u/DarkStorm-7567

My name is Albert Nadir, and what I'm about to tell you is the reason I haven't slept in three days. For some background, I am a big believer in the supernatural and the occult. I often go to abandoned buildings to see if I can contact any form of spiritual entity, and I have also attended four seances, and I have used a Ouija board on many occasions. I have never succeeded until three days ago.

My success in using the board came when I went to an abandoned house just outside Baltimore.

The house is well known for it's history of sudden and unexplained acts of violence committed within, as well as a more recent history of supposed satanic blood rituals.

The property was built in the mid eighteen hundred's by a man named Robert Levi Quillon, an eccentric secessionist who claimed a voice in his sleep told him where to build the property. Robert died of a violent seizure soon after the properties construction.

After his death the property changed hands up until nineteen seventy three, and officially became abandoned the following year. Not long after that, the rumors and stories of witchcraft and satanic rituals started and has since been regarded as fact by all those that live near the area; as well as several reports to local law enforcement about this supposed activity.

I excitedly made the arrangements to visit the home.

The word disheveled does not do justice to the state of this house. Grey and rotting with bountiful evidence of nature's reclamation and covered in scattered pieces of graffiti, the property swayed and groaned in greeting. As I entered, a cold chill ran down my spine as if I was hit by wind from a sudden cold front, but there wasn't even a breeze. Now, cold and uncomfortable, I set up my Ouija board in the houses foyer; just before the set of wooden stairs. Planchet in hand I began the usual questions; are there any spirit's with me right now, can any spirit in this house tell me their name, etc. And for a while nothing happened. But right as I was about to call it a day, I felt the planchet begin to move in my hands as it spelt the following.

S.

E.

E.

Y.

O.

U.

T.

O.

N.

I.

G.

H.

T.

Taken aback by this, I quickly packed up the board, but then noticed something that I somehow overlooked in my set up. On the floor, directly where I had placed the board, was the small pyrographed etching of a pentagram.

When I reached my hotel, the dark and cold feelings of the property didn't fade; a new and unwelcome experience.

I can't remember when I fell asleep that night. All I can remember is the dream.

It began, as typical of all my dreams, as a blurry vision of various unknown things and a general feeling of comfort. But this was soon replaced by a vision of the house, so real, that I felt as if I could reach and and grab it if I had any control. But I didn't have control. I was being forced to enter the house, by a will that was not my own. As I slowly crossed the threshold of the door, entering the foyer, I suddenly began to hear the voices of people; shouting warnings and trying to get my attention away from the house.

As I tried to regain control and move towards the people shouting, I heard a voice call to me from the depths of the house. A chillingly soft hiss of a voice; which said "turn around Albert.". With no control, my body snapped forward, and then I saw it. The source of the voice. It was at the foot of the stairs, and had the legs of a goat and the torso of a man, and the head of a black wolf. It also had four horns on it's head, two protruding off the top, and two curving down from it's temples. It was smiling ear to ear.

Before I had a chance to react, it's head warped and changed into mine.

My dream then transformed into another, where this demon with my face, was now standing at the foot of my bed. It then slowly turned and exited my room, repeating "we'll meet again soon.".

I woke up to my door being open.

My story has been silenced by the U.S government for fifty-two years, but I have now been allotted the privilege of sharing it, provided that I change the names of the people involved, as well as not disclosing any form of government information; such as base names, military rank, etc.

In light of these conditions, for the duration of my story, you may call me John.

When I reached the age of eighteen, I was drafted into the Vietnam War and I served up until I lost my leg to a Vietcong cartridge trap. For those unaware, a cartridge trap was a type of trap that used a rifle round placed in a hollow piece of bamboo with either a sharp nail or anything that could be used to act as a firing pin. These types of traps were placed under small leaves and were designed to discharge once a soldier stepped on them. A soldier like me. The round pierced through the arch of my foot and through my entire leg and hip. Luckily the bullet fired into me at an awkward enough angle to where the shot wasn't lethal, but the bullet still mangled my leg to the point of where there was no choice but amputation.

For most people, this is where the story turns. Where it shifts to the state of things back home and to the treatment of the men who served, and who returned as a shell of who they once were.

This isn't that kind of story.

Due to the earlier stated conditions, I must now state that I am not allowed to tell you which evacuation hospital I was recovering in, but I am allowed to at least tell you that I was in one. During my recovery, I was in a bed situated next to someone; who will be referred to as David, and David was in a similar position to me but for him it was different trap and it took his opposite leg.

Now, at this point in the story I must confess that I do not believe in anything supernatural, but the events that I am about to tell you; which happened on the night before my discharge from the hospital, have no natural explanation.

I awoke at approximately oh three hundred on April 30 1974, to the sound of what I thought was the chirping of crickets. I would have gone back to sleep if not for the fact that I distinctly noticed that David wasn't making any noise. David slept with his mouth open, and his snoring at this point began to act as a form of "white noise" for me as I slept. So to not hear him drew my attention.

When I turned I saw something that has forever changed me.

At the foot of David's bed was a large humanoid figure, that was so dark it became visible in the unlit field hospital. It's body, if I can even call it that, was made from some sort of amorphous substance; which seemed to bend and flow like a living lava lamp. It had tentacle like appendages which seemed to grow and shrink at will; at the moment I turned it had, what you might call it's hand, wrapped around David's mouth and head silencing him. It was making the chirping sound.

I let out a small gasp; which turned the creatures attention towards me, and although it had no visible eyes; I knew it was staring at me. Quiet and cold, it stared at me for what felt like an eternity, and then it moved forward. In a quarter of a second, it moved from where it was to directly on top of me; and began to more closely scan my body up and down. Up and down, it's head morphing and sloshing, probing me with it's tendril's like butcher checking a cut of meat. This process continued for about five minute until it had checked out my entire figure, then it did the same to David. When it finished with him, it let out; what I can only describe as a hissing sound like that of a cobra, and turned back to me.

Then it opened it's mouth.

An impossibly deep cavern of a mouth; which seemed to extend in perpetuity and was filled with every form of tooth imaginable. It opened it's jaw until it hit the floor with a light *thud* upon the wooden floor, and in one swift motion; ate David whole. There was no sound. No blood. Just swift and painful death.

After it closed it's maw, it turned and spoke to me only a single phrase.

"Not time yet, but soon."

The next morning I was found in the corner of the hospital room, and I had a new leg.

I don't know how long it will be before it comes for me. How long is soon for a being of that nature. And did it only eat his body? Or did it eat his very soul along with it?

My story has been silenced by the U.S government for fifty-two years, but I have now been allotted the privilege of sharing it, provided that I change the names of the people involved, as well as not disclosing any form of government information; such as base names, military rank, etc.

In light of these conditions, for the duration of my story, you may call me John.

When I reached the age of eighteen, I was drafted into the Vietnam War and I served up until I lost my leg to a Vietcong cartridge trap. For those unaware, a cartridge trap was a type of trap that used a rifle round placed in a hollow piece of bamboo with either a sharp nail or anything that could be used to act as a firing pin. These types of traps were placed under small leaves and were designed to discharge once a soldier stepped on them. A soldier like me. The round pierced through the arch of my foot and through my entire leg and hip. Luckily the bullet fired into me at an awkward enough angle to where the shot wasn't lethal, but the bullet still mangled my leg to the point of where there was no choice but amputation.

For most people, this is where the story turns. Where it shifts to the state of things back home and to the treatment of the men who served, and who returned as a shell of who they once were.

This isn't that kind of story.

Due to the earlier stated conditions, I must now state that I am not allowed to tell you which evacuation hospital I was recovering in, but I am allowed to at least tell you that I was in one. During my recovery, I was in a bed situated next to someone; who will be referred to as David, and David was in a similar position to me but for him it was different trap and it took his opposite leg.

Now, at this point in the story I must confess that I do not believe in anything supernatural, but the events that I am about to tell you; which happened on the night before my discharge from the hospital, have no natural explanation.

I awoke at approximately oh three hundred on April 30 1974, to the sound of what I thought was the chirping of crickets. I would have gone back to sleep if not for the fact that I distinctly noticed that David wasn't making any noise. David slept with his mouth open, and his snoring at this point began to act as a form of "white noise" for me as I slept. So to not hear him drew my attention.

When I turned I saw something that has forever changed me.

At the foot of David's bed was a large humanoid figure, that was so dark it became visible in the unlit field hospital. It's body, if I can even call it that, was made from some sort of amorphous substance; which seemed to bend and flow like a living lava lamp. It had tentacle like appendages which seemed to grow and shrink at will; at the moment I turned it had, what you might call it's hand, wrapped around David's mouth and head silencing him. It was making the chirping sound.

I let out a small gasp; which turned the creatures attention towards me, and although it had no visible eyes; I knew it was staring at me. Quiet and cold, it stared at me for what felt like an eternity, and then it moved forward. In a quarter of a second, it moved from where it was to directly on top of me; and began to more closely scan my body up and down. Up and down, it's head morphing and sloshing, probing me with it's tendril's like butcher checking a cut of meat. This process continued for about five minute until it had checked out my entire figure, then it did the same to David. When it finished with him, it let out; what I can only describe as a hissing sound like that of a cobra, and turned back to me.

Then it opened it's mouth.

An impossibly deep cavern of a mouth; which seemed to extend in perpetuity and was filled with every form of tooth imaginable. It opened it's jaw until it hit the floor with a light *thud* upon the wooden floor, and in one swift motion; ate David whole. There was no sound. No blood. Just swift and painful death.

After it closed it's maw, it turned and spoke to me only a single phrase.

"Not time yet, but soon."

The next morning I was found in the corner of the hospital room, and I had a new leg.

I don't know how long it will be before it comes for me. How long is soon for a being of that nature. And did it only eat his body? Or did it eat his very soul along with it?

My name is Logan and my story takes place in the dying days of summer. My friend Ralph and I lived in the suburbs of Upstate New York, and we had taken to the idea that we were a couple of gangsters because we had recently seen the film Goodfellas and we thought that Henry Hill was the kind of guy we wanted to be. It was a different time back then, unlike the age of surveillance we've all become accustom to, there weren't any security cameras in our local convenience store and nobody really cared if two kids came in and stole a candy bar or a soda. On that particular afternoon in August we had managed to snag a couple of sodas; I grabbed a Jolt and Ralph grabbed a RC, and after we managed to sneak back to our neighborhood we decided that we were going to wait for the ice cream truck that used to frequent the area.

Nobody I've met from our area ever knew the names of the men who ran the truck but they would always come to our neighborhood on those particularly hot days of summer, the day's where you could cook an egg on the sidewalk or a hot pocket on your dash. Unlike most ice cream trucks their particular one didn't play the classic tune everyone thinks about when they think "ice cream truck". No, their tuck emitted classical music. My father at once recognized it to be Stravinsky's Rite of Spring; Adoration of the Earth, in particular it was the introduction of the piece with it's eerie bassoon; which they kept on a loop. My father was the maestro for our local orchestra and found their use of the piece to be highly amusing, chuckling to himself whenever they passed by. Little did I know that that piece would come to haunt me for the rest of my life.

Usually the truck would come around two pm on weekday's and around four on weekends, and so it came as no surprise to us that the truck hadn't arrived when we finally got back to our neighborhood at around two thirty on that Saturday afternoon. In our boredom we decided to pass the time by playing hide and seek, and because Ralph used to hate making choices; we decided to flip a coin to see who would hide. I won the toss.

I have always been very good at hiding. I was 4'11 at the time and very skinny and years of bullying had trained me to be able to hide well enough to the point where it took the fire department to come and find me once after school. So once Ralph had turned around and began to count, I had no trouble in finding a place to hide amongst the various shrubs and tree's of our neighborhood. After Ralph finished counting and I was nestled in my spot, to my confusion I heard the familiar sound of the bassoon heading our way. To this day I don't know why I felt an overwhelming sense of dread emanating from the truck, maybe it was the fact that they were early, or perhaps it was because I felt so vulnerable in that state, or perhaps I could feel what was to come, but all the same I stayed hidden and every day I am haunted by what happened while I did.

When the colorful truck turned the corner onto our street, Ralph was already waiting, thinking he had hit the jackpot and was going to gloat to me about how he got his ice cream first. The truck slowed down to meet him, and lingered there for a minute; the longest minute of my life. All of a sudden the driver, and the two men in the truck burst from the truck. The driver, a man who looked to be in his late forties, hit Ralph over the head with a tire iron and the other two men, who looked to be of similar age, grabbed him and tied him to a tree. As I held my breath, clasping my mouth in terror, I witnessed them pry open his mouth as he kicked and screamed and drive a railway spike through his mouth with a hammer; pinning him to the tree. Once Ralph was pinned and gurgling blood, each of them took out a knife and stabbed him over and over until he stopped moving. They then drove off; the haunting music lingering off the truck as they drove away. I was only five feet away from them, there was nothing I could do.

What haunted me more than the brutality of their actions, the thing that still sticks with me, was how casually they did them. It's one thing to see something like that in a movie, but to see such cold evil and indifference in the faces of those three men, it still makes me nauseous. I gave my best description of them to the police, but they never found them and called off the search only after two weeks of search. Everyday after that, all I could ever think about was how I could have lost that coin toss.