7 replies to this topic

[PachucoDesigns]

This novella, told in six chapters, was written by an author who goes by the name 1000Vultures. He is a writer within my circle, in that he appeals to the same audience through the same online channels, via youtube and various "creepypasta" horror enthusiast wikis and boards.

It began with the first chapter, and was intended to end there, but it received an amazing amount of positive feedback. He then added the following five chapters, and has since self-published the work through amazon for download and on paperback.

He has had an amazing reception, and he greatly deserves it. He is one of the best authors I have ever had the pleasure of coming across, published or not. I have yet to speak with him, but I hope to in the near future. Nevertheless, he has all my support. His work is brilliant.

I hope that there are some enthusiasts of horror here that will support an amazing aspiring author. Seeing him succeed like this gives me hope for my own success. I hope that posting this here will not be a total waste. Here is the collective work, as read by the esteemed MrCreepyPasta.

[CloudMountainJuror]

I'll check this out later, sounds interesting.

[PachucoDesigns]

Yep, completely wasted here. Figured as much.

[coolcatjas]

Yes! another creepypasta lover! and with good tastes :)

I read 1000vultures' series a while ago and listened to MrCreepyPasta's (the best creepypasta reader out there) narration of it. I loved every second of it and seriously made me teary-eyed in the final chapter. Seriously one of the best creepypasta's out there.

Although one thing is bothering me --Click here to view--

how did Josh's dad not notice Josh and the stalker in the hole he was covering up? was the hole too deep for him to see them? That seems weird to me...

anyway I would really like to buy this series with a hardcover but paperback will have to do.

[PachucoDesigns]

Yes! another creepypasta lover! and with good tastes

I read 1000vultures' series a while ago and listened to MrCreepyPasta's (the best creepypasta reader out there) narration of it. I loved every second of it and seriously made me teary-eyed in the final chapter. Seriously one of the best creepypasta's out there.

Although one thing is bothering me --Click here to view--

how did Josh's dad not notice Josh and the stalker in the hole he was covering up? was the hole too deep for him to see them? That seems weird to me...

anyway I would really like to buy this series with a hardcover but paperback will have to do.

Ah, so there was someone here who could appreciate this sort of thing. Yes, not only am I a creepypasta fan, I am also a writer and in direct contact with several of the readers, including MrCreepyPasta.

The way I understand it... --Click here to view--

Josh and the stalker were in a box or coffin of some sort. I suspect Josh was unconscious at the time, and they were likely covered with a shallow layer of dirt before he buried them. That's just an assumption, though.

Anyway, I'm glad to see someone here has an interest in writings beyond pairing fanfiction.

[coolcatjas]

Yeah that makes sense. What a terrible way to go... I don't think I can even imagine how I would feel if I was in the father's position..
Amazing how just one person can change two family's lives for the worst.

Oh you write Creepypasta? mind sharing with me :D? I would love to read some.
And do you know MCP personally or just through the internet? Either way you are pretty lucky to have direct contact with him ^^

[PachucoDesigns]

Yeah that makes sense. What a terrible way to go... I don't think I can even imagine how I would feel if I was in the father's position..
Amazing how just one person can change two family's lives for the worst.

Oh you write Creepypasta? mind sharing with me ? I would love to read some.
And do you know MCP personally or just through the internet? Either way you are pretty lucky to have direct contact with him ^^

Sure I can. I'll post them below. And I have less contact with him than with a few of the other CP readers. TheCreepyDark is a good friend of mine, for starters.

The Hidden Things --Click here to view--

The black light in my hand told me things I should have never known, word by word over a month’s grim fascination.



It had been three days, and not a word from the man in room 304. Not a single cent for his stay, either. I made my way to his room that morning, intending to collect. When he hadn’t answered to my knocks and demands to open the door, I let myself in with the spare key. The lights were off, and…it was strange. The room was darker than it should have been on such a cloudless day. As I stepped through the door, I was met with a gasp of stale air, the stink of wet, rotten meat.



Then I saw the twisted thing in the corner, a thing that used to be the occupant of 304 before he died a clearly unclean, unnatural death. I won’t describe how it looked; I can’t even stomach the mental picture for long. But I will say that…the human body shouldn’t be able to…bend…like that.



The police taped off the doorway, and I wasn’t allowed in, of course. But as they escorted me away, I saw one last thing through the lit door frame. The walls. They were covered in writing that I couldn’t quite make out. Not penned, but…painted. Painted in an all too familiar, tell-tale red.



It was a few days before I could force myself to return to the room, but it needed a turndown and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I’d told myself to just file it away in the old mental archives, out of sight out of mind. Just do your job, business as always, and keep out of other people’s affairs. That’s how you keep your sanity in this business. I’d been running that hotel for quite a few years, and that wasn’t the first crazy thing I’d seen. Though, admittedly…it was the most unsettling.



I tried to keep my head down, just focus on cleaning and getting out as quickly as I could, but my curiosity got the best of me on my way out. As I turned out the lights, in the pale mid-afternoon sunlight pouring through the door left ajar, I saw a slight residue where the writing used to be. Just a few words, and I could barely make them out.



"The….hidden things…"



I didn’t fight it anymore. I had to know. I returned to that room with a black light in hand, scanning the walls for answers, and the text returned in a ghostly blue. It was written in blocks and strips, all at strange angles, sometimes overlapping, sometimes large and bold, and other times fine and hardly legible. There were strange drawings, strange symbols, and sometimes just streaking handprints. It covered all of the walls, and even the ceiling.



I don’t know what compelled me, but I couldn’t stop. I reasoned that it was just out of respect for the dead, that somebody should hear his last words. But, in truth, I wasn’t so humanitarian. I just wanted…needed…to keep reading. I needed the closure. It took me a month to compile it all.



I feel the need to tell someone about what I found, so I will leave it here for those who wish to know. As for me, this is the last I’ll bother with it. I’ve already given it more attention than I should, lost too much sleep over it. You can take it as it is, or make of it what you will. I’m too tired to care anymore.



-----------------------------



They haunt those who know of them, and they claim those who have wronged them. I’ve learned this much, and that’s why I know that I’ll never escape. I should have left it alone, I was better off not knowing. I should have ignored the voices when they came, but I tried to fight back. I’ve opened too many doors that should have remained closed. I should have just left it alone.



A voice chortles from the bottom dresser drawer, a hideous noise of throaty snorts, crackling consonants and airy vowels. “…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…” It laughs at me.



They never show themselves in the light, these terrible things. So I take refuge in these sickly, florescent yellow rays from dirty lamps. Every bulb in this room burns brightly through blotchy nicotine stains and dust. I sit alone on a tacky couch before an ancient television set, another source of precious light.



Even the stupid little clown face night light in the bedside power outlet shines dimly, likely some child’s memento from a family road trip. His parents probably encouraged him not to be afraid of the dark, saying there were no such things as ghosts, no monsters under the bed. “There is no boogey man,” I tell myself, just as that boy likely told himself many times before many sleepless nights. Few adults would understand. I do.



“Boogey, boogey. How long do you think you can hide? Hide can you do think you long how?” asks a demented, screeching thing from beneath the storage trunk in the corner of the room. It skitters back and forth with a horrible scratching sound. Not a spider, too soft and fat. Not a rat, too many legs. I can see its innumerable eyes glinting in the dark, black beads without compassion.



I try not to answer the terrible things. If I do not answer them, I often hope, maybe they will go away. Maybe they will leave me alone. But they never do; I can hear them rattling in the space below the sink, crawling behind the stove, scratching at the closet door. I can hear them chattering in the cupboard, slithering beneath the rug. I pull my feet up on the couch and hug my knees, a childish coping mechanism. I know it won’t help.



“This light is not for you, not for you,” taunts a child-like voice from behind the couch cushion, giggling cheerfully. I can swear that I feel a tiny hand touch my shoulder, the cold caress of a dead stillborn. I brush it away in a panic and curl up on my side, wide eyed and frozen. I shelter myself in a fetal position, and I listen to the air from the room’s darkest cracks and crevices.



…Silence. Deafening silence. Unbearable silence. They can’t fool me; I know they’re still here.



I can hear my own quickened breath, hyperventilation takes me and the room begins to spin in a whorl of smudged colors and shapes. I close my eyes tightly, and I hear them skittering from every corner of the room. I feel them crawling over me, passing strokes and taps from talons, pincers, fingers, toes, and other limbs and digits that I can’t identify. I open my eyes with a gasp, like surfacing for air, and they are gone. I stare into the emptiness of the well-lit room, and they laugh at me maniacally from their hidden places.



My teeth chatter with fear, and my eyes well with tears. “Leave me alone,” I plead quietly, though I feel like I’m talking to myself. They listen, they always listen. But they delight in madness. The lights dim and flicker, and I hear the hidden things gnawing anxiously at the walls, and at the floor, and in my head.



“Not long now, now long not. You’ll soon join the ones forgot,” sings the lyrical gentleman at the windowsill, the voice a twisted Cheshire Cat. Its claws squeal and creak against the filthy glass. A chill runs down my spine, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.



“Turn the lights out, boy,” says a familiar voice like a distant recording, crackling like an old radio. My dead father speaks from the gurgling depths of the toilet bowl. “This electric bill is highway robbery. Turn the lights out when you’re not in the room. Money don’t grow on trees, boy.” I hear the toilet flush, and the lights begin to flash and flicker one after another. The terrible, hidden things laugh at me. They taunt me, mock me.



I clutch desperately at my temples and grit my teeth. “But I am in the room, dad. I’m alone in here,” I weakly reply.

A voice from the clown-faced nightlight prods at my mind like a yapping dog, some foul hell hound.

“Are you? Are you? Are you really? Are you?” it asks in repetitive torment, and the plastic coloring of its skin seems to peel and melt away. I avert my eyes.



This is not happening. This is impossible, and I will not believe it. I have to stay in control. I can’t let myself go mad.

A voice from the darkness in my left shoe near the bed hears my thoughts. “Mad, bad, glad, sad. Titter tatter, pitter patter, mad as a hatter,” it teases with a shrill voice like a squealing hog.



I shake my head, sobbing violently as I try gravely to ignore the chaotic chatter of the hidden things. I lose myself in memory, the hindsight of pitying people like me, the haunted ones, thinking them crazy. They were alone in their suffering, always alone. The world could never understand. Are these things real? Are they only in my head, some disturbance of the mind? Honestly, I’m not sure that it really matters anymore.



The lights flicker, dim, and die at last. I can hear them declare their presence, turn by turn, a prologue for the coming slaughter.



“We…” says the gruff voice from the bottom drawer.

“Are…” says the demented creature from beneath the storage trunk.

“Legion…” says the child from behind the couch cushion.

“For…” says the gentleman at the window sill.

“We…” says the voice of the melting clown.

“Are…” says the monster in my shoe.

“Many,” says my father from the toilet bowl.



I hear them converge on me in the darkness, a terrifying clatter blanketing every surface in the room. No escape. I can only wonder what they will find of me after the hidden things have their way. I wonder if there will be anything left to find.



---------------------------------------------



That is where the text seemed to end. Or, at least, it was all I bothered to look for. I walled off the room after that, I wanted it forgotten. But…one thing that still hangs on my mind. I saw it just as I was about to close the door for the last time. It was a tiny message scrawled on the carpet. It wasn’t written in blood, but something black and sticky.



I keep telling myself that it must have been something I missed. Though, I don’t know how I could have, not with all of the times I had been in that room since it happened. I hope that’s all it is, because if it’s not…then…that would mean…



…It was left for me.



"Run or fight for all your might,

Hush the creatures of the night.

Spare us not this dreadful light,

We shall hide ourselves from sight.

Stay the while, but for your crime,

At death knell’s chime,

We will claim your soul in time"



They haunt those who know of them, these hidden things. And they claim those who have wronged them.

The Owl --Click here to view--

My name is Jake Whittaker. I turned ninety-years-old a week ago today. It's funny; you go through life knowing that old age will catch up to you, and you still wonder where the time went once it does. At least, that's what the other folk around the retirement home say. I know exactly where my time went.



I've seen the world from many perspectives, everything from the rose-tinted glasses of youth to an old man's tired cynicism. I've learned a great deal of things in my day, but even for someone of my years, some things will always remain a mystery. There are things in life you just get comfortable with, even without an explanation. You just accept them, and you even come to expect them. You stop to think about it every now and then, wondering if there's an answer, but you eventually stop trying. It is what it is, no changing it. No need to. For me, that thing has been around for as long as I can remember. I've walked through life with a very strange companion.



My grandfather died in the fall of 1931. It wasn't anything tragic. It was just his time. He survived until he eventually became senile; his life was already over, as far as I was concerned. Sure, I was sad to see him go, just the same as any other little boy would be. But I watched him fade away, and I knew he wasn't my grandfather anymore. He just wasn't in there. He was gone. So, I didn't cry at his funeral; I had done plenty of that once I realized that he had forgotten my name. I just said my goodbyes and washed my hands of it. I did a lot of remembering, though. I remembered all of the things about him that mattered to me. I remembered all of the quarters that he pulled from behind my ear, all of the walks in the park, and the short games of catch before he'd start complaining about back pain. You know, the simple things that made him my grandpa.



I especially remembered his stories. He had a million of them, most of them far-fetched and funny, and all punctuated with his own laughter. He liked to think that he was the next Mark Twain, but he wasn't as witty as all that. He was just a silly old codger. Still, we all liked to listen to him ramble on, and that was enough for him. The stories I recall most, though, were not the silly anecdotes. In fact, they weren't even stories. Not really. They were more like obscure references, the kind you might hear about La Llorona, the Tooth Fairy, or the Boogey Man. The ones I grew up with were about...the owl.



There was a difference between the owl and those other creatures, though. All of these other creatures you hear about, they're urban legends because there's always a story behind them. Not the owl. Grandpa never told us what the owl was, where it came from, or what it did. The owl was just...the owl. The references were never consistent, either. We didn't know if we were supposed to fear it or feel safe because of it. One night, he'd tell us not to be afraid of monsters under the bed because the owl would keep them away. Another day, he'd tell us not tell fibs or eat candy before dinner, because the owl was watching.



My older brother, Jeffery (who passed away five years ago, God rest his soul), stopped believing in the owl after grandpa died. He just wrote it off as another of the old man's tall tales. I believed, though. I had always believed, and I knew for sure after the wake. Everyone took turns walking by his open casket to say their final goodbyes, commenting on how peaceful he looked and saying he was in a better place, the usual remarks for the occasion. And then, it was my turn. I was only nine years old, and I still hadn't reached my growth spurt, so I had to stand on my toes a bit to see. The first thing I saw was grandpa's face in profile, exp​ressionless and pale, and it choked me up the way you'd expect. It was also my first experience with death, so I was much too disturbed to look for long.



Then, I saw something that no one else seemed to notice. Or, if they did, they didn't make any mention of it. It was tucked away discreetly between the sleeve of his coat and the casket's white silk lining, protruding no more than an inch between them, just enough to grab my attention. It was a feather. It was long and beautiful, a tuft of snowy white down at the base of the quill, pure silver-white with faint stripes of gray along the vane. It seemed so deliberately placed, but I hadn't seen anyone else put it there, and I had been nervously watching the line of mourners move ahead of me the entire time. I almost reached for it, but I knew it wouldn't be proper. For a moment, I forgot about my grandpa. The feather was all I could see, and I felt numb. Nobody else saw it, and nobody would believe me if I told them, but I knew. I knew where it came from. It belonged to the owl.



That night was a restless one for me, the first of many. It was a long time before I could sleep comfortably again, because that was the night when it first paid me a visit. In the moonlight, I could just make it out. It was perched on a tree branch just outside my bedroom window. A large and striking great horned owl, entirely silver in appearance; even its beak and talons were a sort of dull gray. I couldn't see its eyes, as they were sunken in dark hollows. Its crown feathers hung at a lazy slant, and it didn't make the fidgety gestures you would expect from a bird. Its only movement came from an occasional, slight twitch, or a light rustling of its feathers in the breeze. It never moved an inch, never made a sound, and it never looked away. It stared though my window, directly at me, the entire night.



I've seen it outside my window every night since. Sometimes it's on my windowsill where I can see its every feather, sometimes across the street in a neighboring tree, but always near enough where I can see it. It was there when I lost my virginity, and I lay awake staring at it as my partner for the night slept soundly in my embrace. It was there during the first night I spent in my first apartment, an apartment in downtown Los Angeles, far from where anyone would expect to see such a bird. It was there on my wedding night, watching me from the window of our new home while I held my bride close. It was there on the night my wife gave birth to our first son, and I caught a glimpse of it from the corner of my eye, staring at me from the waiting room's small window. Once, I was hospitalized overnight with a terrible flu. The room had no windows, but I knew the owl was watching. I could feel it. It was perched outside in some nearby tree as always, peering at me through the walls.



It has always been there, whether or not I think to look for it, always waiting patiently. Waiting for what, I didn't know. Truth be told, I still don't know. Never a hoot, nor a screech. It never moves, and it never looks away. In the later years of my life, I think I began to understand my grandfather a little better. I understood why he told us those stories, why he tried to make us believe in the owl. I found myself doing the same for my grandchildren. He must have believed, just as I had, that he wouldn't have to feel so alone if someone else knew. It was a quiet call for help.



I can't tell you how much sleep I've lost to the dreadful sight of the owl over the years, but I eventually learned to cope. The thing about being haunted is that you adjust to it, but you never really get used to it. Does that make sense? Things wouldn't seem quite right if it wasn't there as usual, but it's always nagging you in the back of your mind. You can never ignore it, even if you want to. So, instead, you try to live with it. You try to make peace with it, and it becomes a routine. For a while, I even tried to interact with the owl, though I don't know what compelled me. Perhaps I wanted to understand the thing, or just to see it do something, anything, other than sit there in silence and stare at me. Maybe I'd teach it some tricks, to fetch my slippers or deliver letters. The thought made me laugh.



I would often approach the window to open it, thinking maybe I could pet the bird, but it always fluttered away into the shadows before I got too close. Not for long, though; it would always return once I gave it an acceptable amount of space. Sometimes I would place a chair across from the window, at the distance the owl allowed, of course. I would sit in that chair and talk to the bird, telling it about my day, my troubles, and my dreams. Sometimes I'd tell it jokes, though I knew it would never laugh. I had hoped the owl was listening, or maybe that it would respond somehow. It never did. It just sat perfectly still as always, watching me patiently.



The owl has been my strange companion, even during these final days of my life. It has never left me, no matter how much I wished that it would. I've been sick lately, and I know I don't have much time left. The nurses know it. The other residents know it, and I think the owl knows it, too. Since I became ill, around the time of my birthday last week, its behavior has changed. It has begun to move, an anxious little shuffle, and it tilts its head from time to time in that impossible way unique to an owl. I can see its eyes now, dull amber beads and pupils wide with anticipation. I think I've even seen it smiling, if you can imagine an owl's lipless version of the exp​ression. I dare not imagine what it means, though I think I can guess.



I can see it outside my window even as I write this story. I sat down at this table to tie up any loose ends, to go over my last will and testament one more time, and maybe write a few letters to loved ones before I lose the chance. Instead, I chose to write about the owl. I just want someone, even if only one person, to know the truth. In the end, I only have one question on my mind. Will someone find the feather in my casket, too? I hope it isn't my grandson. I hope he didn't believe the stories, or he may be the owl's next obsession.

Seppuku --Click here to view--

“In times long past, a great war waged across the land of Nippon. Arrows of fire once fell and defiled this sacred place, the seat of our great Tennō. This is my last written testament as a warrior son from the western lands, but my name shall neither be spoken nor written in this place, for it was we whose bows cast fire upon the palace, and upon the temples, and upon the homes of those loyal to his grace. It was our warriors who had slain the innocent in the streets and in their homes. My name is taboo. My name is unforgiven, forbidden from the tongues of all in these lands until my sacrifice is done.



The struggle came to an end at last, and men sheathed their blades of war. When times of peace returned, when Amaterasu-ōmikami rose over Fuji at the dawn and smiled on the rolling plains and the rice fields, our great lord Tennō stood before his people and spoke. He decreed that the warriors of the western lands shall live in shame, and their sons shall be born into shame. He decreed that we shall seek forgiveness for our disgrace through the succession of our sons, and of our grandsons, before the Tennō himself. This penance will last for one hundred generations to each family name, and only then will our lands be truly pardoned.



And so, every year , when the cherry blossoms bloom, we choose a warrior son of our people. To this warrior son is passed the ceremonial blade, and he will bear this blade alone in pilgrimage to the seat of the Tennō. He will make the journey on foot, and he will accept the scorn of the people with humility. He will receive blessing from each priest along his journey, cleansed before he is fit to set foot within the home of the Tennō. Before seeking an audience, the warrior son shall kneel before the altar of the fallen, and he shall beg forgiveness for his ancestors for three days and nights.



At the rightful time of his atonement, the warrior son will be guided to the bath house and made clean. He will then kneel before the Tennō in ceremonial garb at dusk . He will pledge loyalty to the Tennō, and to the land of Nippon, for himself and on behalf of his ancestors. He will bare his abdomen, and with the ceremonial blade, he will perform the act of Seppuku. His name shall be spoken in forgiveness upon his death, and he shall be counted among the honorable ones. His body will be cremated, his soul cleansed in the purifying flames, and his ashes will be hand delivered to the coast of his homeland and put to rest in its waters.



This is a willful journey, one of choice. Should the warrior son choose to make the sacrifice, he will be honored among his family and by decree of the Tennō. Should he reject the sacrifice, he will be cast out from his family and exiled from his homeland forever. The choice is his own. Yet, not one warrior son has forgone the journey, for it is said that to take the ceremonial blade in hand is to take into him the spirits of those who died before, and to take with him their courage and resolve.



I have made this journey. I now take upon my shoulders the burdens of shame and family honor, guided by the proud spirits of my forefathers. It is by the blade in my hand that I will restore my given name in these lands. By this blade, I will bring honor to my family. I go now to make my final pledge before our great Tennō. May my body be laid to rest in reverence for my sacrifice here today, and may my soul know peace in death.



Miroku Oomikami

You bless us and protect us



Meishu Sama

You bless us and protect us



For expansion of our souls

And the fulfillment of your will”



-- These are the final words of a nameless Son of the Western Lands.





The duty of delivering the ashen remains of sacrificial sons has fallen to the Hamasaka clan since the end of that war, since shame first fell upon them. Hamasaka Yoko was assigned this task on her tenth birthday, and she performs her duty even now in her nineteenth year. Just like the those before her, she was instructed to carry the urns with care and humility to the western shore, lest she anger the spirits within. She has always been an obedient girl, shy and quiet, and she always carries out the task with proper respect.



She has never enjoyed the chore, though; delivering the dead, after all, is a grim affair. Still, she has become a familiar face in these parts of late. She is known to the locals, always greeted with familiar smiles. She is a friend to these people, as are the rest of her family. Some have even treated her as a daughter, or as a sister. Yet, she is well-mannered and respectful to everyone just the same. She enjoys her time here.



“Yoko,” a nearby vendor calls to her, “it’s good to see you! How is your grandmother?”



“She is doing well, sir,” Yoko humbly replies.



“Yeah? Well, that’s good. You tell her that Mr. Fabiano misses her company, okay? Tell her he wants to catch up over coffee sometime. Do that for me, will ya?”



“I will, Mr. Fabiano. Have a nice day.” Yoko smiles warm-heartedly and heads for the bus stop.



She takes the #42 Eastbound onto Queen Liliuokalani Freeway. The sunset over Oahu is always beautiful this time of year, and it makes the trip much more pleasant. The bus exits on Halawa Dairy Road, Yoko’s stop. She walks the rest of the way to Hamasaka Pottery and Antiques on Iwaiwa Street.



As she steps through the door and the bell jingles overhead, she wonders how many people will go missing before people catch on. How many lives will be lost to this curse? The Hamasaka family has been discreet all of these years, so it may be a long time yet. Hundreds of urns have been emptied into the waters of Pearl Harbor by now, and she expects hundreds more will follow. Revenge is an insatiable thing.



“Yoko,” her grandmother beckons from behind the cash register, “you can go home for the night, dear. But before you do, would you mind cleaning out the kiln again? I have another pot ready for firing.”



“Yes, grandmother,” Yoko replies, bowing her head.



“Such a sweet girl.” The elderly woman returns her attention to the customer before her. “So, you say that you are a collector of Japanese antiques? I have a fine piece that may interest you. This ceremonial blade has been handed down for generations to many noble samurai. It is authentic, I assure you. Feel the quality of its grip, you’ll see for yourself.”

Blackout at Third and Main --Click here to view--

I've always had a fascination for the paranormal, investigating ghost stories and urban legends since I was a kid. If I ever heard a story that included the words, “they say, if you go there at midnight,” then I was there at midnight, waiting for a genuine encounter. In hindsight, I wish that I hadn't. If you chase a shadow long enough, you're bound to find the caster. Trust me when I say this: you don't want to know. Yeah, I know that's how these stories usually begin. “Please don't read this,” or “I don't care if you believe me;” It piques your curiosity, keeps you reading.



Well, I'm warning you now, and I want you to listen carefully. You don't want to know. Keep your thrills vicarious. Stay behind your computer monitor where it's safe. You're better off wondering and guessing, because curiosity without discretion is a dangerous thing. I'm going to tell you how I learned it the hard way, and I hope it will keep most of you from meddling too much for your own good. You don't want to find yourself living like me. I'm not even sure I can call it living anymore. I only hope I can finish this in time, because most of the time I have these days doesn't belong to me.



There have been so many myths, tales of gods, demons, spirits and creatures of worlds beyond our own. The old stories changed over time, and beliefs changed with them. Yet, somehow, mankind has always feared and worshiped the same things. Psychologists see it as a need for closure. They say we fear the unknown, and we would accept anything to make sense of the world, even if it means believing in a total fabrication.



Everything has a rational explanation, right? We live in a secular age, so that's the assumption. Then again, they also say that where there is smoke, there is fire. When I heard and read all of these stories, I came to question what society told me. Could they all really be the superstitions of ignorant primitives inspired by firelight, paranoia and mind-altering substances? Or were these truly things to be feared even before the songs and legends?



That's what I wanted to find out. So, I buried my nose in mythology books and ghost stories, and I kept my ear to the ground for urban legends. I explored them all; well, all the local ones, anyway. I tested everything from the Ghost Ship of the Hudson River to the infamous Bloody Mary. Every search was a disappointment, but it never discouraged me. It was a great hobby, and I still went through the motions just for the thrill. As I had come to expect, I never exactly struck gold. That is, not until the night of the blackout at Third and Main.



It was the night of Spring break after a long and grueling semester. Most of the other students migrated to Manhattan for loud, obnoxious parties. My small group of friends and I, on the other hand, preferred peace and quiet. Apparently, peace and quiet on that particular night meant a trip to a lively Irish pub called Piper's Kilt. Don't ask me what the hell we were thinking, I couldn't tell you. That is where I met a drunken, old immigrant by the name of Tom.



Tom was a strange man, which made the conversation all the more entertaining, even if we did have to shout over some surprisingly upbeat song about a sinking ship. Over the customary pint of Guinness, I told him about my little hobby, and he told me a story that I now wish I'd never heard. He said that Irish tradition runs far deeper than its Catholic years, and he told me about the long held Celtic legends of the Fae. He told me of the Banshee, of the Formorian Giants, and of the Leprechauns; to that last one, he added, “I'll have you know, they are not the little people you've been told of, Sonny Jim.”



Aside from the conversation, the audience-participation folk songs tend to grow on you once you're good and buzzed, and we stayed longer than I had expected. After a few more rounds, the night ended just as one would expect: a sobering visit to a terrible diner with terrible coffee. A dear friend also made it a point to get hammered beyond the point of no return, and I had to drive him home so he wouldn't end up parking his car in someone's living room. I slept on the couch with the intent on taking him to pick up his car in the morning, provided that he didn't wind up in a coma. I'd have been a hypocrite to look down on him, though. He had done the same for me in the past. Twice.



So, after helping him up to his bedroom, nearly breaking my back in the process, I retired to the couch. I passed out after four episodes of an “I Love Lucy” marathon and a couple of annoying infomercials. Ordinarily, after a hearty helping of alcohol, it wouldn't take me so long to find sleep. That, however, was when in my own bed; I never slept well in strange places. Plus, I still had the spirited racket of “The Old Dun Cow” running through my head, along with old Tom's fascinating stories. I wish those waking hours would have lasted. They are the last normal memories I have, the last memories that I can confidently call my own.



A few hours later, well into the hangover I had earned, I woke up to a dark house. Every standby light for every electronic device turned black, including the clocks. I peered through the window behind me, lifted one of the blinds and stared out across the street. Every porch light had died at some point in the night, and I couldn't see much of anything.



I figured a storm must have rolled overhead and killed the power on the block; I'd slept through louder things on nights like this, after all. I was ready to write it off and go back to sleep, but then I looked at my watch. The second hand ticked just past midnight, then slowed to a stop. Old Tom's final story came to mind.



“The old believers called him the Black Gambler,” he told me, “tempter and trickster of the Fae folk. The greedy for wealth and power bartered with him their souls, called him on the darkest midnight hour, and he came as a dark man at the crossroads.”



It could have been a coincidence, sure. Most people probably would have ignored it. I, however, had a tendency to dismiss reason in favor of whimsy; it came with the territory. If ever there was a time to test the myth, I wouldn't have found one better. Of course, I had no expectations, as usual. I would take five minutes of my time to humor the old man, another two or three to take a much needed leak, and head back to bed. With that plan in mind, I stepped through the front door and into the night.



My first thought was that my previous assumption was wrong. I could smell no rainfall, could feel no moisture on the air, and there were no puddles or wet spots. There had been no storm. It didn't stir me, though. Blackouts can have other causes. More concerning was the darkness and silence. It felt foreboding and wrong, but I dismissed it like everything else. I was just allowing my mind to play tricks on me, that was all. Just letting myself feel the fear I was supposed to feel, and the feeling subsided a bit when I saw the starlight overhead.



“That is the meeting place,” he told me. “Crossroads represent choice and consequence, and that's where you'll find him if he hears your call.”



So, minding my step in the dark, I approached the nearest intersection to my wasted friend's front porch, and I glanced at the street sign as I stood at the curb. Third and Main. I stared at it for a moment before fishing in my jacket pocket for the next step.



“If you wish an audience with the Black Gambler, you must dig a shallow hole at your nearest corner. In that hole, bury a single key; that is the ticket to the space between our world and theirs, the space where he can see you, and he may allow you to see him.”



Somehow, when I followed Tom's story, I'd imagined an old, dirt road in an open field. I'd imagined an old, antique key, a heavy thing you might suspect would open a dungeon or an old cellar. It felt ridiculous to make do with what I had on hand, and I hoped this Fae person wouldn't be too particular. Fortunately, I had a selection of useless keys that could have impressed a janitor. I pulled out my key ring and selected a forgotten, old thing that probably opened a padlock I'd lost, part of its silver coating peeled away from the copper base. I removed a hefty clump of my dear friend's front lawn and placed it beneath, then returned the soil and patted it in. The job wasn't neat, but I doubt he would have cared; he wasn't exactly a proud gardener.



“Once that key is in the earth, you've opened the door between our world and theirs. Only mortals with dire purpose venture to the land between, so be careful and be sure. Be sure you're ready, lad, and don't step into the road until you are.”



With a deep, sarcastic breath, I assured myself that I was sure and took my first step into the road, heading for the center of the intersection. I stood there waiting, with my acquired cynical streak, for five minutes. Five minutes became ten minutes. Ten minutes became twenty. Twenty minutes became a week, which became thirty seconds. Two days. Five months. An hour. Twenty years. An instant and an eternity. Before I knew what was happening, my sense of time slipped away as I spiraled into a sudden, seemingly endless nightmare.



At some moment in that timeless hell, the trance over me subsided, and I became aware of my surroundings again. This was the land between. I had expected it to be a state of mind, some exaggeration of an old druid's meditation, but it was real. That is, if 'real' is an accurate word to describe it. It was unlike any place on earth, unlike anything I had ever felt.



It's hard to explain to someone who has never set foot there, but I'll try. At first glance, it looks much the same as it does in our world. It has the same structures, the same colors, but you know something isn't right. That world is too still, like a rigor mortis snapshot of something that should be alive. There's no wind, no breath of life. It's a world not meant for us, and you come into it deaf and numb. You feel no heat or cold against your skin. You don't feel the ground beneath your feet; not even the movements of your own body. It's like an unending tomb, a world of stone where you feel nothing, and float aimlessly in complete silence.



“Listen for a voice, lad. That's him talkin'. You'll know it when you hear it. He sees you. That's when your test begins.”



Of course I'd know it when I heard it; it would be the only thing I could possibly hear. Sure enough, I did. It was faint, almost not there at all, but I heard it. Under any other circumstances, I doubt I would have called it a voice. No human lips were forming those syllables, and that deep groan was not a sound from human vocal chords. Nevertheless, it was speaking to me. I can't tell you what it said, if anything at all. It was just an acknowledgment of some sort, maybe even a greeting. It terrified me.



“You will first meet with a great beast, a thing of nightmares, and it'll know you better than you know yourself. You will face it, and you will face all of your fears, all of the things that ever struck your heart cold, all of the things that ever haunted your dreams. But don't run,” he warned me. “You must not run. To do so will break the rite, and to break the rite is to insult the Gambler. You won't want to insult him, Sonny Jim. I can promise you that.”



The thing approached, and I felt its rumbling steps beneath my feet. Whatever robbed me of my senses began to return them ever so slowly. Or, perhaps they returned on their own out of some overpowering, instinctive necessity. Whatever the case, I would receive the beast with every primal sense fully alert. It emerged from the darkness down the road, a colossal mountain of fur and muscle towering over the dead street lamps, its grotesque form veiled in silhouette. It seemed all at once as a giant wildcat, a hulking bull and a monstrous bear, and it lowered its face to less than two feet from mine. It growled and huffed, its breath like a hot sand storm stinging my face, and I saw myself in its eyes. I saw myself as it saw me.



That is where the true terror began. Old Tom was right; I did face all of my fears. Every one of them. The fear of death, the fear of heights, of drowning. The fear of losing my job, or of dying alone. The fear of accomplishing nothing in my life, and fearing the pressure and responsibility of leadership. The fear of my creepy neighbor across the hall. The fear of lightning storms, and of the dark. Even my childhood fears, once funny in hindsight, came crawling back. The fear of seeing my grandmother for the first time without her dentures. The fear of the monster in my closet. The fear of large dogs, the fear of the school bully, and the fear I once felt when I was separated from my mother at a crowded mall.



“He'll be watching. If you pass the test, because most don't, he'll take an interest in you. He'll come to you as a man in a dark cloak, and he'll ask you a question. A choice, one that only you can make.”



I didn't run, but it wasn't out of bravery. It was because I was frozen in fear, my legs quaking beneath me and in genuine tears that I hadn't spilled since I was a kid. I no longer needed to take that leak that I'd planned for. I stood there for another eternity, failing to catch my breath for much of it. Then, I saw him standing at the corner, staring at me.



He wasn't a man in a dark cloak. He wasn't really a man at all. The tales twist over time through poetic embellishment and mistranslation, so what you hear is never completely truthful. Then again, nothing the storytellers spin could prepare you for the reality of these things; there are simply no words to describe them. Even I am likely misleading you now, though I'm trying to be as literal as possible. Most cultures have their stories about him, and the way most describe him is honestly the most accurate way possible. He is a dark man at the crossroads, at all crossroads, and all crossroads belong to him.



He didn't move at first. Instead, he spoke to me, and his voice was a soft breeze on the stillness, a wordless whisper. He did offer me a choice, though it wasn't a question. It was simply a curiosity for my will and true desire, if I truly wished for what was to come. My answer came in spite of me, and the answer was yes. Yes, I would commit a sacrifice for his gift. Yes, a higher purpose mattered more than my life, and yes, I would do what was required of me for these things.



He approached me, and I felt a biting chill blow past me as he neared. The closer he came, the less distinct he appeared. His shape wasn't that of a man, but that of a man's shadow suspended in the air, nebulous and immaterial. At brief moments, I could see the vague suggestions of a face, but never enough to read his exp​ression. He stood motionless before me for several minutes, and then extended to me one intangible hand.



“Present the Gambler with a possession of yours, an item of personal importance. He will turn it over in his hands for a time, understanding its meaning to you, and he will return it to you along with a gift...”



I had nothing of particular value on me at the time, let alone of personal value. I felt through my pockets until I came upon my old Zippo lighter. An old girlfriend passed it on to me once she decided to quit smoking. Funny thing was, she picked up the habit again after the stress of the breakup, and she wanted it back. Perhaps for an immature laugh, I decided to hang onto it. That was about the extent of its meaning to me. I didn't love it, but I liked it, and I hoped that would be enough.



He did just as old Tom had said, and I swear I saw a smile in those vague moments of his face. In those last minutes, he didn't just examine that lighter. He judged my value, because this was not really a gift. It was an exchange, and after he was certain of his investment, he returned the lighter to me. As he placed the lighter back in my hand, the moment it touched my skin, the world went black. It was in that last instant of consciousness that I wished I had taken Tom's final words seriously.



“...he will return it to you along with a gift in exchange for seven years service. He always collects, so be sure this is what you want, lad. Be sure that it's worth it, because your life belongs to him now.”



Since then, my life has been one of hazy nightmares, amnesia and moments of clarity. I have gone to sleep at night, waking some days later in a sewer tunnel completely naked and holding mysterious, still warm, bloody masses in my hands. I have blacked out in mid conversation, waking to see a television news report about a massive fire, and the arsonist fit my description. I have faint memories of places I don't recognize, people I've never met, and even places that shouldn't exist. I have torrential dreams of the lands between, standing at my master's side like a pet on a leash.



The next time I saw Jack, the friend I drove home that night, it was at the doorstep of his family home with his wife and two children. He looked well, even fit. When I knew him, he was a sloppy, overweight bachelor and had bad luck with women. He'd also worn a ponytail in those days, and he was now balding. He said he hadn't seen me in years, that everyone assumed I was dead. I begged for his help, and the next thing I knew, I awoke in a dark alley somewhere. I was covered in bruises and cuts, and I was holding Jack's bloodied wallet in my right hand.



I don't know how long it has been, but I have had a terrible realization. When it was said that he would demand seven years of service, it didn't mean seven years from that night. It meant seven years in total. I am a slave, and I can be spirited away at any moment. Sometimes, I'll be fine for months at a time. Sometimes, I'll have my life back on track, assuming that the nightmare is over, but he always calls for me again. I haven't even had the time to learn of what gift he has given me. Like many before me, I am ensnared in his web, and until my debt is paid in full, I am his unwitting puppet. I may never be free.



This is the last time I will say it: stay behind your computer monitor where it's safe. You don't want to know. It's just not worth it. Convince yourselves that these things aren't true, and keep your curiosity in check. Force yourself to lose interest and find a new hobby, if you can. If not for your sake, then for mine. I've already found the blood of too many meddlers on my hands as it is.

Here are a couple of readings of my work that were done on youtube:





Plus, I've been working on designing an avatar for a new channel, FacelessStories. These are the three sketches I've done so far:

Edited by PachucoDesigns, 24 August 2012 - 01:30 AM.

[PachucoDesigns]