Transcript
Episode 239 Spooky Sunday Repeat of Halloween Stories and Summer Heat
Creepypasta and Horror Stories!
About Spooky Boo
Spooky Boo Rhodes is both an author and a podcaster. She has three podcasts available: Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time where she writes her own stories and tells them on the podcast, Creepypasta and Scary Stories where she tells the creepy stories of the internet written by other authors, and Creepy True Scary Stories where people send in their own true scary stories for Spooky Boo to read.
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Scary Story Time Podcast
Scary Story Time is the world of horror written by Spooky Boo Rhodes. Here you will find scary stories of ghosts, haunted houses, vampires, werewolves, paranormal events, monsters, demons, cryptids, aliens, witches, and the unknown. The mystical entities in Sandcastle have been fighting the world of good vs. evil since time began. Today, crime hides within the realm of evil, and very few can tell the difference. Visit https://www.scarystorytime.com for more info.
Creepypasta Scary Stories
Stories written by amateur authors and told across the internet from sources such as the Creepypasta Wiki, Reddit, and even sent into Spooky Boo. These stories are not written by Spooky Boo Rhodes. For more information on these stories and the original creepypasta links, visit my website at https://www.creepypastascarystories.com
True Creepy Scary Stories
Creepy True Scary Stories sent into Spooky Boo Rhodes by listeners to read on the podcast. Visit https://www.creepytruescarystories.com
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All creepypasta stories are from https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/ and written by creepypasta authors.
Gravediggers
It was a cold autumn night. A dense fog had rolled across London, it was impossible to see anything more than five feet ahead of you. The mist reduced people to vague, ghostly figures, or disembodied voices.
In short, it was the perfect Halloween night.
Fifteen year old Michael Blake shivered as he walked through the fog with his best friend, John. On Johnâs insistence, heâd managed to give his parents the slip so that they could perform that time — honored Halloween ritual — to walk through a deserted cemetery in the middle of the night. Conveniently, there was a supposedly haunted neighborhood cemetery nearby.
Trust John to come up with an idea like this, thought Michael. But he wasn’t going to complain. One of Johnâs ideas had once saved his life. Somehow, John always seemed to know the right thing to do, even if it seemed absurd at the time.
And then, out of the fog, the cemetery gates suddenly appeared before them — old and disused. The iron had rusted to brown so that they looked like twisted pieces of wood that had been bound together. In fact the entire cemetery was in disrepair; the authorities weren’t bothered about it and the relatives of the people in the cemetery didn’t complain.
The cemetery is abandoned and unloved, thought Michael, perhaps just like the souls of its residents. Then he chided himself. Why did he let such weird thoughts enter his head?
John kicked the cemetery gates, which swung open with a loud groan of protest. Michael looked around nervously, but nobody seemed to have heard them.
As they entered the cemetery, John suddenly stopped.
“I almost forgot,” he said casually. “Weâll have to watch out for gravediggers.”
“Gravediggers?”
“The poorest of Londonâs poor. Theyâre usually homeless and jobless. They go about stealing from the dead. They rob graves of glasses, watches, even the clothes worn by the corpse, if theyâre desperate. And most of them are armed with knives.”
Nice of him to tell me now. Michael shivered. But once again, he didn’t complain, and followed John into the cemetery.
This is so cliché, Michael thought to himself. Two friends performing a Halloween dare get a lot more than they bargained for. He could see the phrase on the back cover of a dozen cheesy horror flicks.
John kicked aside a pebble. It skittered and came to a stop in front of an old tombstone. Despite the fog, Michael could make out the words inscribed on it-Â Here Lies FRANK JONES
Died as he lived- in the pursuit of justice
He must have been a policeman, thought Michael. It was a strangely comforting notion.
They continued onward through the cemetery. Michael had to admit, it made him irrationally nervous, even though he had thought that he had long since ceased to be afraid of ghosts. But the cemetery itself scared him. Unlike in a typical cemetery, there were trees planted at seemingly random spots, casting long shadows in the foggy moonlight. Birds squawked and chattered in the trees. The idea behind the planting of the trees was that the remains of the dead would give rise to new life. However, the trees had never been trimmed, and at this time of night, they only heightened the uneasiness one would naturally feel in a cemetery. They made the entire place look wild and overgrown. Michael imagined those branches reaching out to grab him…
He shivered and trudged forward, trying to keep up with John, who had gone totally silent. John went through these moods- he would be happy one moment, surly in the next. Right now he was making Michael feel nervous.
Don’t be stupid, he said to himself. It was the cemetery creeping him out, not John. He had no need to be afraid of John, or to be distrustful of him.
In front of him, John suddenly stopped, and pointed to a spot a few feet in front of him. The fog parted and Michael saw a crouching figure. He seemed to be digging into the ground.
A gravedigger, thought Michael. What had John said? Most of them were armed with knives. They were homeless, desperate. What if this man tried to steal from them, or kill them? He tried to pull John back. But John pushed him away.
“Whoâs that?” he said loudly, and boldly walked forward. Michael hesitated, then followed.
As they walked up to him, the gravedigger gave a sudden start. He rose up and drew out a knife.
“Didn’t see you there, laddie. You shouldn’t be out here alone at night, a nice lad like you.”
He slowly moved towards Michael, making slow circular motions in the air with his knife.
Michaelâs eyes were fixed on the blade- a few inches of metal that could mean his death. He was rooted to the spot with fear.
But as the gravedigger reached him, he crumpled, falling towards Michael. Michael grabbed him to stop his fall, and the gravedigger leaned on Michael like a dead weight. He could see the manâs strangely blank eyes, smell his rotten breath. Then, he pushed the gravedigger away, and he collapsed and lay there as if dead.
In front of Michael stood a policeman. Clearly, it was he who had knocked out the gravedigger. Michael sighed with relief, then gasped when he clearly saw the policeman.
His face was a pale milky white, with a crooked nose and two deep-set eyes that were pitch-black in color. Somehow, it did not look entirely human. The policeman looked unnaturally thin. Corpse-like was the phrase that came to mind.
“That was a close one wasn’t it?”
Michael just nodded.
The policeman moved forward to stand right in front of Michael and frowned down on him.
Michael saw his name tag, and gasped again.
The tag read âF. Jonesâ.
“What exactly are you doing out here?” asked Jones.
Michael stood speechless, staring at him. His heart was thundering- it seemed about to burst out of his chest. It seemed impossible, but it looked as though he had been saved from the gravedigger by the ghost of Frank Jones.
Michael turned to John, his throat dry.
John had gone completely white.
“You explain,” he said to Michael, then turned and fled into the fog.
I should have expected that, thought Michael, staring after John.
Officer Jones followed Michaelâs gaze into the fog. But John was no longer visible. It was as if the fog had swallowed him up.
Jones frowned, then turned back to Michael.
“Well, boy? Iâm waiting for an answer,” said Jones. He was speaking softly, almost whispering. “What are you doing here? Only gravediggers come here at this time of night. This place is one of their frequent haunts.”
Haunts. Funny choice of words.
Michael trembled. He was about to start speaking, but Jones interrupted.
“Unless…unless youâre a gravedigger.” Jones smiled. His teeth were yellow and rotten. Decaying. Now Michael was sure. Officer Jones was a ghost.
“Youâll have to come with me,” Jones continued. “Oh yes.”
He smiled again, and licked his grey, cracked lips with his grey tongue.
Michael was terrified. Jones thought he was a gravedigger. And what did he mean by “Youâll have to come with me?”
“I… Iâm not going anywhere with you!” Michael screamed. “This is a mistake! Iâm not a gravedigger!”
But it was useless to argue. Michael could see that Jones did not believe him. An evil fire had lit in his eyes.
“Save your protests for later, boy. Youâre coming with me, where you belong!”
And Jones reached for his belt. Michael saw his hand close around his gun. Jones was going to kill him!
And so, without pausing to think, Michael acted.
He pushed his legs forward, falling as if he had slipped over something. Jones was right in front of him and Michaelâs legs crashed into Jonesâs feet. It was the last thing Jones had expected. He fell right on top of Michael, and as he did so, Michael punched him where it hurt most. Jones howled with pain, and Michael pulled Jonesâ gun out of its holster.
I have to move quickly, thought Michael. Before Jones could react, Michael pushed him away, pointed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from Jonesâ head and into Michaelâs eyes, but he didnât care. He was alive! Heâd done it. For once, heâd saved his life without Johnâs help. He laid on the ground, laughing with relief.
Then he heard footsteps behind him. He got up, but before he could turn around, heâd been expertly cuffed and twisted around. It was another policeman. He stood staring at Michael, his face white. Then, without a word, he walked Michael to a nearby police station. He was taken to a holding cell. For what seemed like hours, he was left alone. Then the policeman who had arrested him walked in.
“What did you do?!”
And Michael told him everything — about the Halloween dare, Frank Jonesâ grave, the gravedigger, and the ghost.
The policeman stared silently at him. Then he pressed a buzzer and Michaelâs parents walked in. They looked pale, shocked. It seemed they had heard everything.
“Michael, how could you do this?” his mother asked in between sobs.
“I had to protect myself.”
“Why did you leave the house without telling us?” his father screamed.
Michael looked at him sadly. He had reacted similarly- last time.
âIt was Johnâs idea,â Michael said.
“Did… did you say John?” his mother asked. She seemed to have gone even paler.
“Yeah, Mom. He told me to walk through the cemetery with him. He told me about the gravediggers.”
“No Michael!” his father said, clutching at his hair. âI told you about the gravediggers a week ago!â
He left the room with Michaelâs mother and the policeman. Michael could hear parts of their angry conversation outside.
“…let him leave the house!” the policeman was saying.
Michael strained to hear his parentsâ reply.
“…stabilised…they let us … for a few days… we never dreamed…”
âYou should have,â the policeman snapped. “I lost a good friend today.”
And then all was silent for a few hours.
The policeman entered the room again. He grabbed Michael and took him out of the station and into a car. They drove him to the last place he wanted to be. His home for the last few years, until a few days ago.
They took Michael to a cell- his cell, deep within the facility.
They tried, once again, to feed him their lies. They told him that Frank Jones had been a criminal lawyer who had a heart attack while cross-examining a murderer.
They told him the policemanâs name had been Francis Jones. He had been a young, enthusiastic officer. When he confronted Michael, he had been reaching for his cuffs, not his gun.
And Michael had killed him.
Of course, Michael didn’t believe them. Six years ago, they had also lied to him. They told him that John, his best friend, was imaginary! It was a lie! John was real, but he was a ghost. Only Michael could see ghosts. That was why he had been able to see the ghost of Frank Jones tonight.
Six years ago, John had saved Michaelâs life by warning him that his teenage cousin, David, was planning to kill Michael and his parents. Michael remembered the feeling of intense relief heâd experienced when he wrapped his hands around Davidâs neck and squeezed the life out of him- the same relief heâd felt when he shot Jones.
And they had arrested Michael for killing David, when he had actually saved his family! And now he was back in this hellhole for âkillingâ Jones. Damn them all!
But Michael knew the truth. The policeman he had shot was the ghost of Frank Jones. Of course, shooting a ghost wasn’t a crime! And John… John was not imaginary. Michael knew that John would help him escape this place…someday…
And Michael laughed and laughed, his laughter mingling with that of some of the other souls condemned to spend their lives at Londonâs maximum security prison for the criminally insane.
Inspired by Anthony Horowitzâs THE HITCHHIKER
Written by Ashleychait
Haunting Hunger
Everyone knows to stay out of those woods. Everyone knows to resist taking the shortcut down that road.
And everyone knows… under no circumstances should you enter the house.
Of course, ultimately the choice is yours. No one will stop you. If you are a daredevil, a ghost hunter, or simply a curious individual, just ask anyone and they will give you directions to Blackwood Road.
At first glance, it looks like a perfectly normal road, winding through the dense forest. What could possibly be so frightening? You just have to find out for yourself. So you stroll confidently into the woods, guided by the bland stretch of pavement blistered from decades of frost-heaves. The walk is uneventful; you hear no insects… no birds… nothing. Mother Nature is holding her breath as you sink deeper into the cursed woods.
After a short while, you reach the house. It is quite unremarkable, with no particularly spooky features. One might mistake it for a perfectly normal house. You enter, feeling bold.
The door opens into a kitchen, small and very dusty. Aside from the dust you could swear someone was living here… Everything looks as if it has been frozen in time. How long has this place been abandoned? you wonder. According to the townspeople, ten years. They say a boy had died here, and that his spirit lingers in the house, punishing intruders. No one has returned to town with their sanity… and some never return at all.
You scoff at this nonsense. It’s just a house! True, the silence is a bit unnerving, but certainly not threatening in any way. After reassuring yourself of this fact, you continue exploring. The dining room and living room offer nothing interesting, so you head upstairs. The claustrophobic stairwell leads to a single door, which you open to find a small study. This is where you reach the Point of No Return. Leave now and you can live out the rest of your life with no repercussions. If you choose to stay and keep searching, you will eventually feel a prickle on the back of your neck… as if someone is watching you. Do not search for the watcher. It does not matter if he sees you, as long as you do not see him. But you instinctively look around for the one watching. And unfortunately for you… you find him.
From the very moment you lock eyes with the ghost you are doomed. Nothing can save you now. You stare in horror at his face, pale and expressionless, not a drop of humanity left. His long black hair shines even in the dim light. His eyes are deep black, cold and unforgiving. As they bore into your soul, you feel your knees give out and you fall to the floor. You recover shortly and clamber to your hands and knees.
You look around and see what has happened to you. You are kneeling in the dust, staring across acres of wood floor. You see the boy, sitting directly in front of you… but now… he is a giant. Or rather, a giant compared to you. His size hasn’t changed at all. Yours has. Now you are only as tall as his thumb.
The boy has a slight smirk twisting his lips as he watches you scurry around like a cockroach in a vain effort to escape. Deep down you know it is useless to even try, but instinct pushes you to keep searching for a way out. The boy simply plucks you off the ground, gripping the back of your shirt between thumb and forefinger. He raises you up in front of his face, as if to gloat. You lock eyes with him once more… but this time you see dark intent. He is toying with you. He is taking pleasure watching you squirm.
And the game is far from over.
You wonder what will happen next, what torment he has in store for you. Your question is soon answered as he tips his head back and parts his lips, revealing shining white teeth framing the red maw. He slowly lowers you inside, dragging out the fun for as long as possible. No matter how much you scream, thrash, or plead, you inevitably descend fully into his mouth, and he lets go of you and snaps his teeth shut, leaving you in pitch-blackness.
You keep still, shivering in silence and praying this is all just a trick. You can’t bear the thought of dying like this… a meal for an evil spirit.
The boy is enjoying your flavor, licking at you and purring contentedly. You recoil from the tongue in utter revulsion as the slimy muscle slops saliva all over you. Disgusting and humiliating! However, once he stops licking, you quickly change your mind and wish for it to continue… because after the tasting…
Two things could happen to you now: Either he crushes your body into mush between his enormous teeth, or he swallows you whole and leaves you to be digested alive. Neither choice is particularly appealing. At least chewing would be over quicker, you figure.
But the ghost hardly cares about your opinion. He’ll do as he damned well pleases. And in this case, it means nudging you backwards with his tongue, preparing to swallow you.
You fight back, of course. Your foot slips on the slick flesh, sliding down into the esophagus. Still, you continue the struggle. Survival instinct is a powerful motivator. But adrenaline only gets you so far, and the boy’s throat muscles are much stronger than anything you could imagine. One gulp is enough to jerk your entire body down into the esophagus’ relentless grip. The muscular tube crushes your chest, causing you to gasp desperately for air. For a moment you wonder if your ribs will give out and kill you. Maybe that would be less painful…
The immense pressure lets up and you fall onto a soft surface. Once you catch your breath, you look around in hopes of seeing some sort of salvation. In the absolute darkness an image is burned into your vision: The boy’s blank, indifferent face. The last thing you will ever see.
The truth hits hard, like an avalanche. This is the end… your end. Never again will you see the light of the sun; never again will you breathe in the fresh, clean air from a walk through the park; even the little annoyancesârain, traffic, mosquitoesâyou would gladly accept if only you had the chance to experience them once more.
You try to stand up, but the stomach flesh is far too soft and slippery; you end up falling and soaking yourself in digestive fluids. It’s hot in here, hot and humid like you’ve never felt before. Breathing is becoming more difficult. The sloppy liquid coating your body causes your skin to tingle and prickle uncomfortably.
At this point you would give anything for a swift death… but you doubt the boy would be willing to oblige, since clearly this had been the intention from the beginning. You try, though. You pound on the walls, begging for release from this hell. The boy simply responds by patting his belly and settling down for a nap.
You hear… purring. Calm, gentle purring. The vibrations can be felt clearly through the stomach wall. There is a sickening irony to it all; the boy taking such simple pleasure from the torment and eventual death of his prey.
Your energy does not last long, sapped by the heat and hopelessness. You collapse against the wall, slowly sliding down to the bottom again. You are too exhausted even to weep for your fate. It’s almost over now anyway. Just a few minutes before your eyes close for the last time and your breath ceases forever. In the meantime you look back on your lifeâyour accomplishments, your failures, your past, your future…
Stars dance in your vision and you feel light-headed. At this point, the warm, tingly liquid feels comforting; a return to the womb. The beginning in the end.
As you slowly lose consciousness, you curl up and cuddle into the soft flesh, still thrumming from the purrs.
You awake to the sound of rustling leaves sweeping across pavement. You open your eyes and find yourself lying on the side of the road, across from the haunted house. You stagger clumsily to your feet, baffled as to how you got here.
Was this all just a dream?
No, impossible. It was far too vivid. But if it was real…
How are you still alive?
You stumble across the road and follow the driveway up to the cursed house. You look up to the second-floor window and see… a face. His face. It vanishes in an instant, but you definitely saw it. You continue to stare at the window until you hear a low chuckle carried on the breeze.
You immediately turn back to the road and leave, never looking back.
A Haunted Doll
Itâs absurd that I would die this way, its absurd anyone could die this way. Itâs preposterous but I can feel the warmth of the flames grow closer, unable to move all I can do is search my memories and try to discover what I have done to deserve this fate.
My name is Elizabeth Downs. I am a twenty-four year old eccentric. I have an obsession with Victorian Dolls. They have just enough a mix of creepy and cute that I cannot get enough of them. My friends mock me for it, and not everyone is thrilled to see my collection but I never mind it. I was never one to care what others thought.
A new antique shop had recently opened and I was paying it a visit after seeing a doll from the window. It had on a black dress with a white umbrella in her hand. I had to take a look. A middle age man in an old suit approached me as I walked up to the doll. âDo you like her?â he said. He listened intently as I told him my own fascination with such dolls. I donât know why I felt so compelled to tell this stranger my own hobby with such enthusiasm. He seemed truly absorbed in what I had to say, waiting patiently for me to finish with a smile on his face. âI can show you an even better doll in the store if you like?â With glee I followed the man to a small room in the back of the shop before suddenly the world went black.
I awoke to a bright light. I could not seem to move and felt like I was being carried somewhere. As my sight adjusted I could see the antique shopâs ownerâs face close to mine. It seemed huge, as he stepped back I realized it was huge. I was high up, I could not move my head but I could see the doll from earlier out of the corner of my eye. It now sat next to me matching my size. âA beautiful doll indeed,â the man said in a sweet voice with a large grin on his face. The situation was deranged, I tried to yell out but my mouth would not move. I could do nothing but sit on my little shelf and watch as the man walked away.
Time was hard to keep track of. I was stuck in a plastic body with no way to move and left only with my thoughts. I know I would go mad if things kept up. I tried to entertain my mind by watching costumers come and go and the owner sweep and clean in-between. Every now and again he looked over at me and smiled. I was left with my hearing as well, but the sound of a little bell as costumers entered and exited and a few conversations with the owner were nearly all the sounds the store had to offer. Night had fallen twice, and I was left alone in the dark shop unable to even close my eyes. I could only wonder if anyone was looking for me, and if it was at all possible for them to find me in this state.
On the third day an older lady looked at me before walking off with the owner. They were out of my sight for a while before I heard the sound of the cash register. Then the owner walked up to me with a box in his hand. He picked me up and with surprise I could feel it. Why could I feel, hear or see anything in this plastic body? I was soon sunk into the darkness of the box. All light faded away as the top was closed. Claustrophobia soon set in. My mind panicked but there was literally nothing I could do. Itâs hard to say how much time I spent in that box. Much of it has become blur of panic and sensory deprivation. My mind had floated away in that time.
Finally a light shone into my cage. It was blinding at first then someone pulled me into it. I saw the frowning face of a young girl. At least twelve or thirteen years old. She forced a smile on her face and turned to the old lady from the store sitting on a couch behind her. The words âThank you, Grandmaâ forced their way out of her mouth. Confusion made way for the realization I was some kind of gift. I wanted to scream for help, but it was useless. Soon I was shoved back into the box, thankfully the top left open so I was no longer surrounded by darkness.
Sometime later I was removed from the box once and unceremoniously thrown on top of a rocking chair. I landed hard against the wooden chair. Filling my body with blunt pain. The room clearly belonged to the young girl. It was decorated with pink colors, stuffed animals, and all things girly. However despite the poor dĂ©cor I saw an opportunity to try to communicate. Holding onto some slim hope that she notice me, or the me that was trapped in this body. Perhaps she did notice something, as time passed she stared at me. However my hopes died as she simply said âCreepyâ and threw a pillow on top of me as she turned off the lights for the night.
Claustrophobia once again set in. Mixed with the frustration of all that has happened to me. Despite no longer having lungs I felt as if I was suffocating. I tried to will every bit of myself to move as my mind screamed. Then the chair rocked, just a little. Enough to knock the pillow off-balance and let it fall to the floor. I had somehow moved. Not by much but it was a small victory against my cursed fate. I could see the girl was already in bed sleeping. A small hope started to return that perhaps I would find a way out of this after all. I felt tired for the first time, and my mind drifted off to what I can only compare to sleep for the first time. I awoke some time later to see the girl standing over me. She had a scared look on her face. âServes her rightâ I thought to myself. A womanâs voice yelled âAliceâ and the girl turned away and left the room.
As time passed I understood that their were rules to my condition. I could move only with great willpower and only when no one was watching. It started with only an inch or so but grew the more I practiced. With this new hope I redoubled my efforts to try to seek help. It was one night that I managed to finally remove myself from the rocking chair. I had to drop with a thump to the floor. The impact hurt but I deemed it worth the pain. I sat facing the door to the room. Alice would notice me, she could help me if she know I was alive.
My plan worked, but held unforeseen consequences. Alice walked into the room and upon seeing me shrieked. A swift moment later her foot flow towards me kicking me across the room hard into a wall. The impact severed my plastic arm from my body. I was filled with mind numbing pain. I wanted to cry, scream, crumble in agony but once again I was unable to move. Alice moved towards me, I wanted to plead for her aid, for her mercy. She looked angry and I was scared. She picked me up, and took my severed arm in her other hand. âEnough of this,â she said as she walked out of the room with me.
We walked through parts of the house I was seeing for the first time. I saw no signs of her parents or the old lady I first met. We walked into the home’s backyard and I was set on a glass outdoor table. Alice moved towards a large metal bowl with wood sitting inside it. It was a fire pit. My heart sank. She picked up some matches from a nearby chair and lit them. With care she started a fire in the pit and watched it grow. âAlways watching me,â she said in an angry tone. I tried to will myself away, I tried to scream âI donât want to die!â but it was useless. Soon, as the fire grew, she approached me slowly like an executioner to the gallows. I was picked up and marched towards the fire.
I am afraid⊠really afraid. Please⊠old lady, man from the shop⊠anyone. I can feel the flames growing closer, their warmth growing with each inch forward⊠Please AliceâŠ
Written by BlueHero45
Mr. Messy Bits
My life took an unusual turn recently.
Until about two weeks ago, I was a successful lawyer, working as a legal advisor for a high profile software company. My life was orderly, lucrative, and quite dull. But all that changed one magical night, when I had a vivid dream of something glowing consuming my entire body. When I awoke I immediately knew something was odd. I remember running to the bathroom mirror to discover pieces of my body falling off, to reveal a strange and twitching form underneath, alien and ‘shifting’.
I was of course quite frightened at first. I gave out a loud yell and the remainder of my human body exploded messily all over the bathroom, revealing my new form underneath. It was, and still is, hard to describe, because so much of it is ‘shifting’.
There were great red eyes blinking and gazing, appendages like huge spider legs twitching and grasping the air, long tough hair that seemed to fold in and out of my human form, Massive maw-like folds over ashen-black ‘skin’, and a whole host of strange and otherworldy organs too bizarre for me to put to words. I panicked and ran through my apartment, my screams coming out as sickening gurgles from bubbling pores in my vaguely humanoid body. I soon fainted from the shock.
When I awoke I was again covered in my human body, regenerated over my alien form. Why my new body had done this I still cannot say, but it gave me much to think about as I was cleaning up the mess I had made of my apartment. I couldn’t go to the authorities, as I would surely be locked up and studied. So, as long as I was still myself, I decided to keep it a secret.
And then the next day I went shopping. Yes, you guessed it. All over everything.
There was a panic in the grocery store as my exploded human bits were sprayed over a large area, and my alien form was revealed to the public. I ran away quickly in the confusion. I learned from this experience that my body needed to ‘detonate’ at fairly regular intervals, and that I could predict when and where this would happen, so long as I did not put it off.
At first I confined my daily detonations to my own bathroom, maintaining my work and social life. But as this proved to be messy and time consuming, I began to have rather depraved, almost exhibitionist desires. To tell you the truth, I had started to rather enjoy the detonations, and I enjoyed still more the look of terror on the faces of those nearby when one of their own suddenly exploded into a monster. The thought of doing it regularly in public made me positively giddy.
So I started my reign of terror. I ‘buzzed’ weddings, funerals, public gatherings of all sorts, doctor waiting rooms (“there’s something wrong with me, AAAAH!”), schools, government buildings, even my place of work. While I had at first had some vague idea of keeping my old life, I soon learned to abandon my human way of living completely. My new body didn’t seem to need to eat, and I only rarely required sleep. I spent my down time in abandoned buildings or out in the woods. It was during a rest in the latter that I met Roger.
It was October 30th when I first met Roger in the forest outside of town. He was a young boy, about 10 to 12 years of age by my reckoning. He must have been running away from something truly terrible, as he didn’t seem fazed by my unnatural and writhing true form. I remember asking him why he wasn’t afraid, and he said I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
I explained to the best of my ability what had happened to me, and he said he envied my lifestyle. He asked if he could join me on my next outing, and since I didn’t see the harm in it at the time, I agreed.
On Halloween night, Roger selected a seemingly random slum neighborhood, and I went to work presenting myself as a respectable representative of some human organization. I wore a smart black suit I had picked up one day during a ‘buzz’ at a clothing store.
I had gathered together most of the people in the neighborhood, and was about to detonate, when Roger suddenly fell to the ground, motionless. I detonated, causing a panic, and all of the adults ran away in the ensuing confusion. It was up to me to deliver Roger to a hospital where he could get proper treatment, but there wasn’t time for me to regenerate my human body. I would have to go as the monster.
To make matters much worse, I had become quite infamous in my former community. Someone spotted me carrying a small boy through the streets, and alerted the authorities. When I arrived at the hospital, police and military personal had the area surrounded. I did not know how my new body would hold up to bullets, but I was not eager to find out. I tried to speak, but could only gurgle in my natural form. When the man in charge gave the order to fire, I ducked into the hospital for cover.
Fortunately for me, none of the men present were brave enough to come in after me, and so fired off randomly into the lobby while I hid from sight. After a few minutes of this, the gunfire stopped. As I sat there, motionless with Roger in my arms, I noticed that all the shooting had hit something flammable, starting a fire that was spreading rapidly. The men outside must have seen it, as there was a great deal of shouting. Knowing that the smoke would surely kill Roger, I decided to brave the wrath of my enemies.
I boldly strode outside, my human body again starting to form across my alien hide. I walked up to the man in charge and gently handed Roger to him. He was noticeably stunned, and offered no audible protest. Just as quickly, I re-entered the hospital. The fire was spreading very quickly now, and could not be extinguished by any device present. I imagined the fire department was on its way, but by the time they arrived it would surely be too late for the other patients. There was only one thing I could do.
I breathed in deeply, and then proceeded to give the longest detonation I have ever done. Blood, mucous and other bodily fluids rained over a large area. Bits of my alien body also flew off in a great rain of carnage. The act left me tired and drained, but it worked; the flame was extinguished before it could grow any larger, the lobby of the hospital now covered in wet gore.
Tired as I was, I knew it wasn’t a good idea for me to hang around. I quickly ran out the back and into a nearby alley. The police and the military had their hands full with rescuing the hospital residents, so I had enough time to escape.
The next day I read the newspaper. The headline read, “Mr. Messy Bits Saves Small Boy and Hospital with Fountain of Gore.” To my amazement, the story gave a favourable review of my actions the night before. The writer said that the local monster that had been terrorizing their community had acted selflessly to save those threatened by the fire, and that it seems that said creature did not mean to cause harm. I would never have believed that I could have received such praise, but it made me rethink who I was and what purpose my life would have.
Mr. Messy Bits, eh?
To my relief, Roger made a full recovery. He met up with me again as soon as he was well enough, and the two of us set out together as partners in crime.
And that’s why it was the best Halloween ever…
Credited to ScutigeraColeoptrataÂ
Heat Death
Summer was your favorite season; I said it was mine, too.
Dusk didnât bring the brisk coolness of night, even as the breeze had kicked up dust fruitlessly towards the Sun, whose shades were dimming and growing heavy with the weight of the dwindling day.
Our smiles stood high, the corners curving upwards like sharp billhooks ready to strike. I took you by the hand, staring into your eyes. I saw my reflection in your glasses, and it made me want to breathe deep. With a big breath of that sickly, jarring evening air, I was certain nothing had disgusted me more than that very moment. But you didnât know that. You were convinced we had some fucked up semblance of relationship or friendship or something. Anything just to make you think that you had someone in your life, and anything to save you from the wretched loneliness that the rest of society subjected you to. The way that weâd play with their bodies together every time it was over had you convinced that I loved you. You thought you had some kind of immunity, but really, I grew so sick of you over time that Iâd purge onto your sleeping body. Brown, slimy clumps of that nightâs romantic steak dinner would drip down your face and youâd just laugh. I would stare blankly, like I mostly do. Forgive me for my smiles, and for everything I was about to put you through.
Thereâs something cute about the way that you confided in me with all of your trust and sincerity. You were drawn to me like a fly to fresh dog shit in the stagnant August heat. Weâd often go to the beach on the day you wanted to kill. God, you were so comfortable. Staring at me behind your flushed, amber eyes and scratched-up Ray-bans, your delusions were so dark and misguided. I used to be lonely, too. But as youâd gnash tuna sandwiches with your mouth agape and tell me your ideas for cutting someone apart, my blood ran icy. I would only stare back blankly and think of how alone in this world we really were. It was just the two of us, but you managed to make me feel crowded anyways. I remember how beautiful your scarred and sunburned body was, in spite of its imperfections. I was not infatuated; your flaws were so horribly apparent there was no time for the curse of infatuation. Thatâs not to say that I didnât love you back at some point, but your cradle of love was so decrepit and threadbare that it was only a matter of time before it fell through.
That night was a night that I had long prepared for. The last belligerent flecks of day faded away, and I found you nestled into that apathetic corpse. You had slit his throat; you loved to bathe in the fleeting heat that poured from their bodies. You loved to watch their desperate attempts of grasping for life as they would put their hands to their throat, the blood seeping through the cracks in their fingers like water filling a sinking ship. Youâd lick your lips and softly run your fingers through bloodied clumps of hair and lean quietly into their ears, giving them soporific whispers of reassurance. Soon, their breathing slowed and came to redundant gurgles and death rattles. Silence always followed, as though your voice had soothed them. But I knew otherwise; your voice was jarring and shrill, even in the most delicate of whispers. I always told you it was lovely.
I grasped the cadaverâs hand. He was a Libra, like me, or so his license said. Maybe we would have been friends. I made a fire with the money in his wallet. This wasnât a robbery, except of my own emotions. I had lost all feeling. In every sense besides my beating heart, I was as lifeless as he. You ripped open his chest cavity and covered yourself in entrails. Every organ was a plaything, just as I had been. Your laughter was broken, staccato, and deafening. In that moment, I was not livid. I did not seethe, grit my teeth, or do anything else to signify to you that you were the most annoying and disruptive creature to ever stand on two legs. It was impossible; I no longer possessed the ability to hate.
My âplayingâ of your toys had always been subtle touches and affection. It was adorable to you, the fact that you didnât like to share. I seldom had the urge to kill, let alone dismember a corpse. You were sawing through his legs as I told you to stop. You looked at me, and I looked back with the biggest smile I had ever made in my entire life. Perhaps it was a bit disconcerting, as I wasnât one to smile. My expressions were generally emotionless. You smiled, but struggled to keep eye contact. Oh, how easy it was to expose that you were pathetically weak to me. How easily I took the bone saw right from your hands and pressed it to your throat, grabbing your greasy, filthy, terrible excuse for hair and pinning you to the ground, your eyes wide and mine even wider. You screamed the most beautiful sound you have ever uttered. It was so good that you picked this place specifically for how remote it was. You told me a scream would never be heard; a body would never be found. Youâre so fucking stupid. Thatâs what I found to be adorable. You really trusted me and locked yourself in walls of false security that were slowly closing in on you. Now those walls were crushing your body, with bones dismantling and tendons tearing away.
Your screaming turned to pleading as the saw laid against your throat. You knew that I was stronger, that you would not be able to overpower me with your greatest effort. You were helpless, but I was not happy. Happiness is an emotion that is felt through entertainment or the success of a goal, but this was neither. It was cold and emotionless, like I had been to you. That was never a red flag, I guess. You were pretty fucked in the head, too. But you had emotions, having drained mine away. I would never get them back. I could only feel subtle tinges of bitter contempt as I slowly sawed through your throat, watching as blood pooled onto your white skin and spread like fire to paper. The saw burned through your neck, and I eventually heard the same gurgling and death rattles. I gave no whisper, feeling that you probably had thought something to yourself about it almost being over or whatever. I stood up once you no longer made noise. I didnât want to touch you. Even in this moment you made me feel disinterested and lethargic.
Summer is a disgusting season, but you don’t deserve something you liked so much. I cut you up that night and put your remains in our freezer, which I planned on disposing of. One last time, I subjected you to my frigid gaze before closing the door shut.
Written by Avenging Angel
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