The Graveyard In Korea

I guess I should start with some background. I’m in the military, I’ll leave the branch out, but of course not without allusion, we’re the best despite being the most underpaid. My friend who this story involves, I’ll give him the pseudonym of Garcia, he’d probably hate that, but that’s just how friendships go. This all took place in South Korea. The story I’m about to tell is honestly 100% true.

When we arrived in Korea we paired up with a Korean unit who’s numbers matched our own. The purpose was mainly to refine tactical skills, so we spent a lot of time training with the Koreans. One of the training areas contains a more or less graveyard. In this wooded area graves were spread out and only appeared as small, but noticeably taller than the ground, mounds of dirt. And of course, like every graveyard foreign to you, you’ll hear of how it’s haunted, and you’ll have less-than-intelligent people buy into every story they hear. Well this graveyard is supposedly a place where a large number of people were slaughtered. One of the stories unique to this area is that throughout the night you could hear the shrill screams of the slaughtered.

Every night, a roster is made for pairs of individuals to stand guard while the others slept. The Koreans would return to a barracks of their own every night, while we slept in tents organized into a small area. Since we were in a small area, generally free of threat we would have one pair of rovers posted every hour, and they would be relieved on the hour. After a couple nights in, you would hear guys exchange stories about how they heard the screams and the common embellishment that they heard more than just that, which Garcia and myself would always just brush off. We had never heard anything and didn’t even deem it necessary for explanation, it was just the power of suggestion at work.

After a very long day of extensive training it was time to set up the nightly watch roster. Garcia and myself caught a shift a couple hours past midnight. We like to regard ourselves as two of the better infantrymen we are with and so we live this up with a level of stupid pride and machismo. We were excited to stand that hour, creepily in the middle of the night and hopefully experience some of these “hauntings” and, in essence, debunk them. Before we racked out prior to our shift, we hung out in our two-man tent and exchanged creepy ghost stories we created.

When it was time for our shift, one of the rovers peeked into the tent and woke me up. I in turn kicked Garcia and told him it was our turn. He groggily mumbled something entirely incomprehensible, but it was enough to let me know he was awake. I decided that I would go relieve the two rovers and he’d be right behind me. Well I was partially right at least. About two minutes later he was in tow and came to my side. There were two make-shift stools set up in the middle of this tent city and you would generally do a lap and then sit for a minute. We silently did our lap, which I attribute to the sleepiness and made our way to the stools.

We sat down and shot the shit for a few minutes, just mindless small talk, and that’s when it happened. I heard the single most blood-curdling scream I’ve ever heard, I immediately jumped up on the alert, and tightened my grip on my rifle. I frantically looked around to where I heard the scream and it was straight into the most densely wooded area in this graveyard-strewn forest. Garcia sat there with this aloofness, glanced at me and started laughing. For me, that was creepy enough, I turned back to him, “What the fuck are you laughing at?” I said, actually starting to anger. He looked over to the direction of the scream, back at me and said, “That was a fucking bird, I’ve heard ones just like it back home, Stupid.” That was calming, he was still in character, calling me Stupid mockingly, so I looked back to the woods and sat back down.

As I sat there and in between conversation I began to notice how eerily silent it was, it occasionally made the hair on the back of my neck stand. We got back up and did our lap. Halfway through as we neared the side of the woods where that thick patch of forest was Garcia kept insisting that we ought to check it out, just to complete the experience. If there was one thing I was adamant about at that point it was staying the fuck out of that patch.

He started to get mad at me, which happens occasionally, we’re both very stubborn, but every time we roved by he would always bring it up and his anger increased each time we passed it, until he decided to change his approach. He tried to challenge my manliness, which normally works, but not tonight. I told him we can look tomorrow morning, which was met with a cold silence. We sat back down, our shift almost over and I could feel his anger for not checking it out tonight. I went to wake up the next pair of guys, and came back to the stools. He tried to get me to go one last time, since our relief was about to come anyway, and I again told him no. This was met with a heated argument, me leaving him with a “Fuck you” and walking back to our tent.

I unzipped the tent and saw something inside. I quickly flipped the light on my rifle on and put it on whatever was in there. Inside laid Garcia, peacefully at rest. In a panicked motion I glanced back over to the stools. There sat a man who was no longer Garcia, not even really a man. I mean, it looked human but that head, that head was terrifying. It was egg-shaped and I don’t mean how some people’s heads have the shape of an upside down egg, I mean it looked like a god damn egg, right side up, it was slightly larger than a normal head should be, suchly shaped as aforementioned, but featureless. There were no eyes, there were no ears, no mouth, no nose, no hair, no anything. And pale, that notebook-paper white. It just faced me.

Then it happened again, that fucking shriek. My eyes tore away from that thing for a second to look back at the patch, and as soon as I looked back over it was gone. I took off toward the stools, nothing. I climbed on top of them and surveyed the small camp. Nothing amiss except one fucking tent unzipped. I hauled ass over to it, but it was only the tent of the two relief rovers. I made my way back to my tent, everything was normal. Everything was normal everywhere, I mean, the silence was gone, nature made it’s noises, I heard snores of my brothers-in-arms, everything was fucking normal.

I woke Garcia up and told him everything, he thought I was messing with him and went back to sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I unzipped part of the tent to reveal a mesh net and I stared into that patch until the sun came up. We left that training sight that morning.

After Garcia saw how dishevelled I was he finally believed me. Once we made our way back to one of the main bases in Japan, I was freaked out enough where I had to know if it was just me. On my own accord and unknown to my unit I went through a whole health evaluation and everything checks out. Nothing spooky or paranormal has happened to me since that night, but damn does that shit give me nightmares sometimes. I guess it really is haunted all along.

—
Credits to: GpJoe

Thanks

It’s 3AM and you’ve been up all night on a horror binge. You’ve watched your favorite horrors movies, read your favorite scary stories, and even attempted the old “Bloody Mary” trick in your mirror. You stretch and yawn, deciding now is about the time to hit the hay, so you move into your bedroom and lay down to sleep.

After awhile, however, you realize that you can’t get the images of some of the fictional creatures you saw on your TV out of your head. “Meh… I’m going to hate myself for this tomorrow,” You say aloud as you flick on your bedroom lamp, knowing that having a nightlight used to help get rid of your nightmares as a little kid. Within minutes you’re close to sleep, snuggled up comfortably under the blankets with your eyes closed and more pleasant thoughts on your mind.

…That is, until you detect something moving in front of the light, casting a shadow over you. You blink, beginning to turn towards the lamp before a rotting hand grabs hold of your shoulder. “Thanks for turning on the light; I wouldn’t have been able to find you in that darkness.”

Fresh Faces

Hi, I’m Seth. I’m writing this note, bottling it, and tossing it in the brook by my house. Writing helps me keep my sanity. Hopefully somebody who still reads will pick it up and come help me.

It started a month ago. I was down in my basement office on my computer watching old Mystery Science Theater 3000 reruns. The phone rang next to me, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. It was never for me; on the off occasion it was, it was usually my brother, and half the time we were on the phone my nephew would be trying to grab it and talk to me himself. Mom yelled down the stairs that the phone was for me. Yeah, I lived at home with my folks. Sue me. Anyway, I picked up.

“Hello?” I said, paying more attention to the antics of the robots on the screen.

“It’s begun.” The voice was little more than a whimper, a plea. I didn’t even recognize the voice.

“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering who on earth was calling.

“They’ve come, I don’t have much time, Jeff; you told me to call if what we did caused trouble.”

Now a little worried, I said, “I think you’ve got the wrong number, this is Seth, not Jeff.”

“DON’T GO OUTDOORS!” The person shrieked. Completely freaked out, I disconnected the call. Must’ve been some prank caller, but I wasn’t amused. Rattled, I put the matter behind me.

Much later, I finished watching videos and shut the lights off to head upstairs. It was pitch black, but I knew the way. The dark seemed a little more oppressive this time, though. I shrugged off the feeling and went upstairs. As I passed through the living room, I chanced a look out the window. There were people outside, on a walk or something; I checked my watch and it said 3:00 am. “That’s weird,” I muttered. I stumbled up to my upstairs room and drifted off to sleep.

I was a fool that first night. If I’d recognized what I’d seen, I would have saved myself the terror and just stepped outside.

The next morning, the news was on; odd, since my dad usually turned to the sports channel before we went off to work. I didn’t even glance at it as I threw on a tie and stumbled into the bathroom. An uneasy feeling crept into my gut as I did my morning routine. I usually had to fight for bathroom space, but today there wasn’t a sound. I peeked out of the room and saw that the front door was open, but the glass storm door wasn’t. There wasn’t a sound. Looking outdoors, I saw those same people as I’d seen the night before.

I opened the door.

Immediately their heads snapped towards me. I recoiled and leapt inside as quickly as I could, feeling something catch at my ankle as I did so. Their faces were fixed in expressionless gazes, their mouths slightly agape and dripping blood. I looked down and saw one right next to the porch, withdrawing its arm; it had tried to grab me. With a dizzying feeling of horror, I recognized my little brother. Slamming the door, I locked it tight and stumbled back into the living room. The television was reporting that a disease was spreading south from Canada across the U.S. I shut it off, and pointlessly called out to see if anyone else was in the house.

No answer.

So began my solitary existence. The news ran for a few days, before they were caught. Kept making the stupidest mistake, going home every night. The electricity has stayed running; I guess someone left the switch on at the factory. Or maybe it’s just northern New England that’s been overrun, I dunno. The internet’s been out too, so that’s annoying.

While the news was running, they called them zombies, going back to that old standby. I guess it works. I mean, they don’t do a whole lot, and they’re definitely dead; they walk around until their legs rot out from under them, then they crawl until they literally fall to pieces. While they’ve got legs, though, they’re fast. That’s how they jumped my family, I suppose. And the police car that drove up to the house to see if there were any survivors. That wasn’t fun to look at every morning. They overturned my car while chasing him, so I’m stuck. Cops to the rescue again. They didn’t really need food, so they didn’t finish eating the poor guy. But they dismembered him; that’s why he couldn’t get up and join them. I could see him gnashing his teeth fruitlessly, though.

For about a week, a guy on the radio hopefully pointed out that they were falling to pieces, so all we needed to do was wait them out. Then he got impatient, went outdoors. Nobody’s been on the radio for two weeks.

I’m in trouble, though. You see, the house has no food left. I can’t wait for them to all to fall down dead all over again. I’ve made a couple expeditions to the general store. Lucky I had that sword collection upstairs. They’re all too slow to catch me when I run, but there are so many that I sometimes panic. Last time, they nearly got me. I broke the front door getting back in; now the cold seeps in every night, and I can see one standing out on the porch right now, not ten feet from where I’m writing this. You’re safe indoors. Don’t ask me why they abhor coming inside. Whatever the reason, it’s been my lifeline. Unfortunately, they seem to know that there’s someone alive in the house. Don’t ask me how; this fellow on the front step doesn’t even have eyes anymore. Maybe they can hear a heartbeat, or smell sweat. Or blood.

I spent a couple days naming them. Some of the faces I recognized, and gave their old names to them. The same old gang’s been hanging around here for the last few weeks, slowly dropping in number as they fall to pieces. They’ve never wandered off, though. There’re 79 who were once men and 63 who were once women out there. Once, just to see what would happen, I shot one in the head with our shotgun. You know, to see if the old “shoot a zombie in the head and they die for good” adage had any truth. So I’ve actually got 79 who were once men, 62 who were once women and 1 who was once a woman and decided to keep standing even after losing about 80% of its head. And I’m down one shotgun shell.

So they wait. And I’m losing it. I talk to myself constantly, and I ate a stuffed animal last night. The cotton went down hard, but it felt good to have something in my stomach again. There are no fruit trees around, and anyway, it’s November. Water has been getting scarcer. The tap water stopped working eight days ago; lucky I’d filled the bathtub and every bottle I could find before it stopped.
Oh, great. Now the lamp’s getting brighter and I hear a buzzing sound. I wonder if the power’s going ou

Well, that wasn’t fun. Total loss of power for four days. Ever try sleeping in the dark knowing that there are things just outside that’ll kill you and make you one of them the first chance they get? Probably, since these things are everywhere, as far as I can tell. Quick update: I mentioned Herschel, that guy on my porch? One of his legs fell off, so he’s sitting down, sniffing at it. Thank God they lose all higher brain functions. I’m pretty sure the soul isn’t held captive in these things, and that this is all the disease (or whatever) trying to spread itself as far as it can in the population.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, reader, but the animals just don’t seem affected. It’s a small comfort. Of course, they die if they eat the flesh, but they don’t get back up once they die. Weird, huh? I’m getting hungry, and desperate. Maybe, just maybe, I can load the old .22 and bag a squirrel from inside. But how will I go get it?

On one hand, I’m a bit more optimistic that you’re out there now, whoever you are. The power couldn’t have come back if there weren’t people out there working to restore order. I’m feeling lucky; time to grab a sword and go drop this in the brook. Maybe this whole thing is almost over.

Maybe. On the other hand, if it is almost over…

Why are there fresh faces outside today?

Credited to Master Kenobi.

The Man Dressed in Black

I was raised in Southern Arizona but as a young teen I ran away from home and found my way even deeper south, toward Mexico. Young and with no money I found myself living on the streets and prostituting my body for food. Eventually I started using any drug available, my favorite being heroine. For a few years I had gotten used to the lifestyle and even made a few friends.

One of my friends, Alejandro, was probably the only person I had met while on the streets who wouldn’t take advantage of me. He seemed like he was raised in one of those God fearing families. His morals, though limited, were there between hits of whatever drugs we got our hands on that day. We soon became best friends.

When the two of us ran out of money for food and drugs we liked to spend our time under the shelter of the church at a little mission out in the desert. On summer nights instead of going inside we sat against the wall and watched the orange sunset fall behind the mountains. It was one of those evenings that we met the Man Dressed in Black.

He approached us quietly and actually had startled me a bit we he turned around the corner of the mission wall. As he reached us I noticed how strangely the man walked. It was quite a limp but it was a normal walk either, to this day I couldn’t explain it except that maybe he wasn’t quite human…

Anyway, I had donned him the name “Man Dressed in Black” because of his clothing. Despite the walk, the man looked like a rich man. His jet black hair was slick back nicely. He wore a dark black suit and tie. His eyes that looked Alejandro and me over were even black. Black as is it gets on a moonless night.

As soon as he reached us a chill went down my spine. I knew this man was up to no good and when I looked at Alejandro I could tell he did too. In fact, Alejandro had a look of fear on his face. I was confused. The Man Dressed in Black wasn’t that scary.

“You’re hungry,” the man said before even saying any sort of greeting. In his hands was money which he handed to me.

Quickly I reached for it and stuffed the bills into my pockets. Alejandro, though, didn’t reach for anything. He kept his eyes on the man’s legs. “Don’t take anything,” Alejandro whispered to me in a warning tone. I ignored him and continued to grab money even though I could feel a strange chill going down my spine once again.

“Don’t take his money!” Alejandro said once again but louder. I turned to him angry that he was embarrassing such a generous man. “Shut up!” I told him and when I turned back to the man, he was gone.

I got up to see where he had gone but when I looked around the wall there was nothing except strange, inhuman, footprints in the dirt and that was when I could feel true fear creep over me. “Didn’t you see his feet?” Alejandro asked me as we left the mission. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy looking at his hands, what he had for you in his hands. You didn’t even try to look at his feet. That man was the Devil!”

I didn’t answer him, still shaken up from my experience with the Man Dressed in Black. I just stood there looking at the man’s footprints. And sure enough, they looked like something that had a chicken foot and a hoof had been there.

The Drain Lady

My father was a military man. Retired back in ’95 from the Navy after 20 years of proud service to our country. But before that, we moved often… every 3-4 years or thereabouts we’d pack up and get shipped somewhere new. Early 1989, a wonderful opportunity arose and dad took it. A 16 hour flight later, and we were stationed at N.A.S Sigonella, Sicily. I guess I was about, ohhh 10 or 11 at the time. Those years were blurred save those pinpricks of memory that still haunt me. That still plague my dreams from time to time.

Our first home there was an apartment in a complex called “Bellavista” far from the Naval base. There was a waiting list to move into Base Housing that generally ran for about a year and a half’s wait. Until your time to move, you had to live amongst the locals wherever you could. Bellavista was a beautiful place… we lived on the upper floor of the complex and had a wonderful view of the countryside off our back balcony. At night, one could look up at the night sky and see a thin trail of fiery red lava slowly ebbing from still active Mt. Etna. And in the morning, everything left out in the open was often found to be blanketed ever so slightly in volcanic ash, almost like a light dusting of snow.

But naturally, as perfectly nice as Bellavista was, it wasn’t meant for us for long. The lnadlord’s daughter was pregnant, engaged… and homeless. Guess who got the boot? So we moved, with the landlord’s assistance, into another home. Motta S. Anastasia, a little cobblestone-streeted town near Catania, and much closer to the Navy base. The day we drove up to the new place, I felt ill. Of course, nothing was thought of this at the time, but I’d swear in retrospect I was being told something. The place was a 3 story house with an apartment on each floor. I really don’t remember the neighbors, but both were similarly Navy families. And I can imagine I pissed them off a lot with the screaming.

Dad unlocked the door and proceeded into the small entryway. The cobblestone street gave way to a marbled floor entrance and a matching set of marble stairs up to the second floor, which was our new home. The place was stunningly beautiful. Marble floors… glass french doors into the living room area… balconies attached to nearly every room, save the one that was to be mine. Claw foot bathtub…bidet… all the modern conveniences expected of a home in Europe.

I walked into the room that was going to be mine. Small, simple, square and quite cold. To the left, at the end of the wall was a door covered with a “persiana.” Basically, a form of window blinds made from heavy horizontal flaps that was operated via a cloth strap attached to the wall. I pulled it up to see that the door was mostly glass and beyond it was a very small “room” lined with brick along the floor and walls. I opened the door and stepped into the room and looked up to discover the room extended all the way up through the third floor and up to a hole in the roof. There was no covering on the hole either… it went straight into open air. The shaft allowed a fair amount of light to shine into the only room in the house without a window in it, which I thought was pretty damn cool initially.

The chill seemed to come from the room, despite the glaring sun nearly directly overhead. It was then I heard the first whispers. Like… if you were to take a wire brush and softly rub the stiff bristles against your jeans. At the time, I attributed it to echoes off the brick… but I couldn’t help but feel weird about it. It wasn’t coming from any discernable direction or source… but it surrounded me like a blanket, as if sound could be tangible and touchable. It pressed in gently on my ears like pressure on an aircraft ascending or descending. I turned to leave and I noticed a glinting drain in the middle of the floor. It was obviously for rainwater to drain away but my nausea increased when I saw it. My stomach gnawed at itself as I ran out of there and I swear I saw the drain cover jiggle a bit on my way out. I lowered the persiana quickly and rejoined the family in the living room, shaking and sick as a dog.

Now granted… a little brick room was far from the norm for paranormal ghosty stuff. But try telling that to whatever was in there. Christ. For weeks and weeks, I’d get up the nerve to open the persiana in broad daylight and risk a peek… only to stumble back from the door sick as all hell to my stomach and trembling. I tried telling my parents of course… but an 11 year old’s ramblings about a scary brick room generally get chalked up to too many “Freddy” and “Jason” movies. The whisperings rarely stopped at night. They were persistent from the time I laid down until I finally forced myself into slumber. Often, I’d wake up in the middle of the night to silence, and then the whisperings would start up again, as if it was waiting to make sure I was awake.

There was never any real words to the whispering… just a hollow “ksssh sshhhaww hissssshhhhh haaahhh ooooshhhh aaashhhhh” that seemed to repeat, but never in the same cadence. There was no emotion behind it either that I can remember. It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t sad nor happy. Just there. Always fucking there.

One night, after about 2 months of this, I was awoken by a particularly horrifying dream. I seemed to start having those dreams after we moved in… I had never had constant nightmares prior. But I awoke from the dream with the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Immediately my eyes darted to the door… and saw that the persiana was up. Now, European goons with experience, back me up… Persianas are about the noisiest damn things to have in a house. They’re generally metal slats hooked in with metal hooks that grind and squeak loudly in protest as they’re pulled open. There was no way in hell that the persiana, which was always closed, could have been opened without waking up everyone in the house. But sure enough, it was open about 3/4 of the way up the damned door. A bit of moonlight reflected off the bricks in the shaft and into my room with a dull bluish tone. I lay there for hours, paralyzed in my bed, but unable to look away from the door, lest there be something there when I looked back. Eventually, I just conked out…

The next morning crept up finally and I was freed from my paralysis. I ran to the door amidst a wave of nausea and pulled the persiana shut as fast as I could. There was a light dusting of volcanic ash on the brick floor and I’d swear I could make out footprints or scuffing in it. Mom, still asleep at the time, yelled at me from across the hall after hearing the noise, but I couldn’t care less.

Over the course of the next 3 months, it was the same routine. The whisperings never faltered. The persiana would be found at least 2 to 3 times a week opened, and the blackness of the room would stare out at me in my bed. Then one night, it was different. I still have nightmares of this incident and it makes me cringe and want to curl up in a ball still whenever I conjure it up. I had awoken again in the midst of a terrible nightmare. And sure enough, the persiana was up, but this time it was all the way up. The moonlight was barely filtering in that night, but I’d swear I could make out something there in the room. It felt like I was at just the right angle for me to see whatever it was, and if I were to move the slightest bit, I’d lose sight of it. It was a small sphere that shimmered like a soap bubble does. But it was so faint I could barely make it out. I watched as it hovered there for the longest time. It began to shrink like some TVs used to do when you turned them off… shrink into a tiny dot of light.

But before it winked out, it flashed and expanded. It did so at an alarmingly fast rate and solidified into the form of a woman. She looked to be in her early to mid thirties, dark curly hair… definitely a local Sicilian. When she became “whole” and a solid image, she began shrieking and pounding on the glass doors with both fists. Her head swiveled wrong on her neck, shaking back and forth like if you put a teakettle on a stick and shook the stick around. Her eyes were completely black and full of anger and hatred… The skin around her mouth flapped loosely, giving me glimpses of her teeth and tongue and her hair was tossing around violently. Some sort of liquid oozed in small spurts from the corners of her mouth and flecks of whatever it was flew as she shrieked. Her screaming was horrific and nonsensical, and all I could do was scream back.

My dad charged into the room to my bed, thinking I was having a nightmare. She shrank back from the door and… ugh. She slithered down the drain somehow. She twisted and distorted and I’d swear I could hear her bones splintering and cracking as she wound herself down into it. It was awful and to this day, dad says he’s never heard anyone scream so inhumanly before. I often ask him jokingly if he meant from me or her.

Credited to Kendrik.

For the Few

I’m the easiest to talk to because I go by so many different names. Every person in every country has heard of me, and spoken of me when things are at their very worst. And I’m so easy to call upon. All you have to do is ask. No ritual to adhere to. No prayer. No personal relationship. Just ask. Once, earnestly.

I’m ever so popular. I’m in your music, your news, and even in your food. I’m Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Haphaestus and Nietschze. I was there, guiding the hand of Shakespeare, Dahmer and Spielberg alike. You’ve seen me, time and again, now an old man, then a little girl. You bought groceries from me the other day, actually. Hell, if you want to be REALLY personal, some of you make love to me on a regular basis. You’re not bad, either. I like you. I am mother to some of you, Father to others, and I am proud of the way you turned out.

But here’s the pitch. I am powerful, and you are not. I have legions, and you are alone. I can make you mine for all eternity, if you like. And it’s so easy you could almost do it by mistake. All you have to do is ask. Not even in words. Just..want it. Want me. Want to join me.

If you aren’t convinced by my influence, turn on the T.V, and look into the eyes of newscasters while they lie to you. Go to church, and look into the eyes of a sermonising sinner, casting the first heavy stone at the congregation. Hell, look into the eyes of a friend, a loved one, or a stranger. Most of them are mine anyway.

The Pale Face

God, I need to get this down. I need this knowledge out of my head.

I’m being, what’s the word to use? Haunted? By a being. A horrid aberration. I can only call it pale face.

I remember the first time I saw it. I was twelve, taking a leak at the urinal of the hotel I was staying at with family. I noticed a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, though I dismissed it as nothing as it had been happening a lot lately. I went to wash my hands, and as I was about to turn on the tap, I saw it. Stood not more than a foot behind me, reflected in the mirror.

A humanoid creature, roughly five and a half feet tall, completely naked, covered in oily skin. Its fingers were elongated, impossibly bony. The whole thing looked as if it had never eaten; its chest was a harsh relief of ribs, made to look all the sicklier by the fluorescent light. It wasn’t breathing, either.

That is not what scared me though. Its face. A perfectly smooth oval shape, seemingly much too large and heavy for its scrawny neck, with two impossibly deep holes of blackness where one would expect to find eyes. It stared at me. It didn’t move; no single muscle twitched. It simply stood there, those jet pits boring into me for what felt like hours.

After what felt like an eternity, I realised my legs had unlocked and I bolted for the door too terrified to scream. I ignored my room, running in a child-like panic to my parent’s room a few doors down. I brought my fist down again and again on the door, desperate to raise my family. As I finally heard the door unlock I risked a single glance down the corridor from which I came. It was there. It stood completely still, eyes fixed on me, oily feet staining a brown smudge onto the carpet. I barged past my father as he swung the door inwards, diving onto the sofa and throwing myself face down onto the cushion. My father turned from the door, asking me what I was doing as he let the door close behind him. I could only respond with wide-eyed terror as I saw it in the doorway, both of those pit-like eyes on me until the door obstructed it from my vision.

Rest did not find me that night. After an hour or two of restless tossing and turning, I awoke to see it stood at the foot of the sofa. I stared back at it, too afraid to look away; its gaze was almost mesmerising, it made me feel empty, completely devoid of humanity, nothing but a consciousness stripped bare. I know not how long I kept this, as at some point my body had given up and lapsed back into sleep, and I was greeted by the warm sunlight of morning streaming through the room’s blinds.

I was not sad to be leaving the hotel that morning.

However, the pale face had not finished with me. I began to see it everywhere I went, each time preceded by catching a glimpse of some formless shape at the very edge of my vision. I would see it curled at the end of my bed upon waking, stood in a doorway as I walked to school, stood in my locker, stood in a group of children, Stood behind me as I brushed my teeth. Never once throughout these sightings did it’s bottomless pits leave me, emptying me, leaving me feeling less like myself with each passing day. My mental health deteriorated soon after. I would shout at it, attack it, beg and plead and cry to left alone. My girlfriend left me. She told me she couldn’t feel the boy she loved in me anymore. My friends abandoned me. They didn’t want to be seen with the freak, with his permanent wide eyes, was losing weight and pale from insomnia.

My parents tried to help me. I was sent to numerous psychologists, psychiatrists, mediums, spirit guides and any other quack who said they could cure the disease in my head. The pale face was always there, though; stood just behind the doctor’s chair, eyes never leaving me. I would lash out at it, scream at it. They each concluded I was mad. I overheard my parents one night, they were in tears. They planned to send me away to a psychiatric hospital.

I ran away from home that night.

I was filled with hate, anger, sadness. I stared hard at the loathsome creature that shared my refuge of shop doorways and pungent alleyways. I felt no fear of it anymore, only a seething, all-consuming anger; I hated it for what it had done to me, took away who I was, leaving me a hollow shell of a soul in a deteriorating body. It still stared back at me, those pits of madness in its loathsome head lapping away at the last remaining dregs of my humanity.

Last night however, I had a dream. The first I’d had in weeks. I didn’t see the pale face, I saw hundreds. An impossibly fast kaleidoscopic slideshow of different people, different places and different times; all mingled together in a blur with only one common factor – each person had their own pale face. I then had my vision pulled away and thrust into the most terrifying thing I have ever seen; I glimpsed hell itself. I saw a trail of damned souls being lead to impossibly shaped obsidian gates, each being lead by its own pale face.

It was only then, as I started awake, that I finally understood the nature of my tormentor. A pale face is a guide for the damned. It is with you always. Yours is in the room with you right now. Each time you feel yourself being watched when you are alone, that vague sense of unease in a perfectly normal environment. That is when you are feeling the pale face’s eyes on you, each time you see a blink of movement at the edges of your vision; that is your pale face.

There is one last thing, however. Should you very often see a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, or always feel watched and scrutinised while you are alone, as I have, make peace with your family, your friends, anything and anyone you hold dear for it can mean only one thing.

You have been chosen, as I have, to become a pale face.

By: Obnoxious Brit.