Cayden C. Christophers: PenPal

C.W: >!It's PenPal, there's dead kids and stalking and all that lovely stuff!<

It was so painful. My neck burned, white hot. I was in absolute agony. Despite this, through the tears and blood coming from my mouth, I was grinning, thrilled and in absolute bliss. Every shovel-full of dirt that I heard thud against this wooden tomb filled me with absolute euphoria.

It had been so, so hard to wait. It had been so, so hard to watch him from afar. It had been so God damn excruciating to not tell him that I was here, to never talk to him, to never hold him until now. For over a decade, I waited for a chance to hold him. It was worth every moment.

I did everything I could to interact and spend time with him without interfering with his life, without being stopped. I don't know what I would've done if I couldn't see him.

There's some things I feel awful for. I never wanted to hurt him. Really, I hated seeing him in pain, I only ended that witch when she tried to take him from me. The misery and sorrow I had brought upon him, every tear he shed and night he spent feeling like he was alone ruined me. Knowing that I had caused it made the fact that I couldn't comfort him so much worse. But the euphoria I had felt when he spoke to me like he loved me for the first time was almost as great as what I felt now. Now that I had taken the final person on this planet who came close to loving him as much as I do, even in death I would be closer to him than anyone else for eternity.

I know that this isn't him, not really. I couldn't do this to him. Again, I would never hurt him, but as this boy wriggles and flails desperately beneath my body, I can pretend he's him. I can pretend that, as I die, I'm cradling him in my arms.

As the ether took effect and I drifted off, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh as I wondered, maybe in another life, after this one, I could actually spend the time I'd dreamed about with him. We could be explorers. We could be adventurers. We could be friends. Even though that's only a dream, and I know that, the corners of my lips turned up, only slightly in a smile of contentment and satisfaction. A smile of bliss. A smile of love.

Cayden C. Christophers: Pathetic

CW: >!Grief, depression, toxic self-talk, bereavement, and suicidal ideation!<

You are so pathetic.

You know that?

When was the last time you went outside for anything other than work?

When was the last time you even spoke to a real person?

When was the last time you even texted someone who knows your real name?

-

Oh, you're getting better?

You've started writing again?

You're being productive?

Then why have you been staring at a blank screen for two weeks?

Pathetic.

-

Yes, he died, move on.

Yes, she left, six months ago, exactly.

I remember.

-

We both remember.

We can't forget.

Meet someone new?

Really?

When you won't even get out of bed?

Pathetic.

-

You're finally going to confront her about how she treated you?

When?

After you check in on how she's doing after her latest break-up?

Pathetic.

-

I hate you.

I hate everything about you.

You are ugly, you are lazy, you are spineless, you are a coward.

You couldn't even bring yourself to put an end to this.

-

Why are you like this?

-

Why have you made me like this?

I am ugly, I am lazy, I am spineless, I am a coward.

I couldn't even bring myself to put an end to this.

Pathetic.

-

I'm the only one calling you that, you know?

There are so many people who care about you.

Please, do anything to make yourself better.

Go and talk to someone...

-

We both know we won't do that.

At least write something.

Please.

Write anything.

Do anything.

-

Write this.

Cayden C. Christophers: The Vultures

As the final magenta rays of sun fell below the horizon, I wasn’t watching the sunset, I was instead watching the dark grey, almost black clouds that would soon roll in from miles away. I never imagined that I would live in Scotland, especially outside a tiny, insignificant village by some loch. I preferred to surround myself with the leaders in the worlds industrialisation, and the Scots, especially when you venture further North than the Central Belt, are too stuck in their traditions and folklore to contribute to the betterment of new technologies, or to pursue things that are more intellectual. However, because of this, the Scots do not have much experience with the new technologies that this industrialization has brought. This means I can exaggerate the capabilities of certain goods to sell them for a higher price than I would elsewhere. Thus, I travelled from Stirling to Durness and everywhere between, before returning to England with my spoils.

This was until, on a stormy night, I passed through the village by Loch Eadarnach and, like any other part of Scotland, they had foolish folklore regarding their home. They told me tales; that anyone who perished in the Loch’s waters never truly died, their souls never reach heaven or hell. Or that even if you just drink from the loch’s water, your souls is forfeit. While maybe a bit darker than I’m used to, it was rather typical Scottish folklore, so I barely flinched when the locals warned me of some supernatural threat that wandered their home, The Sluagh. A dark cloud of unforgiven souls which bursts from the choppy waters of the Loch during storms, wreaking havoc and stealing the soul of anyone unlucky to be standing below it. The West-facing sides of every home lacked windows, as they believed that is which side it approached from, an elderly man had begged me to take refuge in his home, so, reluctantly I entered and put my horse in his stable.

That’s when I heard it, the agonised screams and roars of thousands of souls above my head carried by the wind. I ran to the East window to look at the source of the noise after it passed me over, and what I saw left no room for any explanation other than the supernatural. Crows, but thousands of them, swarming like locusts. They also seemed to have an ethereal quality to them, they were transparent around the edges, making them appear to be a furious, raging storm cloud at first glance. When I emerged, I saw that the town had been ravaged, crops were flattened, fences and signposts snapped. Livestock that weren’t taken inside on time were still, lying on the ground, eyes lifeless, though there was no visible wounds to be found on them. Some walls and doors of houses had been broken through, leaving the residents in the same state as the animals. It was that day when an inkling of the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had began to take form.

I’ve now been living by Loch Eadarnach for almost two years, careful to respect the local tradition of always having my home surrounded by the foul odour of leather tanning to ward off another creature that supposedly haunts this corner of the world. I spend my days awaiting a storm and, mounting my carriage, I follow in the clouds wake, selling goods to survivors, for a premium, of course. But Finch’s Trading no longer stocks new technological miracles, I stock basic necessities for survival, that these people would kill to have at this time. I now just need to make it through this final storm and I will be able to leave this simple, plain place and return to England a made man. I will never need to work another day in my life.

I watched the sky until I saw the monstrous black cloud soar just above the Western-most side of the village and I began riding my wagon over the rain-slicked mud and rugged rock paths that paved my way to the final part of my fortune, arriving around a day after the Sluagh did, on the same path it took.

Unfortunately, the first few homes I passed by had gotten off relatively easily. I continued through the streets until I saw a small stone cottage, whose wooden door and walls were peppered with gaping holes, I halted my horse and hauled blankets, firewood and wax candles out from under my seat before walking up to the empty doorframe, knocking on the thin wooden post before letting myself in.

I walked into what must’ve been the house’s living area, and saw a small boy, perhaps around ten, curled in a ball in the corner, tears from his grey-rimmed eyes, his dirty hands gripped his shoulder, both trying to comfort himself and keep the biting, Scottish winter cold out. I forced my voice to sound as cheerful and friendly as it would go as I entered the room and said, “Are you alright, little boy?” He continued sobbing for a while, before hiccupping, “I-it got ma Gran...” “Oh no, did she live with you?” He just nodded in response, “Well, we can’t have you freezing alone, can we? How about some blankets?” “T-thank you, sir.” He responded “Ah ah, I can’t be giving away my merchandise for free, can I?” “B-but sir, ah don’t have any money...” “Well, what’s that chain around your neck?” I asked, gesturing to the silver crucifix necklace he wore. “It’s my cross, ma Gran got it fur my Christening, I couldn’t give it to you.” He begged, the tears returning in full force, now “You either give me the cross, or freeze to death.” My false niceties gone now. He unfastened the chain before shakily getting to his feet and walking to me, reluctantly placing it in my hand. I gave him a single blanket and with I smile, I said, “Pleasure doing business with you, Sir.” And, without another word, I walked back out the empty doorframe.

I continued my route, the rain didn’t let up, causing the wind to feel even more biting when it hit my sopping clothes. Regardless, I made a decent haul, and was happy for this to be my last time experiencing this sort of weather. I reached the end of the village, right by the water’s edge, when I heard shouts from the water’s coast, “Finch! Please help me!” I turned to see a man who I vaguely recognised waving his arms, I steered my horse towards him, “Oh thank you, Sir, I was out fishing when the storm hit, I hid below deck, I don’t know how I survived. But, when I got to shore I discovered that my house had been completely levelled.” “Would you like an oilskin jacket?” “Please!” “18 Shillings.” “What-? I-I don’t...” “Well then, I suggest you find shelter quickly.” I spurred my horse on at this, ready to leave him, when he flung himself at me, leaping onto my wagon and grabbing my collar. With a grunt, I shoved him backwards back to the ground, but was taken with him, slamming into the muddy ground beside him, before tumbling down the slick hill into the shallows of the loch. I tried to scramble away, but he got to his feet before me and was walking me down, “N-no, I’m sorry.” I pleaded, turning to face him, “Take whatever you need, f-free of charge.” “I will take whatever I need, after I’ve rid this world of you.” He growled, ramming his boot straight into my jaw, I tasted blood before my head was even pushed to the stony floor, I heard a sickening crack as my head hit a rock, but the thud was drowned out by the water. My vision blurred at the edge as I choked and spluttered on water and my own blood, the pain in my chest and skull became more immense as the black became darker and longer lasting until, eventually, the black never faded.

My body is no longer my own.

I spend months trapped below the surface of the loch. Constantly choking. Drowning with dozens of other unforgiven souls. Their screams deafening me. Coming through me. We stay here until the water’s surface is broken with enough force to let us escape, we burst from the loch and I am pulled by my dozens of uncontrollable limbs and transparent wings, until I am forced to dive upon someone living to force them to join the amalgam, to add another screaming voice to my throat and another pair of arms to push and pull me. We claim as many as we can until we are sealed back below the water’s surface to drown. 

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Hey guys, it's Archie again. Told you I'd be back soon! I've learned a lot today, and I have a lot to tell you guys, I'm actually writing this at behind the counter on the clock, since not having the A.C to talk to anymore makes work a lot more boring... I'm getting ahead of myself.

As I walked into Mister Hallow's car, despite the fact that I had another, awkward and tense car ride ahead of me, my chin was high and I had a spring in my step. This positivity was replaced with confusion as soon as I entered, when Hallow actually started a conversation with me,

"Alright, son?" He said as I opened the door

"Um... aye I'm doin' good, you?"

"Look, son, I apologise for how... inconsiderate I've been. The job we do at The Hotel is of extreme importance, and I've never considered that you don't know that."

"It's... fine"

"Don't worry about it though, I know that you aware that there's something less than ordinary about the place, but just follow the rules and there won't be any issue, you don't need to know what's happening yet."

"...cool."

We didn't say anything else until we got there, even though Mister Hallow looked like he was looking for the right words to use to tell me something else.

When I arrived and walked through the lobby to my outpost, I barely noticed the wave of heat and stench that struck me because was ecstatic to tell my A.C. friend how I've been,

"Hey man." I said, patting his outer shell

"How you doing?" he asked in response

"Honestly, great man. I've been... doing a lot to distract myself. I've began drawing again, I haven't done it in a long time and I forgot how... happy it made me."

"I'm... happy to hear that, lad."

"I've also been posting my art online to get eyes on it and meeting new people that are talented artists too... I feel really happy, better than I have in years."

He didn't respond,

"Hey, what's up with you?"

"I... I remember everything now."

"Oh... well w-what do you remember?"

"I chose to be here... to be here with you."

I heard him take in a breath to speak, when he was cut off, by a noise I've never actually heard. The elevator on my left hand side had brought something up to the lobby and let out a ding,

"Oh my God..." The A.C started,

"L-listen to me. Listen! Archiba- Archie... whatever comes out of here, do not listen to what it has to say."

"I- wait, Archibald?" I said, but before I could get a response, the doors creaked open and I saw what had been brought up from the depths, myself. It was me, but I looked so dishevelled, my hair was thick with grease and my eyes were sunken, encircled by dark shadows and tendrils of tear-streaks carved down past my cheekbones. He slowly shambled around from the elevator to the counter, and when he looked into my eyes, a face splitting grin appeared, causing his eyebags to crinkle even deeper, and the stench of alcohol on his breath stung my eyes. He slid his hand across the desk and rang the bell,

"W-what the hell are you?" I whispered,

"Who do you think you are?" It responded,

"Acting all high-and-mighty just because you've been a bit happier recently, how long's that really going to last? You've been drawing, and a couple people like your stuff, but they don't like you, you're still in the exact same position you've always been, if you left, none of them would care or even bat an eye. You're still alone."

When it said this, it's face, my face melted away like wax, it's eyes and mouth closed tighter than possible until they fully faded as it's nose receded backwards until I was staring down a blank, featureless flesh-mannequin. Then, it opened it's eyes again, but they were different this time, the most beautiful I'd ever seen, deep - almost cyan - blue, they belonged to my girlfriend. I stared into the eyes that I'd not seen in almost a decade so hard that I didn't notice the rest of the transformation, her blonde hair, the button nose that I always used to say was adorable. The one thing off, was the smile, even though it still made the sides of her eyes crinkle, it looked unnatural and forced, almost painful,

"You're still alone." It repeated,

"And it's your fault, she loved you as much as you loved her... but you weren't good enough, nobody cares about you, and it's your fault."

"S-stop it... please." I begged, realising that tears were streaming down my face

"You know I'm telling the truth... nothing matters if you don't have anyone that you matter to... you ruined it. There's no coming back from this, you let everyone down... yourself, her, him..."

It's face began morphing again, at first I thought it was my face, but it was both older yet healthier and brighter looking than me, and his hair was slightly darker than my own. My father's face.

"He would be so disappointed in you, you threw away eve-" Hearing my father's voice again wasn't new, or something I missed, I'd been hearing it for weeks. I snapped back into consciousness and I turned away so fast my neck almost broke, I heard the A.C. screaming my name, in the same voice the monster had just been using,

"Archie! Come on lad, listen to me."

"Y-yeah, I-I'm here... I'm here, Dad..."

The monster roared in rage and slammed it's fists onto the desk, screaming

"Look at me Look at me!" over and over, using the voices of everyone I'd ever known all at once, sometimes commanding, sometimes begging, but I never did. I stared into the fan of the A.C. as I heard my father's voice telling me that I was okay, that despite my flaws, he was proud of me and that he loved every part of me, good and bad.

The monster screaming must have alerted Hallow, as I heard him appear from... somewhere and the screaming cut off as he cried,

"Enough!"

I turned to see the monster had vanished without a trace.

"What the fuck is happening." I said, in a quivering voice to both Hallow and my Father,

"So you know? He is remembering?" Hallow responded,

"Yes" I managed to choke out with a sob,

"I felt I had let you down..." My Father explained "So I asked Mr. Hallow for one favour for all my years of service, to spend some more time with you and help you out."

I just stood, staring at the floor for what could've been an eternity,

"But... since I remember, that means that my time to go cannot be put off much longer."

"N-no no, please don't."

"Hey lad, you're gonna be okay. I've done my part to try get you back up, but it's your job to stay standing, and I need you to do that for me, can you?"

"I... don't know."

"You're really talented, and I wish I could stick around to see all the things you do and people you meet in person, but I must leave soon, but I promise you'll be alright."

"O-okay."

Suddenly Hallow's voice interjected,

"I believe he can stay here another day, so you may finish whatever conversations you must have before he goes, I shall man the counter if you want to spend one more full day together."

So that's what we did, I spent almost a full day telling my father of every worry, dream and fear I'd ever had, along with my newfound ambitions for the future, until the A.C. suddenly went silent. Mister Hallow gestured to the counter he stood at and I took up my post, as my father, as I remember him in life, came through the doors. He walked towards me, beaming, despite the tears running down his cheeks and rang the bell,

"I love you, Archie."

"I'm gonna miss you." I said, handing him his key, and my breath caught in my throat as he held onto my hand and pulled me over the counter into a hug, with that, he took his key and went into the elevator on my right hand side.

"Yo, Hallow, I still work here, yeah?" I say after a long moment of silence "This wasn't just a ruse to get me here for him?"

"Yes... you can stay if you wish... but I doubt you will now that you know the whole truth."

"No, I think I will, this is the job my Dad used to do, so I'd like to keep doing it. That, and I don't have many other employment options."

This has been Archibald, peace out.

Hey guys, not posting a story today so I've decided to use my daily post ration to do something I've wanted to do for a while for the community. I like to sort the sub by new and find some hidden gems with no upvotes, but that doesn't let me find the gems that were buried for a long time, now I don't think I'm an amazing writer or anything, and I haven't been here very long, so I don't have the platform that others doing this do. But I'd really love to at least let y'all get another pair of eyes on your story, and maybe give feedback on stuff before it's posted. Comment something you've posted that doesn't have much traction or DM me your drafts and I'll get back to you in a few days at the latest. Can't wait to see what you have in store.

Part 1

Part 2

Hello once again, my friends, it's Archie back from the dead. I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, the power lines outside my house got Donnie Darko'd by a plane engine and the fucking council took way too long to put it back up, but its fixed and I'm back now. This week at work was... eventful and kinda sucked. First off, there's a reason that I haven't quit drinking sooner; it sucks and is really fucking difficult. On Monday, I got in Mister Hallow's car absolutely pissed and reeking of booze, but he still isn't talking to me after the little girl, so he thankfully didn't lecture me. The fucking A.C on the other hand...

I shuffled behind the counter and collapsed into my seat, head in my hands, ignoring the whispers from the left elevator as I didn't even look at the guests I was serving. I was relieved at the suffocating warmth for a change, since my house's heating wasn't working.

"What happened to getting clean, lad?" The A.C interrupted my self-loathing,

"It's... it's not that easy. I've tried before. It was stupid of me to say that." I mumbled in response,

"Then try again."

"There's no fucking point." I snapped,

"How's there no point?" The A.C yelled, sounding furious now,

"Why do you drink, what's it saving you from? Why are you giving yourself the short straw? Why do you think you don't deserve to get clean?" It asked.

I started sobbing, in a way I haven't in a long time, even after my mother died. I'd never been given a chance to talk about things, nobody ever asked me and damnit I needed it. But I was crying since, here I was, about to pour my heart out to a fucking air conditioner, maybe I could be in a Curry's advert or something. I opened my eyes and moved my hands to look at the box on the wall through my misty vision. I blinked the tears away and took a massive, shuddering breath to steady myself,

"I... never had many friends, even like, after I got out of school. But I had a girlfriend and she was all I needed, even when my mum died I was okay. But I... am asexual. And I grew up really religious, and I was always ashamed of it, so for years I never told anyone, not even my girl." The tears were streaming down my face and my voice was breaking on every syllable,

"When I told her, she broke up with me and I had nobody, and I fucking hated myself for it. A lot, I hated that I'd never had friends and I hated the way I was. The only person I had, my Dad, I wasn't close to, and I couldn't tell him about everything. So I just stayed furious at myself, and I..." I paused since I didn't know how I'd put this,

"I did stupid shit because of how much I hated myself, so I started drinking, and that dulled everything, including my feelings. Whenever I tried to stop drinking to hold down a job, I hated myself more." I stopped and completely broke down crying. I cried uglily for a while until the A.C spoke up,

"You... shouldn't hate yourself. You did absolutely nothing wrong."

"If I was different I'd be so much better off. I'd have a girl. I'd have had a relationship with my dad before he died." I forced out between sobs.

"Well... this is how you are. You need to try and forgive yourself since you aren't going to change. And you need to find something to do with your life, meet new people that care about you along with this new job. You deserve to get better."

I started laughing at this, it was some of the only actual advice I'd been given in years and it was from a fucking air conditioner.

"Man, you don't even remember anything, why are you giving me advice?" I nearly whispered,

"I... remember more now. And you've deserved this advice for a long time."

"What-" I started before I was interrupted by voices from outside the hotel door.

"Man I told you this was bullshit." I heard an American accent scream from outside, the first voice I'd heard here except for mine and the A.C's in a long time,

"We've been playing this fucking left right game constantly for days, and and this is all we fucking found, a brick building."

"Let's just go inside, you never know what it could be." I heard a female voice respond

"You stay here, I'll go in and make sure its safe." The man replied this time before the door swung open.

The man, who looked disheveled and absolutely stank, even from across the lobby, took half a second to scan the room before his eyes landed on me, and he produced a handgun from his pocket, levelling it towards me and walking towards me. Of course, the first new person I meet in months pointed a gun at me. Taken aback by the fact that a guest had spoken to me, and the fact that he was possibly about to kill me, I put my hands up as I stayed silent, since he hadn't rang the bell.

"What the hell are you?" The man demanded, pushing closer as the stench of his B-O began to choke me, causing my already misty eyes to water. I still said nothing,

"ANSWER ME DAMNIT." He spat into my face.

My breaths began to increase as I tried to gesture to the bell so I could communicate with the man, which, looking back, was stupid of me. The man seemed to be at his wit's end, until he saw something over my right shoulder, I followed his gaze, to see Mister Hallow behind me. He waved his hand as if shooing the man away, which caused the man to pop out of existence. He just vanished.

I stood staring at Mister Hallow, completely rapt with my jaw hanging open until he said,

"I didn't kill him." and walked away.

Great, thanks bro, love that clarification.

That was one of the most eventful days of my week away from posting, but there's some tough competition. I'll get back to you all about the rest of my week soon. Peace out.

Part 4

Part 1
Hello again, my friends. I just got back from my second day and it was even weirder than my first. As we pulled up to the plain bricky box of a building after twenty minutes of turning left then right constantly and walking to the small wooden door, I asked Mister Hallow something that had been eating away at me,

"What's the reason behind all the rules you gave me yesterday?"

"Look, son. You may not think it, but your job is very important and those rules are vital to make sure everything runs correctly."

Before I could ask what any of that was even supposed to mean, he entered the hotel, shutting the door behind him and when I followed seconds later, he had completely vanished. Prick.

I made my way through the strangely barren lobby, noticing strange yellow stains all over the plain white walls and wooden floors, with the only place not being stained was around right hand elevator. The the single white sofa in the middle of the room appeared brand new, as if it had never even been sat on once. I immediately sprinted, jumping as high as I can and landing back-first onto the sofa, listening to the loud creak it made as I crashed onto it.

I lay there for a while, until the heat from the left elevator got too much. I made my way behind the desk and cracked the minifridge door open, trying to cool myself down while not letting too much heat escape, keeping my egg and cress sandwich fresh,

"Sorry you need to do that to keep yourself cool, I know it's really hot." I heard a deep male voice from behind me,

"Huh? Wait who are you?" I said, panicking as I turned around,

"Wait, calm down, I'm... I'm in the A.C."

"Oh my God, wait let me try get help. We'll uh-we'll get you out."

"No... no. I am the A.C. I think I'm dead. I don't remember."

Now I know this should've been a lot more concerned about a haunted air conditioner, but I think I knew something was off about this place since the second I got here, so instead of fear, I just felt sorry for whatever soul had possessed the A.C.

"Damn man..." I muttered as I walked to the big metal cube and attempted to wrap my arms around it in a hug,

"Thank you." It said, "It's been lonely around here, having you here's going to make things a lot better. The old guy doesn't seem like much of a talker."

"Yeah, but how come you didn't talk to me yesterday then?"

"Well... I don't know. I feel like we are supposed to be close, I didn't want to scare you away from talking to me."

That day was a lot less boring, because now I had someone to interact with that wasn't one of the silent, downtrodden guests and the A.C seems like a cool guy. He doesn't remember his past life, but he gives good advice about things. He says that I shouldn't blow this opportunity, so I've decided that I'm going to stop drinking and along with this new job, things should be looking up for me.

Today was great, until a little girl came into the hotel by herself, which was weird in itself since almost all the guests seemed to be at least 50. She was probably around eight, but was really frail looking, her blond hair was thin and had dark circles around her blue eyes. She cautiously made her way through the lobby, scanning her surroundings wearily, before sitting down and crying. I panicked, not knowing what to do since I'm not meant to interact with customers, but quickly decided that I should probably try to help the child. I walked around the counter, and through the lobby until I was in front of the girl. She didn't see me, looked right through me with those wide, misty eyes,

"Hey pal, what's up?" I asked.

Her eyes snapped up to look into mines, and then her irises expanded. They slowly got bigger, eventually completely filling her eyeballs and she stared at me, two massive, brilliant blue orbs burning into my soul, her voice quivered as she finally spoke to me,

"No... I can't be dead."

As she spoke these words, the ground began violently shaking with massive tremors and I collapsed to the floor, holding the back of my neck. From the ground, I saw Mister Hallow appear somewhere from behind me and he sprinted to the girl, moving faster than I had seen anyone close to his age move as he scooped the girl up in his arms and ran to the right hand elevator, and the tremors immediately stopped.

I didn't see Mister Hallow until he took me home, where he scolded me for talking to a guest, telling me that I absolutely must wait for the bell to be rang. He didn't talk for the rest of the drive. I'll update you guys again, I guess. Peace out.

Part 3

Part 2
Hey guys, my name is Archie, my Dad died and things are starting to look up. Me and my Dad had never been particularly close. He was out working a lot when I was growing up and I spent most of my time with my Mum. After I moved out - and after Mum died - we never really spoke. When we did it would often end in arguing when I asked to borrow money since I lost another job, or I'd spent too much on drink. The funeral really sucked for me. I shook relative's hands who I didn't really know and pretended to look more upset than I was while wondering what I'd do since that prick had left his entire will to the Church.

The service had ended and I was finally able to peel off my sweaty, too small suit jacket from Primark (for you Americans, Primark is somewhere between H&M and theft) and I sat on the church car park's floor. My knees were hugged to my chest as I reflected on everything I had done wrong to end up in the helpless situation I was in.

"You alright boy?" I heard from behind me and I quickly scrambled to my feet on shaky legs, snapping around to see who had stayed behind, it was my Dad's former boss, Mister Hallow.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." I stammered,
I had only met this man on a handful of occasions, and he had always seemed like a kind, gentle man but I don't know, he was really intimidating. He was an older gentleman, maybe early sixties, but towered over me and his full head of hair had barely began greying.

"Look son, I know things are hard, and I know you've struggled with work. I'd like you to take up your father's old position, as one last favour to him. Take as much time as you need before you start-"

"N-no, I can start as soon as you like." I blurted, eager to take the opportunity, before I realised,

"Where would I even be working? My dad never told me where he worked."

"You would be working as a receptionist in my hotel, but are you sure you don't need time to process this? Are you sure you'd be up to it?"

"Nope - I mean yeah, it's fine, just gimme the address and I could start tomorrow - or today, no not today, tomorrow - if that's okay of course. Uh I don't drive though. B-but uh I'll be able to get a taxi or something."

"Wait - you don't drive?" he asked, genuinely baffled,

"Did you walk all the way here?"

"Y-yeah, about an hour" I nearly whispered, sheepishly

"I'll drive you to and from the hotel if you need." Mr Hallow said sympathetically,

"Do you need me to take you home too, lad?"

I nodded, staring at the floor.

Upon arriving at my house after a painfully long, awkwardly silent drive, I asked,
"Can I start work tomorrow?" as I fumbled to unbuckle myself

"If you wish." Hallow replied, "I'll pick you up around seven, then."

"Great." I said, leaving the car before poking my head back in and saying,

"And thank you so much, this is the break I've been needing."

"Don't mention it" and without another word, Mister Hallow drove off.

On the drive to work, Mister Hallow just kept zig‑zagging — left, right, left, right — until we finally reached a massive, plain brick building with no sign. As soon as I entered the premises, Mister Hallow gave me a set of rules I had to follow without exception before vanishing into his office:

• Never leave the front desk unattended
• Never interact with a client unless they first ring the bell
• Never escort a client to their room, simply give them their keys and tell them which of the two elevators to use
• If something comes out of the elevator on my left, inform Mr Hallow immediately

The rules struck me as odd, but not as strange as the clients. Every single customer just seemed to wander the lobby for a while before coming to the desk and always seemed either sad, scared or confused. Odder still, was that the drawer in front of me always had exactly one room key. No matter how many I gave out, when I shut the drawer and opened it again, there was another room key ready to be given out. Even room numbers get sent to my right, odds to the left. Easy.

My first day was great, the pay is good and the work is easy. The elevator on my left seems to be emitting a lot of heat, though. When I turned on the air conditioner it began screaming in agony and begging to be turned off, it also stank of rotten meat when I switched it on. So, I was left to sweat for the whole rest of the day. I'll update you guys soon on the weird happenings here, peace out.

Idk if I should be doing this, I've not been here for very long or done very much, so idk how much of an impact I'll actually have, but u/T0RC0R is actually amazing. Not only are their stories great, my favourite being The Lena Lou series, but they've also helped by proofreading and giving advice on my stories. Please give them all the love attention they deserve on their stories because they deserve a lot.

Cayden C. Christophers: Where yer gauin'

CW: Gore, Self Mutilation

Tending to my brother, Cailean was wrong in a way I can't describe. The bulky man who had trained me in combat and been a warrior for many moons now lay, breathing raggedly beneath me, gravely wounded from battle. As I stood over the man who was seven years my senior and about a head and a half taller than me, I could only think about how frail and weak he appeared. His long, messy ginger hair and beard were splayed over the rock his head rested on, dwarfing his normally already pallid face that was now almost grey due to the blood loss. I knelt down next to his near comatose body to change the bandages on his leg. I wished I could look away as I peeled the moist fabric with shaky hands. It was discoloured with sickly, gangrenous browns, reds and yellows of his blood and sweat. Despite my damndest efforts, the gash on his calf had become infected and was oozing waves of yellow pus from the swollen open wound. His foot was rotted and necrotic because of the tourniquet I had applied just above his knee. He would surely lose a limb, but was still alive for now. I choked down a sob, knowing my brother wouldn't recover from this and terrified of what I would do without him. Even if he lived, he'd never walk again. He'd go mad if he were bound to his bed.

"It's lookin better, lad," I lied, assuring my half sleeping brother.

I used my dagger to carve another patch of fabric from my already shredded tunic, soaked it in the last water from my canteen and dabbed it against the cut as he whimpered weakly in half conscious objection before replacing his bandages.

"I'm going doon tae the coire tae git water fae the loch." I told him.

In response, he weakly reached up to me with a large, shaking hand, grabbed the back of my head and feebly pulled me closer, putting my forehead to his, something we hadn't done since we were lads.

"Thank ye... brother," He said in a barely audible whisper.

I left the small enclave we were sheltered in and began limping down the hill, clutching my stomach, aching from the days I had spent without food. I prayed that Cailean would recover, not just because he's my brother, but because I needed his direction to make it home. The hip-high grass swallowed everything around me and the salmon sunset damn near blinded me, but I knew I was close to the loch as I detected the rancid smell of our injured horse's corpse that I had put down after forcing it to run for hours as we fled the battlefield.

I finally made myself to the edge of the rocky basin, half-crawling the last few paces to the still water's edge. My hands shook as I submerged my canteen in the glassy water. I guzzled it down too fast, icy cold tendrils scratching at my throat and stomach. I spluttered the water back up, returning it to the loch. When my breathing steadied again, I refilled the canteen and stared out into the glassy blue.

When the last colour bled from the sky, leaving the loch a black void and my surroundings becoming deathly silent, I hauled myself to my feet and turned to my right to see another man standing stock still beside me. He snapped around to look at me as soon as I noticed him. He stood my height, but more willowy and his skin sheened blue as if he had crawled from the loch. A mane of pitch black, straight hair ran down his back and he dressed in garments that I had only seen worn by nobles during ceremony. He wore an emerald green tunic embroidered with a golden crest of a serpent and a velvet cape lined with white fur that he wrapped around himself, concealing his lower half.

"Hello, friend," He said with a forced, oily smile as if he hadn't been standing next to me for hours. "Are you lost?"

"Who in the hell are you?" I questioned, instinctually putting my hand to my dagger's holster.

"That's not important. And there won't be any need for that" he ensured, gesturing to the dagger on my waist. As he spoke, my head became light, I couldn't look the man in his aquamarine eyes, as I felt the edges of my vision blurring and fading to black,

"You've gone astray, then?" He continued, looking my filthy, shredded attire up and down.

"Aye." I replied cautiously, "What's it tae ye?"

"I know a way tae git you where yer gauin'."

"And what's that?" I asked, trying to keep the hope from creeping into my voice.

"Ah've got a horse. The maist steadfast and powerful steed on Earth, or otherwise. I'll give it tae ye fur a price."

"Name it."

"A life, yer brother's no makin' it, we baith ken. You've seen n' smelt the wound, ye know fine well he's dead." he said with a smile that nearly touched his ears, "I want you to put him down. Show mercy, he's in pain and he isnae gettin' better."

I looked the man up and down,

"Move yer robe." I demanded.

He chuckled and, with a flourish, fanned out his robe to reveal his legs. A stone fell into the pit of my stomach as he revealed the two brilliant white-haired horse's legs that supported his upper body.

"Each uisge..." I whispered.

"One of my more flattering names..." He said with a mockingly sheepish grin

"Ye can pay the price with yer brother's life or yous will baeth perish."

The man walked straight into the loch, the water not even rippling as he entered it until he fully vanished below the surface, leaving me completely alone in the overwhelming silence.

I shuffled back up the hill, hugging myself to keep my body heat from escaping out into the night as my breath clouded in front of me. I knew what I had to do, what I had to give, but I didn't know if I could.

I made my way into the enclave and knelt by my brother. I brought my canteen down to his lips and poured it gently into his mouth before he swallowed as I pulled it away.

"There ye go, take yer time, Cailean."

"Cheers," he breathed.

He seemed to slightly perk up after a while of us sitting in silence, opening his eyes and mumbling,

"Where'd ye go, lad?"

"I- I just sat by the loch. Save yer energy mate, just lie down."

He put his head back, closing his eyes and my hand slowly moved to hover indecisively over the dagger on my waist.

"Ye'd been gone fur a while, I thought you'd left me."

Whenever Cailean spoke, I had to strain to hear his soft, breathy words.

"N-no Cailean lad, I didnae. I'm sorry."

"Fur what? You came back to me lad. You're takin care o' me as much as ye can. I couldnae ask ye fur anythin more."

I broke down crying, my body being wracked with sobs as I threw myself at my brother, my hand moving from my waist to wrap around him. He shakily lifted his arms to weakly return my embrace and I felt his short, raspy breaths.

"Yer alright lad, we'll be alright. I'll be alright." Every word he spoke sounded like a colossal struggle as he continued,

"We'll soon be haime, you'll git tae see the weans and we'll visit maw and da."

That's when I made my decision; I'd go home, I'd see my children again, I'd be alright but I couldn't bring myself to visit my mum and dad again. My hand moved from his back down to my waist, and my fingers furled around my daggers leather hilt. My breathing accelerated and became shallow to match Cailean's as I pulled it from its holster.

"I love ye, Cailean" I whispered, my voice raspy from crying.

My blade plunged into Cailean's side, just below his floating ribs. He didn't protest, curse or even break our embrace. He just moaned weakly in pain as I felt a horribly warm trickle of liquid drip onto my hand. My hand darted upwards and wrapped back around his torso so that I didn't have to look him in the eyes as I was filled with regret and clarity as to what I had done.

"Cailean, I am so sorry."

He let out a pained groan into my shoulder as his breathing sped up even more to a fever pitch, taking in almost no air with each inhale. I sat wailing with him for what must have been no longer than a quarter of an hour, but felt like an age until his arms went limp around me. I stood up, wiping my tear stained face and looked down on my brother's feeble body, surrounded in a pool of his own blood when I realised that, if I had stabbed him again, or slit his throat I could have put him down quicker. He wouldn't have had to suffer for that long, I recoiled backwards, moving away from my brother without prying my gaze from him, until I looked down. My tattered, off-white tunic was soaking wet and dyed a deep crimson. I quickly tore it over my head and threw it to the ground, now turning away from my blood stained shirt and brother's corpse as I retreated.

When I turned around, I almost fell to the ground in shock when I saw him, same mane of dark hair, same blue skin, same tunic, robe and horses legs, but the serpent on his chest was looking me in the eyes and he was doubled over laughing now. He was fully buckled, tears in his eyes as he gasped for air. I seethed silently, knowing I could do nothing to harm the "man".

"Oh... oh lad," he said, wiping his eyes, "I didnae think you'd let him bleed fur that long. Maybe his life wasn't that much of a price fur ye to pay. I mean bloody hell, that was supposed to be a mercy killing."

I lunged at him with a scream, trying to tackle him to the ground, but instead of striking him, I phased right through his body, coming out the other side soaking wet and tumbled into the grass.

"Come on, son. What did you think would happen?" he continued mocking from behind me.

"Here, why don't you try this?" he said as I heard the soft rustle of something being thrown onto the grass behind me. I turned to see the dagger I had slain my brother with laying at my side, still soaked in his blood. I grabbed it, getting to my feet and raising it high above my head.

"You know it wilnae work, don't try it. Right, you've paid yer price, now claim yer prize."

The air became bone chillingly cold and still; all the sounds of birds chirping and rustling trees ceased. Ah chill crawled up my spine, and I felt a presence looming behind me.

"There's yer steed, lad. She knows exactly how tae git where yer goin'."

I turned around to see a massive white mare, her torso was level with my head, her mane and tail had a greenish tinge to them and appeared thick and greasy. Her eyes were a brilliant sky blue. She bent her knees and lowered her head to allow me to climb onto her back, I grabbed her mane like reins, which was made up of slimy, cold tendrils that left sticky residue on my hands. As she began running, I tightly gripped the long strands to prevent from flying off, and they seemed to grip back, furling tightly around my right wrist.

As she galloped my arm ached as my body bucked up and down and my body was tugged away from my hand with every stride. Baltic winds beat into my face, the sand and dirt kicked up by the mare's hooves forced my eyes shut as the horse sprinted faster and faster. I was forced to ride for what felt like hours, eyes shut and arms in white hot agony until I was struck by an icy cold wall. I felt myself submerged underwater instantly and the gut-punch of a lungfull of water when I tried to breathe, hysteria rushed through my veins as my body realised that I was drowning, my failed breaths came more rapidly. I began spluttering and choking on the water I was surrounded with. My arm was in even more agony is I fruitlessly flailed and thrashed away from the mare that refused to release my wrist from its tendrils. It continued running along the floor of the loch as my chest started feeling like it would explode. In my panic, I used my left hand to grab the dagger from my waist. I chopped and hacked at my own wrist, trying desperately to do anything that would let me escape, my swings were slow and weak as I tried to slash through the water. I screamed silently as the green around me was replaced with metallic red mist. The white hot pain and blood loss caused the edges of my already cloudy vision to become fuzzy and dark. I made some more desperate swings with my dagger, ignoring the pain as I realised my time was running out. I changed from hacking at my wrist, to a sawing motion that caused me to feel agony with every stroke until I finally managed to sever my wrist, I pulled away and tried to swim to the surface.

I desperately thrashed my limbs as a trail of red followed me upwards until I finally reached the surface of the water, feeling more relief than I ever have when the pain in my chest left as I breathed in the cold night air and coughed the water from my lungs. I kept myself afloat as I cradled the mangled stump of my right arm as it oozed blood, sobbing at the loss of my hand while struggling to keep myself above the waters surface. I finally pried my eyes from my arm to see that I was surrounded by water as far as the eye could see, but I wasn't in an ocean. The water was completely still, mirroring the starless black sky, surrounding me in complete, infinite darkness as I floated on the surface for what could've been minutes or days until I felt two hands on the back of my hand and tried to force my head into the water. I resisted and pulled away, turning my body to defend myself from the attacker behind me. It was Cailean. His soaking wet ginger hair clung to his face in tendrils as he looked at me with sheer vengeful betrayal for how I had forsaken his soul. He wrapped his hands around my throat and pulled my face to the water's surface as I flailed around for minutes, waiting for my body consciousness and pain to fade away, but it never did. My chest felt like it would burst for an age and I eventually just gave up, accepting the eternity of pain that my vengeful brother was subjecting me to.

Crushing Day Festivities

To all my brothers, sisters and coworkers, it is my pleasure to announce that The Great Compressor (may she operate forevermore) has informed me that another crushing day shall commence on the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED].

I expect all brothers and sisters to be present for the crushing ceremony and I encourage any non followers to take part in the merriment, as there is no better time to join the Corrugated Disciples than crushing day, and we welcome all.

Obviously, we require a host to undergo the crushing day ceremony. Any volunteers, contact me at [REDACTED]@[REDACTED].com and I shall draw names from a hat to decide the lucky individual that gets to appease the Great Compressor (may she operate forevermore). They will have their fill at the Crushing Day Feast before undergoing the flattening. Happy Crushing Season all of you.

Peace and Love,
Cardinal Bhocks

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

MISSING: DAVID [REDACTED]

LAST KNOWN LOCATION: THE SECOND FLOOR BATHROOMS PERSUING GARY

LAST SEEN WEARING AN EMPLOYEE UNIFORM

REWARD: ONE DAY UNPAID VACATION

HELP BRING DAVE BACK TO WORK

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

James can you PLEASE stop

putting your disgusting

egg salad next to my

tuna salad, and Aidan,

please clean the

microwave after you use it.

.

No I'm busy, you

fucking clean it

-Aidan :)

.

^(Man, my sandwich being next to)

^(yours cannot change how it tastes)

^(that's not how it works, it's not as)

^(if it's rotten.)

^(-James)

.

Screw you both, your salad

is disgusting James and you're

terrible at your job Aidan, I

don't know why you bother

running around after Gary

so much, it's not as if you're

going to catch him.

.

I'm sorry I was so mad

at you all the time Aidan,

I miss you.

I've tried to write in as many horror genres as I can, I did some classic internet horror with an Eyeless Jack rewrite, a war story and something Lovecraftian. I have a couple of stories based on Scottish folklore, as I am Scottish and think we have a couple cool monsters, but after that idk, so I'd love some suggestions for other old creepypasta to rewrite or little nuggets of inspiration for a story in another genre. Thanks guys.

Hey guys, recently got back from my two days of paid vacation I earned by killing Aidan. No, I don’t feel remorse, he attacked me first, and if it hadn’t been me, someone else would’ve got him, and I'd rather I got the break from work. 

 

My time off was fine, I guess. It took me a while to get home and I had to leave early to make the drive back here in time, so most of the time I had off work was spent on the road, but it was good to get out of the warehouse. 

 

When I returned from my sabbatical, I found that only two of my three little wendigoon friends were present. I was taking out the trash and went over to catch up with the little goblins, to only find Beufard and Bartholemew amongst the waste. 

“Where’s Beumont?” I asked them 

“He decided to leave us for another dumpster” Beufard responded 

“He said he smelled something” added Bartholemew in a voice so coarse that sounded like he had been eating broken glass and gargling with gasoline. I realised he hadn’t had anything to drink during my time off. 

“I’ll go get you a couple cans of beer after I find him.” I told him 

 

When I made my way to the next dumpster over, I was hit with the overwhelming stench of rot before I even opened the lid. I slowly eased the dumpster open, terrified of seeing what had happened to the little piece of shit before immediately slamming it shut, half because of the even more disgusting smell hitting me, and half because of what I saw. Beumont wasn’t in there, but there was a tattered, bloodied employee uniform with a badge that said 22961-03-82/>, Aidan’s uniform. Whoever had taken over my duties in my absence thought it appropriate to dispose of his body in a dumpster. Not only that, but Beumont had eaten him, and he gets really freaky when he actually eats people, so I'd need to go find him and sedate him.

 

I returned to my office to retrieve beer for my posh, fishy little friend, while also arming myself with both a handgun and all the spoiled animal products we currently had: chicken feet, frog eyes and cat hearts. I put them all into a plastic baggy, sealed it and put it in my jacket pocket, before setting off to look for Beumont. 

 

Upon gathering everything I needed I went outside and, after quenching Bartholemew’s thirst, as usual, I only walked maybe a hundred feet from the dumpsters before finding the little shit. I could tell it was him because of the chicken beak, the worms coming out of his shoulder and such, but, he was very different now. The best way I can describe it is that someone stretched Beumont’s skin over a human skeleton. He was taller now, maybe six feet but he hunched over as he hobbled along, making him appear shorter than me, and I'm a bit of a short king myself. He kept the hoof of his lamb leg-arm-thing on the gray concrete wall for support as he shambled around, every joint in his humanoid body jutting out unnaturally at odd angles.  

“Hey dipshit!” I yelled at him. 

He slowly and painfully turned his body with disgustingly wet pops and cracks until his nine eyes were looking at me. He tried to prop himself up against the wall with his three rat tails, but they gave out and his body fell towards the wall, and he just leaned against it as he walked. He moved his stiff, now overly long raccoon legs in unnatural, rigid steps, making his way towards me as white, frothy drool poured from his open beak. He shuffled his way slowly towards me, making it to just outside my personal space before I casually raised my handgun quickly and unloaded a round straight down his throat. He collapsed onto his malformed back as brownish red blood splattered out from the back of his head onto the concrete, it's fine, he’s immortal and we've gone through this before.

 

I stood over his unconscious body and poured the disgusting rotting meat concoction from the bag into his open beak. I watched as the slimy variety of body parts slipped down his gullet, causing him to change form as soon as it hit his stomach. He shrank down to his original size as the three rat tails coming out his shoulder became thicker and grew ginger, black and gray fur respectively. His eight spider eyes turned yellow and rectangular pupils formed in them as his raccoon paws lost their fat, muscles and skin as talons took their place, all the while his skin squelched and his bones cracked. Once I was sure he had finished changing, I picked his little fatass body off the ground with a grunt and walked towards the dumpsters, holding him under my arm like a soccer ball. After just a few steps, he woke up and started flailing his pathetic little limbs and wriggling around while screaming profanities, 

“Let me go, you pathetic garbage boy bitch!” 

“You should fear me, I am a wendigo. This is demeaning!” 

“I swear, one day I will fucking end you, Donahue!” 

Which we both knew, wasn't true.

 

When I returned to the dumpster, I tossed him in carelessly, accidentally striking Bartholemew with his body, I apologised as he let out a girly little scream. 

“Wanna bum a smoke, Clark? I've missed our little chats.” Beufard offered in his silky-smooth voice. I lifted him out the dumpster and put a cigarette in his mouth as we sat on the bottom step to the warehouse. I lit him up as he caught me up on what’s been happening around here in my absence and told me stories of his previous life as I could hear the other two little gremlins flailing around and groaning as they squabbled and fought each other in the dumpster. 

Cayden C. Christophers: Look My Corpse in the Eyes

CW: >!Suicide, Gore!<

I have never been fond of my uncle, I’m too young to recall memories of the man who funded my brother’s efforts to raise me when my father died, and my mother first got ill from a broken heart. I can only remember the senile old man whose endless psychotic rambles about his Gods caused and hampers my sleep. He tells me of the comet that spoke to him as it travelled by the earth on some “cosmic evangelization crusade” – and how it chose him as the host to bring their message into this world. He is the type of man that I would usually avoid talking to at all costs, which makes it unfortunate that he is the lighthouse keeper, and I am his apprentice. Stuck alongside him on this island that I can circumnavigate in less than a quarter of an hour, I must listen to his disjointed lunacy to stop myself from going mad from the isolation, he is the only human discourse I get outside of my brother making our fortnightly deliveries of food.

Despite the resentment I harbour for the man, I am appreciative of everything he has given to me, including this position, which is why I still grieved when I left the lighthouse, ready to retire to my cabin for the night, and I saw that he had hung himself from a tree. His body undulated side to side like a grandfather clock’s pendulum in the oceanic gales as the rope creaked, straining to support the weight of his frail body.

I chose to leave his lynched remains in the tree for days, the frequent rain and briny winds eating away at his corpse, until my brother’s fishing vessel voyaged its way to the tiny island, pushing almost horizontal against the turbulent current. When I informed my brother of our uncle's suicide, I held him as he wept into my shoulder before we retrieved his remains. He took him home to the village for a proper funeral, that I would be unable to attend, because I now bore the full weight of the lighthouse.

The isolation was beginning to have an impact on my psyche. I can still hear ghosts of my uncle’s rantings and ravings through the grey, choppy waves pounding against the rocky beaches.

It has been two weeks since my last supplement of food and my brother still hasn’t arrived. I’ve been eating what would’ve been my uncle’s supply, too, so am not going hungry, but it shall soon spoil and I may have to leave the lighthouse unattended to get food from the village if he does not come soon. I’m beginning to become concerned about my brother too, he’s never missed a delivery before.

After just over three weeks, my supply of fresh water fully depleted as my food became spoilt. I decided to get in the lifeboat and make my way back to the village, the water was serenely calm, gentler than I had ever seen in my relatively short time tending to the lighthouse.

I pushed the lifeboat into the calm water, gently lapping towards the shore, waves licking the fine, white sand of the beach. Ripples swelled from the water’s surface, desperately fleeing from the boat as they shrunk into the distance. Once I reached a level of water that reached my ankles, I hauled my body into the lifeboat and started rowing.

As my arms burned and ached from the constant rotary motion, piercing the calm water with my oars while my vessel gently lurched to and fro; I noticed how deathly silent my surroundings were. There was not a single caw of a gull or shout of a fisherman, the only sound was the salty wind rushing past my ears and currents gently slapping against my wooden boat.

I neared the dock and noticed that not a single vessel was out on a voyage, every single boat in the village moored. I got even closer, the saline scent of the oceanic air was replaced by the sickeningly sweet smell of rot and decay, then I neared the dock and was able to see further inland. I witnessed the bodies of everyone I had ever known growing up littering the cobbled streets, their blood flowing from their slit wrists in red rivers through cracks in the ground, meandering until making contact with gore from their friend or neighbour. Pools of crimson formed in the street. Just beyond the village boundaries, bodies limply hung from trees by their necks, with the sheer number of cadavers resembling macabre ornaments, some trees having multiple decorating its branches. Even the flies that had swarmed to feed on the bodies, lay unmoving and seagulls had flown into rocky cliffs and houses, leaving bloody marks. Their corpses gathered in a heap at the bases of those rocky walls and on the foundation of the buildings.

I finally made it to land, and dead sprinted through the viscera, stepping over bodies of friends, fishmongers and teachers, to make it to the house where I was raised, and my sick mother spent most of her days being tended to by my brother. I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the locked door to my home before ramming my shoulder into it repeatedly to break it down to see my family’s fate. BANG. The door didn’t give an inch. BANG. I heard the snapping and groaning of splintering wood. BANG. The door now sagged under the force of being struck by my shoulder. I took a couple of paces backwards before charging one more time, forcing the door to finally relent and allow my entry.

I was again struck by the choking aroma of death and decay, stronger now thanks to not having the ability to escape this enclosed environment, which confirmed the fate of those closest to me as I entered my childhood home.

As I set foot in the room I used to sleep in alongside my brother to finally see what had happened to my sibling. I saw him, slumped against a wall, deep straight gash along his throat. He was surrounded in a pool of scarlet, that had dried and evaporated, leaving the brown ghost of a bloodstain in the wooden floor. I started to weep over the decomposing corpse of my brother, the sheer shock of the gory spectacles I had seen shocked me away from grieving, but now I threw myself over my brother's rancid body, embracing him as my entire body racked with sobs, until I saw the slightly crumpled sheet of paper in his pocket, stained with the brown of old blood and yellow of decomposition. It read, in my brother’s shaky handwriting:

^(It waited till his funeral to show itself)

^(we all saw it and there is no saving us)

^(do not look at any of us)

I steeled myself before I entered my mother’s dwelling, knowing what I would find, but desperately holding onto the microscopic chance that she was still clinging to her life. I pushed her door open and entered. Her room didn’t yet smell of rot as her pale lifeless body laid in her bed, looking calmer than I had ever seen her in life. Her empty bottles of medication were scattered along her bedside table and in her bed. I wondered how much she had consumed at once. I walked slowly towards her until I reached her bedside, and touched her beautiful, icy cold face, she lay completely still, she didn’t breathe or acknowledge my touch in any way, yet somehow, she looked healthier than I had ever seen her. I was strangely comforted by this, to see her finally look at peace. This comfort was ripped from me when my cold, dead mother opened her eyes. These weren’t the beautiful aquamarine-coloured orbs my mother had in life; this was something even more beautiful. I saw the sapphire and violet swirls of the universe where her eyeballs used to be, I witnessed every star above us and beyond the sky. I felt the pure, raw warmth and tenderness that came directly from the spring that first birthed love. I understood my purpose. After the greatest gift my mother had ever given me was fully delivered into my conscience, a beautiful sparkling silver mist exuded from my mother’s eyes, nose, ears and every pore it could release itself from, before levitating into the heavens and beyond. I hoped that my new soul would appear that divine as it ventured off into the cosmos to facilitate the birth of stars.

I stand at the precipice of this sea cliff, ready to fulfil my glorious obligation as a host, I think about how selfish my brother had been to resist, to attempt to “warn” me of this, to stop me from learning my purpose; humanity’s purpose. Everyone in the village has already been inaugurated, so I shall fling myself into the depths to put an end to this impure vessel, in the hopes that parts of my blue tinted water-bloated corpse will have eyes laid upon it by others in exotic lands, so that I may be the impetus that begins the spread of humanity’s birthright to every corner of this insignificant planet.

If you ever see a man’s body washed ashore when you visit the beach, look him in the eyes. Perhaps you will be blessed with the opportunity to be gifted an ameliorated soul.

Cayden C. Christophers: Vom Krieg zur Hölle Verdammt

 

CW: War, Injury, Suicide

 

I was a good kid. Never even got in a fight, I loved sports, I believed in God and I thanked him for every meal I ate. I loved my family, and they loved me, took good care of me, they were the ones that told me to go off and fight for the Vaterland. I was more than eager to become something greater than I am, to be a war hero, make them proud, make my whole country proud. 

 

 When I was deployed, I was still eager, ready to fight for my country and to claim all the glory that came with winning the war. I was still eager when the boots I was supplied with were second hand and caked with dry mud — along with the metal spiked helmet I was given — it was somehow dirty too. I was still somewhat optimistic when I was served a crusty small lump that resembled a rock more than it did bread for my only meal of the day. I wasn’t even that put down when the other, more experienced soldiers mocked and ridiculed me for muttering grace to myself before eating. 

 

The day I lost my eagerness, my excitement — that bravado I had around going to war —was the first time I watched a man die. It was the first time I killed a man. 

 

I had been sent, along with another soldier to lay barbed wire along No Man’s Land in the dead of night. As I rammed stakes into the ground, rain beating down on me violently, trying to ignore the constant ringing, crossing the wood over and tying them together with the pointed strands, holding back tears from the stinging pain in my hands. I hadn’t even been supplied with gloves. I crouched close to the ground, working my way to another point I had to connect with barbed wire, my boots sinking inches into the swampy ground, when I heard my name, faintly, over the ringing. The other soldier I was working with was yelling me over. 

 

When I made my way to him, he was crouched over a ditch with his rifle trained into it. As I got closer, I noticed the Frenchman, lying wounded in a ditch, a huge volume of blood flowing out of his hip, running down his leg a vibrant red, before mixing with the swampy mud on the ground and turning brown. The state of the wound implied he had been lying there for hours. His breaths were short and ragged, often interrupted by his tortured moans of pain. I was instructed to point my rifle at the man, as my fellow soldier pulled his flask from his waist and put it to the Frenchman’s lips. Once his thirst was quenched, the Frenchman gently pushed the flask away before returning his hands to his sides. Silence came over us as we stared at each other, not doing anything for what felt like hours. Suddenly, the Frenchman dove at my comrade with the last energy his dying body contained and jammed a trench knife into the side of my comrade's neck. He collapsed to the mud with a plop, gargling and sputtering - choking on his own blood. I quickly pulled the trigger on my rifle, hitting the Frenchman in the right side of his abdomen, he let out a shrill, pained cry as he fell backwards into the mud. He started crying in agony, clutching the wound with both of his hands as I levelled my rifle to his head, ready to put the man down.

I stood over the dying man for a painfully long time until I pointed the gun back to the floor and started sobbing. I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why but I couldn’t do it. The man would die anyway, but I couldn’t bring myself to deliver the coup de grâce. 

 

I backed off and scrambled back to the trenches, sprinting as my feet skidded around and away from me on the slick mud. 

 

When I got back to the trench, I was sobbing, huddled up in a ball beneath the parapet, leaning against the squelchy wall of dirt behind me. Nobody comforted me, hell, I don’t think anyone noticed me sitting there as I rambled broken, disjointed prayers of apology and repentance.  

 

I haven’t been myself since that day, I don’t know how many people I’ve killed now. Could be dozens or it could be hundreds, honestly, I don’t care. If God was real, he wouldn’t have let this happen and even if he is, I already spend my days walking through hell. 

 

I spent months on the frontlines, ending other men's lives, watching my comrades die one by one, my fellow soldiers switching out quicker than I changed uniforms. I eventually started noticing that I couldn’t feel my feet, my toes were black and dead, but it took weeks for me to notice as I rarely took my boots off. One day it got too much for me. I just wanted to go home. To go back to how I was before, even if things couldn't truly return to normality - because I couldn't go back to normality. I walked away from all of the other soldiers and shot myself in the shin, collapsing to the floor with a wail. 

 

When I returned home, my parents did not have their son back, that place wasn't my home anymore, I no longer belonged. I had no desire to go to church anymore; I could barely walk so I was unable play any sports, I avoided people and conversation, because no matter what we started off talking about, my time on the frontlines was brought back up. The food was somehow worse back home; I had maybe two meals a on a good day, despite the fact that the “best” was saved for me. It took six months for me to recover, and as soon as I did, I chose to go back. 

 

When I returned to the trenches, it was the dead of night, and I was again sent to No Man’s Land to relay the barbed wire, alone. Out of all the things that I had to do on the front lines the worst possible responsibility was darting around in the boggy mud, desperately trying to plant stakes into the ground with some level of stability, while my hands got tangled in the spiked tendrils, causing huge gashes in my palms, that had mud leach into them almost right away. I’d much rather shoot at the enemy from the pestilent, rat-filled trenches and lose my toes to trench foot or fire off the deafening mortars that assault your ears till they bleed than do what I was doing now. 

 

I stared into the middle distance, thinking about nothing at all — everything that mattered to me — until a white-hot pain darted through my right breast. I tumbled down a hill into a hollow into the dirt. I put my hand to my chest, pulling it away, now wet and slippery with my blood. I looked down to the wound, the green fabric turning a deep – almost black – crimson. My breathing became short and sharp, as a wetness began to make its way into my groans of pain. I was going to die. As I lay there in absolute agony I realised something. I was going to die. 

 

With hands trembling from both fear and fatigue, I reached over my shoulder and wrapped my fingers around the wooden stock of my rifle and slowly lifted it out of the holster with my shaky arms, hauling it over my head. Once I had it firmly in my grasp, I struggled to put the end of the long barrel to the roof of my mouth, the cold, dirty steel probably tasting like the mixture of sludge and blood around me, metallic and earthy. My hands trembled more violently now as I put my finger to the trigger, slightly squeezing before releasing my grip from the trigger, pulling it from my mouth and tossing the rifle as far as I could as I let out a wail. 

“Zur Hölle mit dir!” I screamed, furious at myself, I knew I would die, I didn’t particularly care that I would die, but I could not bring myself to put an end to my suffering, to deliver the coup de grâce. My bawling quickly turned to wet sputtering as I fell onto my side. I lay, partially buried in the swampy ground, my uniform flooding with rain, mud and blood. I lay in my final moments, shivering from the bitter, biting, baltic cold and moaning in agony, unable to muster up the energy to move my body into a slightly more comfortable position. My breaths got more and more difficult to draw in, I was unable to fully expand my chest, as it felt like the whole world was crushing down on my ribs. I started panicking. I breathed rapidly, my lungs attempting to make up for the lacking volume of air I got from each breath. I thought I didn’t care about dying, but here I was; moments away from death, and I cared: my body was seized with a sheer primal, animalistic terror in the final moments I had on earth as I whimpered like a dog before my soul left my body. 

 

My soul has been forsaken, I am now cursed to forever kneel to the muddy ground, barbed wire entangled around my hands, constantly tearing at my skin, tearing it down to muscles and tendons, but I don’t go into shock, I feel the burning hot pain constantly. Mortar fire comes almost constantly, feeling impossibly close to my ears, I lost my ability to hear centuries ago, but recently, my equilibrium has been destroyed too. I barely know up from down as I travel this infinite No Man's Land. I am constantly bombarded by gas attacks, tearing and clawing at my lungs, causing them to swell and bubble and almost blinding me. It caused my skin to burn, boil and blister at all times, patches of my flesh sloughing off of me as I moved. I am always under fire from nowhere and everywhere at once, nobody shoots a gun, but I am struck by bullets and shrapnel constantly. I have lost dozens of litres of blood a day for eons, the mud and rainwater have probably seeped into my thousands of deathly wounds, causing me to be filled with more dirt than blood. I am in constant agony, and I will be in this pitiful, forsaken state for all eternity. 

I have been damned to Hell by war. Vom Krieg zur Hölle verdammt. 

Cayden C. Christophers: Eyeless Jack Rewrite

CW: Domestic violence, Child neglect

I sat on my bed with my knees hugged to my chest, tears streaming down my face. Mom and Dad were fighting again. They always did — but it was really bad today. Mom was actually arguing back for once. Usually, I could cover my ears and block most of it out, but they were shouting so loud that it didn’t matter this time. So I just sat there, staring at my wall, trying to shut out the screaming coming from downstairs.

My sobs became more frequent, racking my whole body as my intoxicated father muttered, slurring his words.

“Bitch, will you get the fuck off my—”

“You can’t keep doing this,” my mom snapped. “You’re a father. You can’t keep coming home high every single fucking day of our lives!”

“So what if I’m high?” he slurred, louder now.

“What have you done, eh? I’m a much better parent than you. I work. I’ve done more for that little shit than you ever have. I work. I put food on the damn table. What have you ever done?!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

“And don’t act as if you aren’t constantly drinking when I— WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” he roared, cutting himself off as the sound of shattered glass — glass I would have to clean up when they went to bed — echoed through the house.

“You almost took my head off, you crazy bitch!”

My sobs were uncontrollable now. My entire body shook, and I hiccupped for air. I grabbed my pillow and wrapped it around my head, then buried my face in the mattress — anything to stop the screams from entering my ears. They shouted for what felt like hours. I grew physically exhausted from crying. My eyes burned. My throat burned. My mattress was drenched as I lay there, practically in a puddle of tears.

I must have found a way to doze off, because when I lifted my head the screaming had stopped, and my room was no longer lit by the sun outside. I stood up and ran my hand along the wall to avoid bumping into anything as I made my way to my closet. My fingers brushed against something cold and wet. A sharp pain shot through them before numbness flowed through my fingers, as if all their blood had been cut off at once. I opened and closed my hands, trying to get some sensation back, but still I couldn’t feel my fingertips.

I wondered if it was some kind of alcohol, but I’d gotten liquor all over my hands many times while cleaning up after my parents’ fights, and my skin had never reacted like this. I wiped my fingers on my shirt and continued toward the closet to grab the brush and dustpan.

I opened my bedroom door and was hit by the musty odour that filled the rest of the house. I crept downstairs to sweep up the broken glass in the kitchen, relieved at how quiet everything was now that my parents were asleep — though I was terrified of waking either of them. I passed the living room, where my dad was passed out, still keeping the lights switched off so I wouldn’t disturb him. In the kitchen, I closed the door to keep the light from escaping and flipped the switch.

Once my eyes adjusted to the blinding brightness, I noticed the liquid I’d wiped on my shirt was pitch black.

Mom had thrown an empty glass, so there was nothing to mop up. I knelt down and swept up the shards onto the dustpan. Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed into my knee — I’d missed a tiny pointed piece of glass, and it had embedded itself into my knee. I dumped the rest of the glass into the trash and made my way upstairs to try to get the shard out.

I sat on my bed and brought my knees to my chest. I was sure there wasn’t any disinfectant in that damn house, so removing the glass was the best I could do. I fumbled with my fingers until I finally got them around the shard and pulled. Burning pain shot through my knee, and my hand flinched away before I could fully remove it.

I buried my head in my hands and began crying again, my already raw throat making me wheeze as I sobbed. I cried until I had no tears left, then lay on my back and closed my damp eyes.

At some point I fell asleep — probably not for long — but I was awakened by warm, wet, rancid breath that smelled like absolute death. I opened my eyes and recoiled from the terrible scent. My tear-filled vision was foggy, and at first all I saw was a humanoid silhouette standing over me, somehow darker than the pitch‑black room around it. I blinked my tears away until the intruder came into focus — the intruder who would go on to become my best friend.

A completely black figure with an unsaturated, almost gray, blue face and dark, abyssal pits for eyes towered over the side of my bed, looking down at me, watching me sleep. My mouth opened in a silent scream, and the deathly, rotting odour coming from the mouthless wraith that I thought was breath stung the back of my throat and choked me. No sound came out.

I pushed my body backwards into the mattress as if I could phase through it. Tears streamed silently across my face, no sobs left to accompany them now. My breath shook — not from crying now, but fear. The figure did nothing, didn’t move, didn’t sway or react in any way. It just overlooked my petrified body, examining me.

Then it started crying too.

It forced thick, viscous black liquid from its empty eye sockets, oozing slowly down its face before dripping off in heavy, treacle‑like drops. It tilted its head slightly, almost unnoticeably, letting one of the drops fall onto my knee, causing it to tingle, before going completely numb.

The creature darted away quickly upon numbing my wound the, backing up and dropping its overly long arms to the floor, getting onto all fours, all the while keeping its dark voids on me. Once far enough away, it craned its disgustingly long neck like a confused dog, staring at me expectantly.

I cautiously propped myself up on my forearms, then sat up fully, reaching for my knee and pulling the shard of glass out — painlessly. Once I did, the creature slowly backed away, still staring, into my open closet.

I lay back down on my bed and stared at the closet door, unmoving, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, hugging myself. I laid like that until I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I instantly bolted upright and inspected my knee. There wasn't an open wound — just a small, round, reddish‑pink scar. It had healed completely overnight. I frowned and walked cautiously to my closet. I opened the door fully and examined every inch of the tiny room, but there was nothing there except my clothes strewn across the floor and the cleaning supplies we kept in the house.

I sat on my bed and buried my head in my hands. I spent so much time in my room with nothing to do except sleep that dreams and reality had begun to melt together. I could have dismissed the whole thing as a dream — if not for that damn scar.

I was still trying to convince myself that none of it had happened when a deafening thud shook the house.

Mom.

I sprinted downstairs and found her lying unconscious, face‑down on the kitchen floor next to a glass bottle.

“Dad!” I screamed. “Dad!” He was at work.

“No, no, no, no…” I muttered shakily as I ran to her side. I rolled her onto her back and pressed my index and middle fingers to her neck. Pulse — fine. I lowered my head to check her breathing. Chest rising — fine. I scanned her body for injuries. A large purple bruise on her bicep. Could be worse.

“Thank God,” I mumbled.

I struggled to lift her, her body limp and heavy, complete dead weight. Supporting her neck, I hooked my arms under hers and dragged her through the house until I reached the living room. I laid her gently beside the sofa, then tried to haul her up onto it. After several failed attempts, I finally managed to get her onto the cushions. I rolled her onto her side, tipped her head back, and shoved pillows beneath her to keep her neck supported.

Once I was sure she wouldn’t fall or injure herself further, I threw my head back and let out a long, exhausted sigh. I considered calling an ambulance, but this had happened before and Mom had always been fine. Besides, I didn’t want to see Dad’s reaction to having to pay for one.

I sat on the floor, again hugging my knees to my chest — not crying, just physically and mentally spent, feeling completely defeated. I stared into nothing until I felt it: long, spindly fingers running through my hair. As soon as I felt the touch, I recoiled and scrambled away faster than I’d ever moved, until my back hit the wall. I turned to face whatever had touched me — and saw it again.

It somehow looked even more uncanny in the light: a dark, human‑shaped black hole standing bolt upright, completely unmoving, in the middle of the room. It stared into my soul without actually being able to look at anything. I opened my mouth to scream, and this time the sound escaped. I let out a wail more shrill and high‑pitched than I thought possible.

The figure recoiled at the noise before dropping to all fours again, crawling toward my mom like a dog trapped in that humanoid body while she still lay passed out on the couch.

My screams turned to whimpers as the figure hauled itself upright beside her. It tilted its head, examining her unconscious face, then squeezed another tear from its eye socket — like pus from a pimple — until a single syrupy drop fell onto her arm. I stared in awed silence as the purple bruise slowly shrank, fading completely in the span of thirty seconds.

I tore my gaze from my mom and looked back at the figure as it slowly, cautiously crawled toward me. It watched me as if expecting me to lash out, ready to defend itself. When it finally reached me, its face hovered inches from mine, the smell of rot and death burning my nose and throat. Then it wrapped its arms around me and pulled me into a hug. Its body was so, so bitterly cold.

I sobbed — terrified, trapped, I was completely unable to escape — but it didn’t hurt me. When I realised I wasn’t going to be harmed, I cried even harder, because I couldn’t remember the last time I had been hugged. I buried my face into its cold, revolting shoulder and let it comfort me.

I’ve called the figure Jack, and he is the best friend I have ever had. He listens. He tends to my wounds and holds me when things are too hard. When I talk to him, he listens intently. When we sit together, he likes to run his arachnoid, icy fingers through my hair. It should have been uncomfortable, but I’ve grown to find comfort in it.

I was sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, leaning against my bed while Jack sat above me, running his cold, spindly fingers through my hair. They had fought again. I didn’t cry as much now that Jack was here.

I let out a yelp and recoiled as his gentle combing became a sudden tug. I turned to face him, feeling scared of Jack for the first time in weeks — the first time he had ever caused me pain. Guilt hit me instantly when he recoiled too, tilting his head before looking down at his gangling hands, shrinking into himself.

“Jack, it’s okay. You just pulled a bit too hard. I got a fright,” I said, trying to comfort the massive, unnatural silhouette curled on my bed.

I climbed up beside him and knelt. He reached out and resumed running his fingers through my hair, then touched his own head. He pulled my hair again — gentler this time.

“You want my hair?” I asked, confused.

He tugged again.

This thing had been the only friend I’d ever had, and he’d never taken anything from me. So I didn’t hesitate to try to pay him back.

“You can have it,” I said to him, confidently.

I wanted to show him how grateful I was for his friendship, his help. I got off the bed and let Jack slowly excrete his tacky tears onto the top of my head. The first drop made my scalp tingle. The second numbed it. The third made my entire crown go completely unfeeling.

“I’m numb now,” I told him, I wanted to do anything I could to show my appreciation to Jack, so I got off the bed.

Then the tugging began. I felt no pain, but I did feel the slow, steady pulling — my skin stretching away from my skull until it felt like it would give and tear — before a clump of hair would finally rip free. Sometimes his grip slipped, and half‑torn strands settled back into place, forcing him to tug again until they reached their breaking point again. He did this for half an hour till there was nothing more for him to take.

When he finally stopped, I turned to look at him. He held clumps of my hair in both bony hands, then placed them on his own head. They slid off immediately, scattering across the bed. He darted after them, desperately slapping them against his scalp, trying to force them to stay. When they didn’t, he began clawing at his own face in frustration, black liquid spilling from the two pits to hell on his face.

I reached out and touched his freezing arm.

“Hey, Jack, it’s okay. It’s okay,” I whispered, looking into the darkness of his sockets — and for once, he looked back. Not into my soul. At me, he looked me in the eyes.

He cupped the side of my face, filling me with that bitter cold that I found so comforting. After a while, he had fully calmed and he slipped off the bed to get on all fours and crawl back into my closet.

Before I lay down to sleep, I felt a wet trickle down my forehead. I wiped my brow and saw the blood smeared on my fingers. When I laid down, I touched the top of my head, it felt spiky and uneven. Only then did I process what I had offered Jack. I’d been so eager to repay him that I hadn’t thought at all before letting him pluck each and every hair from my scalp.

Now that I understood, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in weeks.

I was woke by that familiar smell of rotting meat — somehow even stronger than before. It choked me, coating the back of my throat without me even having opening my mouth. I realised I had absolutely no feeling in my face. When I touched it, my fingers got wet before feeling as if their circulation had been completely cut off. I went to rub the sleep from my closed eyes — and realised they were already open.

My fingers met no resistance. They passed into the empty sockets where my eyes should have been.

Sheer, animal terror overtook me. Every breath hitched and caught in my throat as I clawed at my numb face, until my hands went fully numb too. I was blind. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I was helpless.

I had no eyes.

Jack had taken them.

Through my rapid, panicked breaths, I screamed for anyone to come and help me.

“MOM! DAD!” I shrieked, praying for any comfort to stop me from feeling so alone.

“JACK!” I wailed, desperate, not caring that he had hurt me — I just needed someone.

But nobody came.

Nobody was there to help me.

First time posting here, or anywhere with this account, I've made this account strictly to post stuff here. I've been watching Creepcast since its inception and wanted to write for a while, even before that. The launching of this sub has given me reason to, when it was announced I had exams coming up, so it wasn't an ideal time to begin writing. Now that I'm here though, I just want to know if there's anything I should know about the community or how I should format my stories. I also would really like to take part in some group writing projects, so advice on finding some of those would be greatly appreciated. My first story should hopefully be posted soon, thanks again

-Cayden C. Christophers