said: “What you are hearing is the Army of the Dead. They are Confederate soldiers who died in hospital without knowing that the war was over. Each night, they rise from their graves and go to reinforce Lee in Virginia to strengthen the weakened Southern forces.”

The next night, the laundress slipped out of bed to watch the Army of the Dead pass. She stood spell-bound by the window as a Gray fog rolled passed. Within the fog, she could see the shapes of horses, and could hear gruff human voices and the rumble of canons being dragged through the street, followed by the sound of marching feet. Foot soldiers, horsemen, ambulances, wagons and canons passed before her eyes, all shrouded in Gray. After what seemed like hours, she heard a far off bugle blast, and then silence.

When the laundress came out of her daze, she found one of her arms was paralyzed. She has never done a full days washing since.

The Black Eyed Kids

My Internet Service Provider used to have offices in a shopping center before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went.

It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated apartments, it’s about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a population of about 110,000).

Right next to Camalott Communications’ old location is a $1.50 movie theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.

Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to hear a knock on the driver’s-side window of my car.

I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was) that I didn’t realize until about half-way through the conversation cleverly omitted.

Both appeared to be in that semi-mystical stage of life children get into where you can’t exactly tell their age. Both were boys, and my initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.

Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn’t speak during the entire conversation — at least not in words.

Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over, hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn’t see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence.

Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.

They didn’t appear to be related, at least directly.

“Oh, great,” I thought. “They’re gonna hit me up for money.” And then the air changed.

I’ve explained this before, but for the benefit of any new lurkers out there, right before I experience something strange, there’s a change in perception that comes about which I describe in the above manner. It’s basically enough time to know it’s too late.

So, there I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys. I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness rushed in nonetheless.

The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in. Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn’t know what it could possibly be.

I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked “Yes?”

The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.

“Hey, mister, what’s up? We have a problem,” he said. His voice was that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and … something I still couldn’t put my finger on … made my desire to flee even greater. “You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we forgot our money,” he continued. “We need to go to our house to get it. Want to help us out?”

Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that includes children. I’ve seen and spoken to lots of them. Here’s how that usually goes:

“Uh … M … M … Mister? Can I see that camera? I … I won’t break it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog — it wasn’s very good, ’cause I got my finger in the way and …”

Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you’ve got a typical kid talking to a stranger.
In short, they’re usually apologetic. People generally teach children that when they talk to adults, they’re usually bothering them for one reason or another and they should at least be polite.

This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to say, “I know something … and you’re NOT gonna like it. But the only way you’re going to find out what it is will be to do what I say …”

“Uh, well …” was the best reply I could offer.

Now here’s where it starts to get strange.

The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not with his friend’s brusque manner but that I didn’t just immediately open the door.

He eyed me nervously.

The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering something wrong with both.
“C’mon, mister,” the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car salesmen could learn something from this kid. “Now, we just want to go to our house. And we’re just two little boys.”

That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was perceiving about the two figures that was “wrong.”

“Eh. Um ….” was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my fingernails into the steering wheel.

“What movie were you going to see?” I asked finally.

“Mortal Kombat, of course,” the spokesman said. The silent one nodded in affirmation, standing a few paces behind.

“Oh,” I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last showing of the evening.

The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.

“C’mon, mister. Let us in. We can’t get in your car until you do, you know,” the spokesman said soothingly. “Just let us in, and we’ll be gone before you know it. We’ll go to our mother’s house.”
We locked eyes.

To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock (which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away from the children.

I turned back. “Er … Um …,” I offered weakly and then my mind snapped into sharp focus.

For the first time, I noticed their eyes.

They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs reflecting the red and white light of the marquee.

At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to indicate: A) The impossible had just happened and B) “We’ve been found out!”

The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes glittered brightly in the half-light.
“Cmon, mister,” he said. “We won’t hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We don’t have a gun …”

That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that point by his tone he was plainly saying, “We don’t NEED a gun.”

He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The spokesman’s final words contained an anger that was complete and whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic:

“WE CAN’T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT’S OKAY. LET … US …. IN!”

I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back.

They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted.

I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later.

I bolted into my house, scanning all around — including the sky.

What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride.

And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.

Eye Contact

We’ve all experienced it, right? That sudden feeling like someone is looking you. A chill runs up your spine, and you are convinced that you have to find the source of the sensation. You look around and see someone just randomly staring at you. At gives you even more of a spook, but, after a few seconds of awkwardness, it subsides. You and the person go your separate ways, never to see one another ever again.

Or are you?

Why is it that we get that sensation when we make eye contact with another human being? I will tell you why. Its because they aren’t human beings. Not. At. All.

They look just like us, talk like us, act like us. But there is something strange about these creatures that mock us. They are each destined to certain people in their lives, they know not of who they are or what they look like. Just ordinary people, like you and I. When they find one of those people, the two of them make eye contact. At that moment, they are linked to you by a mortal bond. That is, if you die, the human, then they die.

Well that’s not so bad, now is it? I mean, if I was linked to someone by those means, I would personally try and protect the person. Wouldn’t you?

Remember that chill? That eerie feeling of ice shooting up your spine and back down again. That is your memories and your future, both of which are being copied at that moment and stored into their minds. Yet again, so what? Now they know all of your personal secrets. Its not like they will do anything, save for steal your money or something. But no one ever does that, really they don’t.

Imagine this. Say you met someone the other day, a random person. Who’s to say that’s not the next Hitler? If I was to be endowed with all of the mindset of that person…I wouldn’t care if I died, as long as I took them with me.

Then again…maybe its not so bad. Sure, it’s rare, but there are defiantly good people out there, they are just hard to find. And, if I was to see an extreme goodness in someone’s heart, I would want to protect them. For my life, yes, but for theirs as well. Like a guardian angel, right?

Just…remember one thing. If anything, remember what I am about to tell you, because if you are like me, it will change the way you think about your life and the way you live. It may even save you from being struck down by one of THEM.

Humanity is inherently evil.

Subterra

The trio of city workers stood six stories below the surface. Amidst the ancient network of iron, cement, and stone, they monitored the array of sensors and scanners that bedecked their protective suits.

Traipsing through the dread stillness, they entered a chamber strewn with bones, debris, and long-since rotted organic matter. As the beams of their headlamps played across the rusted bolts and water-stained fixtures, they came to rest on a panoply of strange creatures attached to the walls.

They seemed like large, shelled insects the size of box turtles. From the bottom of the spiky domes protruded long, thorned tails that tick-tocked back and forth in the eerie silence. Agreeing that this was the source of the anomalies detected by the metropolis above, they decided to report back after a quick look at the blood-and-rust colored bugs.

The radio man fell to his knees complaining of a sudden migraine. The navigator, dropping his equipment, screamed that his teeth and bones were burning. The analyst, his legs buckling, consulted his equipment with failing strength.

His last coherent thought was a disturbing realization… “…They’re microwaving us!…”

Credited to Ravenflesh.

Ya-Te-Veo

Even as the sun vanishes behind the tall, impossibly green trees and the rainforest around me fades into darkness, the air feels unbearably hot. I can’t walk anymore tonight. I’ll have to find a place to sleep. The leather pouch that the mystic gave me just before I left the village hangs heavily from a loop on my belt, knocking against my leg softly with each step that I take. He insisted that I take the pouch, filled with crushed flowers and roots and soil, into the jungle with me so that I might be safe from danger.

I agreed, partly to oblige him in whatever superstition he might be heeding, but also partly because the villagers here know more about these jungles than anyone. The concoction in this pouch may very well be a great bug repellent or emit a subtle odor which wards away any number of wild beasts. I’d ask the mystic exactly from what dangers this little leather bag is supposed to protect me, but I know that the stubborn old man would never tell me. I’ve spent enough time in that village to know that he is not one to explain himself. If I asked him to elaborate on the purpose of the bag, he’d only scoff at the fact that I’d be so insolent as to not trust his wisdom.

Ahead of me I notice a stout, leafless tree. The wide trunk stands perhaps five feet high and the branches all fan out from the top in nearly horizontal fashion, calling to mind a gigantic sea anemone. The fact that there are no leaves on any of its rough, jagged branches sets it quite noticeably apart from the lush green all around it. The night gets thicker with every passing moment, and the need to sleep is wearing on me more than ever, so I decide to make camp here. I manage to scramble up the side of the tree, sitting in the shallow bowl formed at the top of its trunk by the radially extending branches. This is the perfect place to rest for the night. I can set up my sleeping bag here and stay off the moist, insect-ridden ground. Being up off the ground also means that I won’t have to worry about being discovered by some big predator during the night. I’ve noticed some mangled animals around this area, and I definitely don’t want to meet whatever did that.

I sit in the slight depression at the center of the bowl of branches, and discover that although the rest of the tree is coarse and hard, the top of the trunk is porous and soft, almost spongy. It’s so comfortable I decide that I don’t even need my sleeping bag. Casting my backpack and shoes over the side of the tree, I curl up in the bowl and quickly fall asleep.

I wake up, refreshed and squinting into the sun that streams through the canopy. A small monkey scurries up the boughs of a nearby tree. It’s a tamarin, I think. It scrambles closer before coming to rest on a green branch which overhangs quite nearly where I’m sitting in my squat tree.

Suddenly and all at once, the stocky branches of my tree begin swaying in the still morning air. Their movement is slow, subtle, and almost serene. Without warning, the branch nearest the monkey sweeps upward with a sound like splitting wood. It catches the animal square in the chest, knocking the little creature skyward. The tamarin flies up perhaps six feet and then begins to fall. It looks as if it might land right in my lap, and in my shock all I can think to do is try to catch it. I ready my hands, but before the monkey reaches me, the tree’s branches all snap together over my head, catching the poor animal and crushing it from all sides. The sun is blotted out as I find myself in a cocoon of gnarled wood branches which have all come together to grasp the crushed tamarin. From the center of their union above my head, blood begins to seep and drip down. Pressing my back against the wall of branches in terror, I watch as the blood falls in drops, then as a single, steady rivulet into the center of the bowl at the top of the trunk. The spongy wood in this depression soaks up the blood as quickly as it falls, drinking it in greedily.

As the stream of blood turns back to a steady drip and then eventually stops, the branches begin to separate, letting the sun stream in once again. They return to their original positions and the crushed, bloody tamarin sticks, impaled, to one of the jagged branches until the tree shakes it off with a jerk of that limb. It hits the ground wetly and I suddenly realize what mangled those other animals that I had seen nearby.

I sit, motionless, for fear of alerting the tree to my presence. It is only after an hour that I find the courage to climb down and return to the village. It is only after I realize what allowed me to spend the night unharmed from this carnivorous monster that I am able to move. Looking at the leather pouch at my hip, I realize what dangers the mystic foresaw.

By: David Feuling