Wandering Bus

There is a bus in Philadelphia which SEPTA does not talk about. It is not listed on the website. It has neither schedule nor route. It drives the city in a pattern known only to its driver, and perhaps not even to him. Its electronic reader board never displays a number, only “SEPTA.” People who know it call it the Zero, the Random Bus, the Wandering Bus, or just The Bus. It is not a bus for people who know where they want to go. It is a bus for departures.

The Bus has a way of showing up when you are at your lowest. You will hit a certain point, feel a disconcerting crumple in an inner place you thought solid, like a hand crushing an origami box. Just then you look up to see The Bus a block away. You always need to run for it, but just a little bit. Just enough to show you need it. It will wait.

There is an automated voice. It does not say Route forty, service to Second and Lombard. The Bus does not deal in those specifics. It says only Service from and the name of the intersection you are standing at. The doors clunk open, you get on board, the doors hiss shut, and the bus moves on. The driver does not ask where you want to go, but many passengers tell him anyway: Just drive. You pay fare if you can, but if you can’t, the driver will nod, with eyes covered by his blue hat, and you will nod and you will head to your seat.

The shifty and the shameful and the shameless ride Philadelphia’s buses. But most of them are trying to get somewhere. They want to see someone, or acquire something, or get to a place by a time. The Wandering Bus is not for them. Its riders are the people who need to leave wherever they are at that moment. Just leave. The bus goes everywhere. It has been seen in West Powelton, and Grad Hospital, and Center City. It drives down Passyunk, and Haverford, and Dauphin. Most people don’t notice The Bus because it isn’t the one they’re looking for. If your heart is bright and your spirit buoyant, it is likely that you have never seen The Bus.

The Wandering Bus serves a wider clientele than you might think. The failing businessman, the addict’s sister, the questioning Reverend have all ridden on The Bus. Even a mayor and a police chief and a manager of the Phillies. There is no conversation on The Bus. What’s more, when you get off, you cannot recall who was on The Bus with you, or how crowded it was. You remember only that you sat by the window and watched the city slide through your translucent reflection. At some point, you were moved to pull the cord and disembark. One night, your feet hit the pavement, the bus pulled away, and you found yourself near to where you needed to be.

Folks say that some people have ridden The Bus for years on end. Others predict that The Bus will one day leave the city, taking its passengers with it. A woman who knew many things said there was a Wandering Bus in every city she had ever visited. There are even a few who claim that if you ride The Bus long enough, you will one day be dropped off back before your troubles began. But those people are never on The Bus when they say it.

---



fyeahcreepyshit

The Easter Bunny is Eating My Candy

"Mom," said the little girl, rubbing her eyes and standing in the doorway to her mother’s room. "Mom, the Easter Bunny is eating my candy," she said.

"Nonsense, baby," the woman replied. "The Easter Bunny gives out candy, he doesn’t eat it…"

The woman lightly shook her covers and continued to speak, halfway into her pillow and halfway to her daughter, “Go back to sleep, baby…”

"But, mom," the girl said. "The Easter Bunny is eating candy!" She now spoke in a more serious tone, almost as if she were going to cry.

Her mother sat up and opened her arms. “Baby, I just told you. The Easter Bunny doesn’t eat candy, he hands it out to little children. Besides, it’s not even Easter yet. Go back to sleep,” she said in her kindest voice.

"Okay, mom," the child sighed as she turned to walk out the room.

The woman smiled and thought, ‘Crazy kid with her lively imagination,’ and went back to sleep on a whim.

Out in the hallway, the little girl stood for a while staring at the Easter Bunny eating her candy. She then sighed. “Mommy said I should go back to bed.”

The Easter Bunny smiled. “Good idea, child. Turn around and don’t look back.”

He flicked a shiny metal pendant at the child. She picked it up and cried as she saw what it was: it was a dog tag and it read “Candy”.

---
fuckyeahspookyshit

Wife

Robert the Doll

In the late 1800s, Thomas Otto and his family moved in to a mansion at the corner of Eaton and Simonton streets in Key West, Florida now known as the Artist House. The Ottos were known to be stern with their servants, sometimes even mistreating them. It was the treatment of one such Haitian servant that provides a twist in this story.

This woman was hired to take care of their son, Robert. One day, Mrs. Otto supposedly witnessed her practicing black magic in their backyard and fired her.

Before she left, the woman gave Robert a lifelike doll which stood 3 feet tall, had buttons for eyes, human hair (believed to be Robert’s), and was filled with straw.

Dolls that resembled children were not unheard of during this time, but this one proved to be special. Robert named the doll after himself and often dressed it in his clothes. Robert, the doll, became his trustworthy companion. He took it with him on shopping trips into town. The doll had a seat at the dinner table where Robert would sneak it bites of food when his parents weren’t looking. Robert would even be tucked into bed with the boy at night. Soon this innocent relationship took on a strange nature.

Soon after, Robert chose to be referred to by his middle name, Gene, after being scolded by his Mother. He told her that Robert was the doll’s name, not his. Gene was often heard in his toy room having conversations with Robert. Gene would say something in his childish manner and responses could be heard in a much lower voice. Sometimes Gene would become very agitated, worrying the servants and his mother. She would, on occasion, burst in to find her son cowering in a corner while Robert sat perched in a chair or on the bed glaring at him. This was only the beginning.

Household objects would be found thrown across the room, Gene’s toys turned up mutilated, and giggling could be heard. Whenever these unusual acts took place, Gene always said, “Robert did it!” The boy took the punishment but always insisted that the blame was Robert’s. As the mischief grew, more and more servants took their leave as new ones were hired. The Ottos’ relatives felt it was time to do something. With the recommendation of a great aunt, Gene’s parents removed Robert from his care and placed him in a box in the attic. This is where he resided for many years.

After the death of his father, Gene was willed his boyhood home. He decided to live in the Victorian mansion with his new wife. Gene had become an artist, and felt the house was spacious and would provide a place for him to paint. He went to the attic and dusted off his childhood toy. He became attached to the doll despite his wife’s displeasure. Gene would take the doll along with them everywhere they went. He even sat in his favorite little chair while Gene and his wife slept nearby. The Turret Room became Robert’s domain after Mrs. Otto moved him back to the attic. Their marriage slowly became sour until Mrs. Otto supposedly went insane and died of unknown reasons. Gene followed soon behind.

Robert supposedly attacked people, sometimes locking them in the attic. People who passed by claimed to hear evil laughter coming from the Turret Room. For some time, Robert remained in the empty house by himself until a new family purchased the mansion and restored it. The doll was once again moved to the attic. This pleased it as much as the last time. The doll was often found throughout the house. On one certain night, Robert was found at the foot of the owners’ bed giggling with a kitchen knife in hand. This was enough to send them fleeing from the home.

Robert was later moved to the East Martello Museum in Key West, where he sits perched in a glass box. Despite his new living quarters, the doll is believed to not have given up his menacing ways. Visitors and employees claim they have seen the doll move. His smile has been known to turn in to a scowl. One employee cleaned Robert, turned off all the lights and left for the night.

The next day, he returned to find lights turned on, Robert sitting in a different position than the night before and a fresh layer of dust on his shoes. Some say he’ll even curse you. If you want to take a picture of him, you must ask politely. He’ll tilt his head in permission. However, if he doesn’t and you take the picture anyways, a curse will befall upon you and anyone who accompanied you to the museum. The same will happen if you make fun of him.

To this day, Robert remains at the East Martello Museum in his sailor suit clutching his stuffed lion, continuing his menacing ways.

Annabelle

Annabelle is real. This is the actual story.

One of the creepiest parts of the truly scary The Conjuring is the evil possessed doll Annabelle, who makes up the cornerstone of Ed and Lorraine Warren’s spooky museum of trophies. Director James Wan redesigned Annabelle for the movie, giving her a much more disturbing appearance, but in real life Annabelle was just your run of the mill Raggedy Ann doll.

Donna got Annabelle from her mother in 1970; mom bought the used doll at a hobby store. Donna was a college student at the time, and living with a roommate named Angie, and at first neither thought the doll was anything special. But over time they noticed Annabelle seemed to move on her own; at first it was really subtle, just changes in position, the kinds of things that could be written off as the doll being jostled. But the movement increased, and within a few weeks it seemed to become fully mobile. The girls would leave the apartment with Annabelle on Donna’s bed and return home to find it on the couch.

Their friend Lou hated the doll. He thought there was something deeply wrong with it, something evil, but the girls were modern women and did not believe that sort of thing. There must be an explanation, they reasoned. But soon Annabelle’s actions got even weirder – Donna began to find pieces of parchment paper in the house with messages written on it. “Help us,” they would say, or “Help Lou.” Just to make the whole thing that much creepier nobody in the house had parchment paper. Where the hell was it coming from?

The escalation continued. One night Donna returned home to find Annabelle in her bed, with blood on her hands. The blood – or some sort of red liquid – seemed to be coming from the doll itself. That was enough; Donna finally agreed to bring in a medium. The sensitive sat with the doll and told the girls that long before their apartment complex had been built there had been a field on that property. A seven year old girl named Annabelle Higgins had been found dead in that field. Her spirit remained, and when the doll came into the house the girl latched on to it. She found Donna and Angie to be trustworthy. She just wanted to stay with them. She wanted to be safe with them.

Being sweet, nurturing types – they were both nursing students – Donna and Angie agreed to let Annabelle stay with them. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Lou started having bad dreams, dreams where Annabelle was in his bed, climbing up his leg as he lay frozen, sliding up his chest to his neck and closing her stuffed hands around his throat, choking him out. He would wake up terrified, head pounding like all blood had been cut off to his brain. He was freaking out. He was worried about the girls.

A few days later he and Angie were hanging out, planning a road trip, when they heard someone moving around in Donna’s room. They froze – was it a break in? Was there an intruder in the apartment? Lou crept over to the door, listening to rustling within. He threw open the door and everything was as it should be – except Annabelle was off the bed and sitting in a corner. As he approached the doll Lou was consumed with that feeling, a burning on the back of the neck that indicates someone was staring at you and he spun around. Nobody was there. The room was empty. And then sudden pain on his chest. He looked in his shirt and saw a series of raking claw marks, rough ditches in his flesh that burned. He knew Annabelle had done it.

The weird claw marks began healing almost immediately. They were totally gone in two days. They were like no wounds any of them had ever seen before. They knew they needed more help, and they turned to an Episcopalian priest, who in turned called in Ed and Lorraine Warren.

It didn't take the Warrens long to come to their conclusion: there was no ghost in this case. There was an inhuman spirit – a demon – attached to the doll. But they warned that the doll wasn’t possessed; demons don’t possess things, only people. It was clinging to the doll, manipulating it, in order to give the impression of a haunting. The target was really Donna’s soul.

A priest performed an exorcism on the apartment and the Warrens took possession of the doll. They put it in a bag and began the long drive home; Ed agreed to stay off the highways because there was a concern that the demon might fuck with the car, and at 65 miles an hour that would be disastrous. And sure enough, as they drove on the back roads, the engine kept cutting out, the power steering kept failing and even the brakes gave them trouble. Ed opened the bag, sprinkled the doll with holy water and the disturbances stopped… for the moment.

Ed left the doll next to his desk; it began levitating. That happened a couple of times and then it seemed to just quit, finally laying quiet. But in a couple of weeks Annabelle was back to her old tricks; she started appearing in different rooms in the Warren home. Sensing that the doll was ramping back up the Warrens called in a Catholic priest to exorcise Annabelle. The priest didn't take it seriously, telling Annabelle “You’re just a doll. You can’t hurt anyone!” Big mistake: on his way home the priest’s brakes failed, and his car was totaled in a horrible accident. He survived.

Eventually the Warrens built a locked case for Annabelle, and she resides there to this day. The locked case seems to have kept the doll from moving around, but it seems like that whatever terrible entity is attached to it is still there, waiting. Biding its time. Ready for the day when it can again be free.

The Identity of God

I always knew I am different. Ever since childhood. I never cry, I always question everything around me. I ask why the rain falls, how can you count it and other stuff. Yes. I am weird. My thoughts always get scrambled. One moment I'm looking at my teacher, then my mind will be transported to questioning how the universe works.

Everything seemed to be normal until one day, when I was a teenager. Me and my friends are skating home from going out to the arcades with some girls. A truck dashed from the corner, hitting my two friends and me. Instantly, I knew they were dead. I'm not sure but I know. Their bones cracked and blood is everywhere. I was crushed by a wheel, but I didn't feel shit. That's the day I learned I cannot die.

Everyday, for the next 10 years, I've been trying to kill myself. I didn't want to die of course. I just did it to prove to myself I am indeed, deathless. I've been slashing my wrists, jumping off buildings, and did you know? Muriatic Acid is sour as shit. I almost had this shitty idea to be a superhero. Saving people from fires and shit. But I didn't do it. I'm lazy as fuck.

When I'm 23, I met the love of my life. Miriam. She was so sweet. After only 6 months, we married. For the next 10 years, we had four children. I loved them so much. But there's shit that happened. Ever since I turned 32, I virtually stopped ageing. One day, out of complete bad luck, me and my wife was caught in a car crash. I looked at her as her very being slowly crash and every bone in her sweet body break. I watched her die. Then, an explosion. I escaped, clothes scorched but unscaved.

I wanted to go back to my children but they all thought I am dead. I spent the next 50 years wandering off. Living like a complete idiot. Having sex with every bitch I meet. But still, I am looking after my children. They all have grandkids now. I look like my grandchildren, my children older than me. I cursed everything why I can't die. Depression took over me. I desperately tried to kill myself. I can't. I turn to the heavens and blamed it for my curse.

My children died. Years go by and I lost count of my line. Everyone died. Humans now are so different than before. Then, races fought with each other. Everyone is killed by the mushroom clouds that were formed all around the world. Centuries go by. I thought that the human race will endure. They did not. After only 500 years, if I'm still right in counting the stupid years that go by, they turned into something different. Radiation made them evolve. I did everything to preserve my race. But fuck... I failed.

New creatures rise from the ashes. But they all died after thousands of years. I decided to hide inside a cave. A very long time passed. Days are so fast in my eyes. Left there, nothing to do but think, and constantly trying to kill myself. Then, one day, it became so hot. Rocks melt. I went out and all that happened was so quick. I saw the sun, covering the entire sky.

I now realized that nothing can be done. I experienced swimming through the molten Earth. Then, being trapped inside the sun. It was hot. Yes. But in time, it felt good. Nothing left to do but think. The sun shrunk. It became so small. And it remained that way for a very long time. I wandered, through space, still in my prime years. Stars died, planets died and I float in space. A very long time passed and the universe became darker and darker. Stars exploded, black holes existed. Being inside a black hole is so fucking boring. At first I became dust particles but after a very long time, as that black hole lose power, I came to myself again.

And so, here I was, watching everything pull each other to each other, it is cold here. A loud crunching noise almost deafen me, but of course it didn't, was heard. Then everything is so quiet. So, here I am thinking to myself. I forgot my name. I was left here for a very, very, very long time. One moment, I think I learned everything.

I smiled. In the nothingness that is surrounding me, I reached for the dense ball that formed when the crunch was heard. It exploded. I was shocked. It formed a bubble, the size of what I remember a basketball. Then, I controlled the passing of time. I saw luminous objects form inside it. I called them Ritnos. They are my favorite creations.

Then, I imagined small round objects around it. And they were good. I noticed one small ball filled with different Aramus, as what I decided to call them. They shout into the heavens, put their hands together and uttered comforting words. It felt good. I played around with them, killed some, raised the Kone that killed them as they sank into it. Then, one Aramus went on top of a Finte and talked to me. Me, tripping balls wrote on a stone tablet. I don't even remember what I wrote but I know it is bullshit.

Then, everyone died and new ones came. I saw one Arame. It is like an Aramus, but their hairs were longer and they are more attractive. I felt something I never felt for a very long time. I crafted winged creatures and sent it to her. I loved her so much. She bore a son, and I love him. But he got so ahead of himself so I decided to put him on two planks of wood. Aramus followed him, I don't know why. I am jealous.

Everything changed, they made things different. I got bored... I wanted to join my creations. But it is so long... I felt so lonely. I wanted to have an ending. Then, I saw someone, I saw a woman, carrying Aramus in her stomach. I remember her. Her love completely unending until her death.

After knowing who is God... I slowly went to sleep. And I just knew that yes... I can die now.

Written by: 
The Prestigious Enigma

Smile Dog

I first met in person with Mary E. in the summer of 2007. I had arranged with her husband of fifteen years, Terence, to see her for an interview. Mary had initially agreed, since I was not a newsman but rather an amateur writer gathering information for a few early college assignments and, if all went according to plan, some pieces of fiction. We scheduled the interview for a particular weekend when I was in Chicago on unrelated business, but at the last moment Mary changed her mind and locked herself in the couple’s bedroom, refusing to meet with me. For half an hour I sat with Terence as we camped outside the bedroom door, I listening and taking notes while he attempted fruitlessly to calm his wife.

The things Mary said made little sense but fit with the pattern I was expecting: though I could not see her, I could tell from her voice that she was crying, and more often than not her objections to speaking with me centered around an incoherent diatribe on her dreams — her nightmares. Terence apologized profusely when we ceased the exercise, and I did my best to take it in stride; recall that I wasn’t a reporter in search of a story, but merely a curious young man in search of information. Besides, I thought at the time, I could perhaps find another, similar case if I put my mind and resources to it.

Mary E. was the sysop for a small Chicago-based Bulletin Board System in 1992 when she first encountered smile.jpg and her life changed forever. She and Terence had been married for only five months. Mary was one of an estimated 400 people who saw the image when it was posted as a hyperlink on the BBS, though she is the only one who has spoken openly about the experience. The rest have remained anonymous, or are perhaps dead.

In 2005, when I was only in tenth grade, smile.jpg was first brought to my attention by my burgeoning interest in web-based phenomena; Mary was the most often cited victim of what is sometimes referred to as “Smile.dog,” the being smile.jpg is reputed to display. What caught my interest (other than the obvious macabre elements of the cyber-legend and my proclivity toward such things) was the sheer lack of information, usually to the point that people don’t believe it even exists other than as a rumor or hoax.

It is unique because, though the entire phenomenon centers on a picture file, that file is nowhere to be found on the internet; certainly many photomanipulated simulacra litter the web, showing up with the most frequency on sites such as the imageboard 4chan, particularly the /x/-focused paranormal subboard. It is suspected these are fakes because they do not have the effect the true smile.jpg is believed to have, namely sudden onset temporal lobe epilepsy and acute anxiety.

This purported reaction in the viewer is one of the reasons the phantom-like smile.jpg is regarded with such disdain, since it is patently absurd, though depending on whom you ask the reluctance to acknowledge smile.jpg’s existence might be just as much out of fear as it is out of disbelief. Neither smile.jpg nor Smile.dog is mentioned anywhere on Wikipedia, though the website features articles on such other, perhaps more scandalous shocksites as ****** (hello.jpg) or 2girls1cup; any attempt to create a page pertaining to smile.jpg is summarily deleted by any of the encyclopedia’s many admins.

Encounters with smile.jpg are the stuff of internet legend. Mary E.’s story is not unique; there are unverified rumors of smile.jpg showing up in the early days of Usenet and even one persistent tale that in 2002 a hacker flooded the forums of humor and satire website Something Awful with a deluge of Smile.dog pictures, rendering almost half the forum’s users at the time epileptic.

It is also said that in the mid-to-late 90s that smile.jpg circulated on usenet and as an attachment of a chain email with the subject line “SMILE!! GOD LOVES YOU!” Yet despite the huge exposure these stunts would generate, there are very few people who admit to having experienced any of them and no trace of the file or any link has ever been discovered.

Those who claim to have seen smile.jpg often weakly joke that they were far too busy to save a copy of the picture to their hard drive. However, all alleged victims offer the same description of the photo: A dog-like creature (usually described as appearing similar to a Siberian husky), illuminated by the flash of the camera, sits in a dim room, the only background detail that is visible being a human hand extending from the darkness near the left side of the frame. The hand is empty, but is usually described as “beckoning.” Of course, most attention is given to the dog (or dog-creature, as some victims are more certain than others about what they claim to have seen). The muzzle of the beast is reputedly split in a wide grin, revealing two rows of very white, very straight, very sharp, very human-looking teeth.

This is, of course, not a description given immediately after viewing the picture, but rather a recollection of the victims, who claim to have seen the picture endlessly repeated in their mind’s eye during the time they are, in reality, having epileptic fits. These fits are reported to continue indeterminably, often while the victims sleep, resulting in very vivid and disturbing nightmares. These may be treated with medication, though in someses it is more effective than others.

Mary E., I assumed, was not on effective medication. That was why after my visit to her apartment in 2007 I sent out feelers to several folklore- and urban legend-oriented newsgroups, websites, and mailing lists, hoping to find the name of a supposed victim of smile.jpg who felt more interested in talking about his experiences. For a time nothing happened and at length I forgot completely about my pursuits, since I had begun my freshman year of college and was quite busy. Mary contacted me via email, however, near the beginning of March 2008.

Added by MooseJuice
To: jml@****.com
From: marye@****.net
Subj: Last summer’s interview

Dear Mr. L.,
I am incredibly sorry about my behavior last summer when you came to interview me. I hope you understand that it was no fault of yours, but rather my own problems that led me to act out as I did. I realized that I could have handled the situation more decorously; however, I hope you will forgive me. At the time, I was afraid.

You see, for fifteen years I have been haunted by smile.jpg. Smile.dog comes to me in my sleep every night. I know that sounds silly, but it is true. There is an ineffable quality about my dreams, my nightmares, that makes them completely unlike any real dreams I have ever had. I do not move and do not speak. I simply look ahead, and the only thing ahead of me is the scene from that horrible picture. I see the beckoning hand, and I see Smile.dog. It talks to me.

It is not a dog, of course, though I am not quite sure what it really is. It tells me it will leave me alone if only I do as it asks. All I must do, it says, is “spread the word.” That is how it phrases its demands. And I know exactly what it means: it wants me to show it to someone else.

And I could. The week after my incident I received in the mail a manila envelope with no return address. Inside was only a 3 ½ -inch floppy diskette. Without having to check, I knew precisely what was on it.
I thought for a long time about my options. I could show it to a stranger, a coworker… I could even show it to Terence, as much as the idea disgusted me. And what would happen then? Well, if Smile.dog kept its word I could sleep. Yet if it lied, what would I do? And who was to say something worse would not come for me if I did as the creature asked?

So I did nothing for fifteen years, though I kept the diskette hidden amongst my things. Every night for fifteen years Smile.dog has come to me in my sleep and demanded that I spread the word. For fifteen years I have stood strong, though there have been hard times. Many of my fellow victims on the BBS board where I first encountered smile.jpg stopped posting; I heard some of them committed suicide. Others remained completely silent, simply disappearing off the face of the web. They are the ones I worry about the most.

I sincerely hope you will forgive me, Mr. L., but last summer when you contacted me and my husband about an interview I was near the breaking point. I decided I was going to give you the floppy diskette. I did not care if Smile.dog was lying or not, I wanted it to end. You were a stranger, someone I had no connection with, and I thought I would not feel sorrow when you took the diskette as part of your research and sealed your fate.

Before you arrived I realized what I was doing: was plotting to ruin your life. I could not stand the thought, and in fact I still cannot. I am ashamed, Mr. L., and I hope that this warning will dissuade you from further investigation of smile.jpg. You may in time encounter someone who is, if not weaker than I, then wholly more depraved, someone who will not hesitate to follow Smile.dog’s orders.

Stop while you are still whole.

Sincerely,
Mary E.

Terence contacted me later that month with the news that his wife had killed herself. While cleaning up the various things she’d left behind, closing email accounts and the like, he happened upon the above message. He was a man in shambles; he wept as he told me to listen to his wife’s advice. He’d found the diskette, he revealed, and burned it until it was nothing but a stinking pile of blackened plastic. The part that most disturbed him, however, was how the diskette had hissed as it melted. Like some sort of animal, he said.

I will admit that I was a little uncertain about how to respond to this. At first I thought perhaps it was a joke, with the couple belatedly playing with the situation in order to get a rise out of me. A quick check of several Chicago newspapers’ online obituaries, however, proved that Mary E. was indeed dead. There was, of course, no mention of suicide in the article. I decided that, for a time at least, I would not further pursue the subject of smile.jpg, especially since I had finals coming up at the end of May.

But the world has odd ways of testing us. Almost a full year after I’d returned from my disastrous interview with Mary E., I received another email:

To: jml@****.com
From: elzahir82@****.com
Subj: smile
Hello
I found your e-mail adress thru a mailing list your profile said you are interested in smiledog. I have saw it it is not as bad as every one says I have sent it to you here. Just spreading the word.
(:

The final line chilled me to the bone.

According to my email client there was one file attachment called, naturally, smile.jpg. I considered downloading it for some time. It was mostly likely a fake, I imagined, and even if it weren’t I was never wholly convinced of smile.jpg’s peculiar powers. Mary E.’s account had shaken me, yes, but she was probably mentally unbalanced anyway. After all, how could a simple image do what smile.jpg was said to accomplish? What sort of creature was it that could break one’s mind with only the power of the eye?
And if such things were patently absurd, then why did the legend exist at all?

If I downloaded the image, if I looked at it, and if Mary turned out to be correct, if Smile.dog came to me in my dreams demanding I spread the word, what would I do? Would I live my life as Mary had, fighting against the urge to give in until I died? Or would I simply spread the word, eager to be put to rest? And if I chose the latter route, how could I do it? Whom would I burden in turn?

If I went through with my earlier intention to write a short article about smile.jpg, I decided, I could attach it as evidence. And anyone who read the article, anyone who took interest, would be affected. And even assuming the smile.jpg attached to the email was genuine, would I be capricious enough to save myself in that manner?

Could I spread the word?

Yes, yes I could.

—

http://fifteenhours-creepystories.tumblr.com/