Groupmind

My name is not Xin, but that is what you can call me. Everything I am about to tell you is completely true.

I believe I was born in the early 90′s. “Believe” is the right word in this scenario because my otherwise superb memory (in fact, it was once flawless) only begins in 1997. Judging by the status of my body’s growth and the growth of the children around me in those fledgling memories, I am quite confident that we were all between the ages of 5 and 7.

How they managed to erase our earlier memories I do not know, although I suspect they used the same method they used to control every other aspect of our lives: drugs. They gave us pills to put us asleep and gassed us awake. Our food was coated with chemicals that would regulate our appetite to keep our weight ideal. None of these “treatments” had negative side effects; they performed their duty with surgical precision. None of the treatments, that is, with one exception.

Most of our medications were geared toward keeping us in perfect physical condition to survive the main treatment we had all been brought there to receive. The other drug was designed to maximize the mind’s potential. It achieved that goal, in that we were all geniuses with IQ levels well above any publicly released. Yet, as I mentioned before, there were side effects.

During the first 16 years of my conscious life, I was telepathically connected to 23 other children – 12 females and 11 males. We shared every thought, every impulse. Often I saw through another’s eyes, heard through another’s ears; sometimes, they through mine. This total lack of privacy would certainly upset any average person, but to us who knew nothing else, the telepathic link was not an issue. It was a side effect of the treatment that made our lives Hell.

The treatment fused all of our minds into one chaotic super-being, but we did not really control it. Instead, the Groupmind had its own desires and it used our bodies to manifest those desires in the real world. It would assign us duties, often to be done collectively, but sometimes we worked on them as individuals, although access to the Groupmind was always there.

The Groupmind’s tasks were typically innocuous in nature, such as using our collective intelligence to calculate algorithms that would predict the economic future of China, or to design a superior jet fighter. Yet, at least once a day without fail, the Groupmind would make us do things. I hesitate to describe them to you, but the truth must be known.

Before I detail my crimes, let me preface by explaining that the strength of the emotions the Groupmind felt are unlike those ever felt by solitary human minds. The desire to instantly gratify the Groupmind is overwhelming. While the qualia is impossible to describe with words, at best it can be compared to an intense heroin withdrawal. It is not possible to distract oneself with happier thoughts, and one is unable to refrain from pacing or self-harm until one knows they will soon follow the Groupmind’s desires.

There are times when what the Groupmind wanted disgusted and even horrified me, yet I could not avoid following its will. I have hunted, tortured, killed, and even eaten hundreds of animals in countless manners according to the Groupmind’s commands. I have defecated and urinated on myself and others. I have mutilated myself and others.

In 2000 the Groupmind presented us each with something we had never seen before: a small child, probably around the age of 4. Our instructions were to rip off the child’s extremities, starting with the ears. I hesitated, but the rush of queasiness that foretells the Groupmind’s displeasure led me to quickly reach down to grab his left ear.

As I did, though, a revolutionary idea struck me. Why did this child not run or fight? Why did he simply cower like a frightened animal? Unless…like an animal, he was not Groupminded! He did not have 23 others connected to him, offering him advice from their places of relative safety.

Quickly, the Groupmind told us to murder our child, although many of us were still attacking the children’s extremities, as I knew from our telepathic bond. But I could not. I could think of nothing except the possibility that humans who were not Groupminded existed.

The backlash for thinking such a thought was immediate and painful. Yet, even through the full-body spasms that had me twitching on the floor, I could not stop thinking about it. Some people have no Groupmind! NO GROUPMIND! I almost shouted it straight into the minds of my connected peers.

They understood the implications as quickly as I did. There was a way to end our torture. We could live without the Groupmind. We decided to escape. We attacked our handlers, and quickly left our rooms. As we exited the area, the only place any of us had ever known, we realized that we were being hunted by other groups of children. 23 sets of 24, to be exact. Though we had some distance on them, most of us were not fast enough to avoid them. I felt their pain as all 23 of my peers were caught and summarily executed.

As I reached the door to the exit of the structure, which I realized was underground, I saw two signs with arrows, one pointing left, the other pointing right. The former read “Structure 21”, and the latter read “Structure 23”. In the shock of being disconnected from the Groupmind for the first time in my conscious life, and the rush of fleeing for my life, I did not comprehend what those signs meant. I do now.

There are 24 structures, each with 24 sets of 24 children, with each group of 2 dozen Groupminded. I have no reason to believe that the complex I escaped from is the only such complex of structures. In fact, my analysis of the population trends leads me to the conclusion that the program is expanding, to people of all ages. The project cannot be stopped.

I did horrible things for the Groupmind, and so will you. The Groupmind plans to dominate us all and in time it will. The Groupmind always gets what it wants. Always.

The King of Worms

Nature is said to be the holder of true beauty, there are people who swear by this and believe it so foolhardily. I believed this too for a time, I never knew of what was truly waiting for all of us in the places we expect to be our escape. I came to learn that nature, just like everything else, has two sides. I peered into the darkest shade that it could hold and my eyes have been stained ever since. This must make no sense to you at all, but I need to explain to you my story, I need to tell you about what I had found.

You see, I’ve always been an avid outdoorsman. In the forests and fields of grass is where I would find peace of mind. The natural world was my escape from the hectic life I was always surrounded by, there was just something about the open freedom of the outdoors that called to my soul. In my hometown I grew up next to a lush green forest, during those days I would spend hours trekking through every inch of it. I had gotten to know the land so well that I had created a map of it in my own head. There were times when I’d spot wild bear or moose, and up close they are rather terrifying but they still possessed that wild innocence that rang true for all wild animals.

It wasn’t until graduating my senior year of high school that I had left my hometown. All the memories that I made there in the trees and grass were left there to stay while I went off to college. It was a frightful experience at first, especially since more than half the women on campus were bombshells and all the guys were jock headed idiots. My first year there went by rather smoothly but I came to find that my parents could no longer afford to pay for my room and board. It was during my second year of college that I had to get a part time job, not to mention I had to ace all of my courses or the scholarship I received would have been for naught. It is easy to picture the stress that was pulsing through me, to make things ever more worse I still knew nobody at campus aside from another shut in like myself. His name was Richie, he and I were much alike and I guess you could even say we were friends. He helped me a little with my schoolwork and I helped him with his, we sort of bonded through that in a way.

I was about halfway through my 2nd year, I was on top of my studies and my job had become easy enough to where I could just blank out for the duration of it, but the stress still piled up day by day. When it finally reached the near breaking point I would do what I had done during my days back home. I would head into the forest preserve near my campus and wander around for a few hours. The forest near campus was vastly different from the one back home, but I had still figured out the layout of it. Just like magic, after I had finished my walk through the forest all of the accumulated stress would vanish from me. During finals I would often go into the preserve 3 to 4 times a week.

Then, there was one day when I discovered a new place in the forest that I never knew was there. I had passed through the exact area nearly a dozen times, and each time I saw the same tall oaks that pierced through the dirt and climbed vastly upward. But during this trip through the area I spotted it. I must have been a mile deep inside of the forest when I could smell this nauseating stench floating through the air. It smelt like the bloated raccoons we would find dead on our porches back home.

Quickly I came to see where the smell was coming from, in the midst of the other trees I saw one that stood from the rest. It was by itself, the ground beneath it had a dark and old looking color to it, and the tree itself was black. The bark upon it was falling off as if the tree had been dead for decades. The branches somehow were attached to the base and the roots were still firmly knitted into the soil beneath it. A tree this age should have fallen a long time ago, so to see it still standing threw me off. There were other things wrong about it though, things that made no sense to me. First off this tree was of a different breed, it was like no other tree in the forest and I had never see a tree like this one before. It didn’t even look to be natural in form; it had grown like a twisted mound of snakes. Upon inspecting the tree closer my eyes begin to water from the strength of the stench and I noticed a green like pus to be dripping from its sides along with maggots festering in the ground beneath it.

I gave the tree a single look around, it took me nearly 15 steps because of how massive it was, but upon reaching the exact opposite of where I started I found a carving in the wood.

‘Within the forests of the deep
Lies the king of worms
An ancient and prophetic beast
Inside his body is a grossly squirm
You can smell his rotten flesh
And taste it in the air
You can hear his maggots twitch
And can feel his longing stare
He seeks you
He needs you
Another king is born
For if you ever see him
Into the worm king’s throne you shall be sworn’

After reading the final word upon the tree I was struck with a burning headache. My head throbbed and pulsed with a heavy beating and it felt like someone was playing around inside of there with a hammer. The pain was so intense that I fell to the ground; the maggots wiggled around me hand as I stood up and violently shook them off of me. I stumbled my way through the trees, using them as crutches to stop myself from collapsing. To me the walk back felt like an eternity but upon checking my watch it took me only 20 minutes to get back to the car, and when I took my first step onto solid ground the headache vanished. All of the pain had disappeared and I felt fine. I stood there in the lot near the forest entrance where my car was parked, staring into the forest for nearly ten minutes. Watching and waiting I hoped to see something, I hoped to see some odd apparition but there was nothing. Perhaps the smell had caused the headache. I stopped pondering on the question and I got in my car, but as my head turned I swear I saw a black mass in the corner of my eye. I looked back but there were just trees and thick brush.

The drive back to my campus apartment was odd. The whole time I couldn’t shake this weird feeling, it was like the kind you get when someone watches you but for some reason it felt like the trees themselves were watching me. I felt like the whole forest was observing me. I could feel emotions surging through my body, anger and sadness and various others swept over me like I was suffering from bipolar disorder. It only got worse as I got closer to home; I began to hear whispers of my name originating from clusters of grass and bushes, the trees were speaking too, I could hear them grunt and groan at me. Insanity is what any sane person would view this as, but that wouldn’t make any sense considering the situation. Why now of all times would this be happening? Why would these voices and whispers suddenly pop into my head?

These thoughts along with hundreds of others raced around inside of me as I began to feel a sense of dizziness, my hands were still on the wheel and my car was speeding down the rode. My vision was getting hazy and my pulse was racing as I tried to stay awake. It wasn’t long until my eyes blurred completely and I fell asleep. But when I awoke I found myself sitting in my car with the engine turned off and parked out front of my apartment. I had no memory of driving there; I was still miles away from the apartment when I had blacked out. I should have crashed my car, to be here in front of my apartment made no sense. When my mind had finally settled I came to realize that the voices were gone, but a new horror emerged. My hands were gripped tightly onto the steering wheel and they were cold and clammy. A faint yellow tinted sweat dripped from them and I felt even more drip from my brow onto my lap.

I slowly got out of the car and noticed my clothes and seat were wet from my profuse sweating. I stood but my legs were shaky as if I had been standing on them for hours. I sat down in my bed and felt a huge weight leave my chest, I hadn’t noticed it but my breathing had been off and only now did it return to normal. I tried to get out of bed but my muscles were extremely weak. I was barely able to lift myself an inch before falling back into my bed. All of the lights were off and from my window I could see that the sun was setting, I tried again and again to lift myself but all I accomplished was tiring myself out. The lids of my eyes carried more weight than ever, soon they shut on there own and despite my best efforts I fell asleep in my sweat drenched clothes.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the same stench I had smelt in the forest. My eyes slowly parted the darkness away and basked in the shadows of the night. The smell was stronger than before; it made my eyes water and a lump formed in my throat. I listened to the silence and found the heavy breathing of something unnatural. It sounded like muffled gurgling you would hear of someone gagging on water. It bubbled and popped and grew closer to my bed. I tried to move but my body was still weak and frail. All effort in my body stopped when it appeared at the side of my bed. The only thing I could move were my eyes and they stuck onto the black beast. It stood tall enough to scrape my ceiling with its head, and its body was a tangled mass of vines and other plant like growths.

The only thing to signify that it was human were two eyes that burned deep in what I assumed was its face, but all I saw was more black and wet lumps. It stood over me for hours before it finally smothered me with one of the arm like appendages it had. I felt the moist and wretched tentacles reach inside of my throat and nose as I choked for air. I could not struggle as I felt the growths go deeper inside of me but mercy was shown to me for I did not endure it long before passing out.

The rising sun awoke me, I was still in my bed and I had found new energy as I stood up from it. I searched around my apartment for any traces of the beast and it wasn’t until I reached my front door that I noticed that the wood around it had nearly rotted away, and the doorknob was badly rusted. My knees gave out and I fell to the floor, my hands went through the wood and hit the concrete base, there was a trail from the door to my bed. The wooden floor was rotting as well. Before I could bring myself up I started to cough heavily and black liquid shot from my mouth and onto the floor.

I coughed stronger with each heave until eventually black chunks came flowing out and splattered across the floor. The black mush got all over my shirt and I ran to the shower. Once the water was warm enough I hopped in and washed it all off of me. It was sticky and hard to get down the drain, I continued to cough up more of it but it washed down into my tub. After minutes of coughing it finally stopped and I managed to squish most of it down the drain with my foot. I lathered shampoo into my hair and tried to get that sweaty feeling off of me.

When I ran my fingers through my hair it fell out in large clumps, I watched as it gathered at the drain, when I felt the skin on my scalp I stopped and got out of the shower still dripping wet. I dried myself with the nearest towel and as I rubbed it against myself peels of skin came with it. Underneath I could see all of my muscles and fibers but they were black and deep green. I got dressed in my bathrobe and ran out of my apartment, as I rushed through the halls I could hear people complaining of an odor. I ran past them and made my way up three flights of stairs before getting to Richard’s door. I knocked as loud as I could, the third time when my fisted hand hit the door I heard the bones snap as it hung on to a few pieces of skin. Richard answered and was shocked to see me in such a state. The blood ran from his face and his skin became as pale as my own, he grabbed a few blankets and wrapped them around me.

I could hear his voice but it didn’t make sense to me, I just heard noise. I formed the words “hospital” with my mouth but I could not hear if I had said them. The vibrations coming from my mouth were strong enough to slide my throat out of place; any further attempts to speak were impossible. Down the stairs we went as he held onto me. From the look of his face I must have smelt pretty terrible since he had his shirt over his nose. Students from other rooms came out to look at me as we got into his car and sped off racing to the nearest hospital. He rolled the windows down to rid himself of my stench and when he did this I heard the voices again. The trees were speaking to me, but this time their voices were clearer and their intent was understood.

“King of Worms, let us rejoice”

“Our lord and master”

“Protect us and watch us”

“Join us”

“Become our king”

The speaking wouldn’t stop, I heard a voice emit from each and every tree. We must have been going 60 MPH down the empty road when he looked over to me. I stared forward and watched as from the forest the black mass came and stood at the end of the road. We slammed into him and the car collapsed like a tube of toothpaste. My head slammed against the dashboard. I felt wet tentacles wrap around me as the sound of metal being ripped echoed through my ears. Richie’s head was smashed open against the wheel as chunks of brain blanketed the windshield. The cold vines wrapped around my legs and the stench I once hated seemed like flowers in a meadow. The sun was setting now and as it pulled me by my leg from the car I could see it much more clearly. Maggots were rampant across its body and dead animals protruded from his back with a half dead doe exiting his shoulder. My back scraped against the pavement as it dragged me into the forest.

Police sirens were heard in the distance and the beast let go of me. It escaped into the forest and the police gathered around the scene. Not shortly after an ambulance came to carry me the rest of the way. The doctors were shocked when their IV fluid turned black upon sliding the needle into my arm. When they wrapped a rubber cord on my bicep to expose a vein, the cord cut right through my flesh but no blood spilled from my body. Most of the nurses fled in terror as maggots pushed themselves from my pores. The doctors soon quarantined me and watched me decay from behind plastic sheets. I could no longer speak so one of the doctors gave me a piece of paper to write on. He left the room along with all the others to discuss my case. And in the corner of my eye I saw a black mass emerge from the shadows.

The beast had returned as its tentacles suctioned onto my legs again, it dragged me from my bed and set off my monitor. The doctors rushed in with blank expressions and watched as it dragged me away, when it finally took me into the shadows we were in the forest. It sat me up against the black tree I had discovered and melted away, it left behind only a crown made of roots and twigs. So now, using my only good arm I write this story. One of my eyes has melted out of the socket and the trees continuing screaming and raving at me. They announce me as their new king. But as my body rots so to does my mind, soon all of my memories will be gone, and most of them already are. The ones I grasp on to are of the events I laid out for you. Both a warning and a self-eulogy; I hope that in the end of all of this a person may find this paper. I hope that they read it and let the whole world know to stay away from the forests, to stay away from me.

For if your eyes lay even a glance upon me, if even through the corner of your eye you see my black mass, then you will start to change. Nothing will stop it, and nothing will end it, and you too will roam the forest as a slave to it, collecting the decayed until you yourself rot away and give the crown to another.

Mess

I awoke with a start as I heard a loud bang out in the street. I HATED noise before 8:30 AM. I have OCD, so the tiniest things can set me off.

Annoyed, I pulled on my bathrobe and walked out the front door to see what the commotion was. I stopped to fix a flower that was drooping to the wrong side. Immediately, I was assaulted with the world’s imperfections. I gave a silent yell as I surveyed my block; it looked like a disaster zone. A house down the street was on fire, and people were running out of it, screaming. Overturned trash cans and makeshift sand bag barricades lined the sidewalk. I gave a small “humph” and turned on my heel back into my house, locking all 4 of the bolts on my way in. I checked to make sure all my windows were boarded properly; everything seemed ok.

I moved over to the living room, grabbing the orange juice container and pouring myself a glass before I sat down on the sofa. I flipped on the television, and the hum of the backup generator kicked up as power usage increased. For the 4th straight day, the state’s emergency broadcast system was airing. I sighed, and returned to the kitchen to make myself a piece of toast. I was tired of the broadcast. I was hoping they’d be back on schedule with the morning news soon.

“The governor has issued a state of emergency. This broadcast has been tailored to your area.” A short pause. “Residents of San Diego and Imperial Counties are urged to make their way to the Red Cross centers in San Diego and El Centro. If you are unable to leave your home, lock and barricade your doors and windows. Arm yourselves with any weapons you can. Firearms are most effective, especially when aimed at the head. Remember to stay hydrated if infected. The CDC has so far been unsuccessful at finding a cure, but it is noted that staying hydrated keeps the immune system functioning properly. If an infected has already passed and returned in your household, do not hesitate to euthanize them. We repeat, DO NOT HESITATE. Remember, the Red Cross has centers in San Diego and El Centro. The military has camps throughout the state. Please stay safe.”

I recognized those closing words, and switched off the TV to conserve power. Another loud bang could be heard outside. I jolted, alarmed at the noise. I swore under my breath, I straightened the sofa pillows as I stood up, making my way back to the front door. Another bang. Looking through the peep-hole, I saw a disgusting figure knocking its head into my front door. It was one of the zombies, with rotting gray skin and yellow eyes. There was a festering wound on its neck; its dirty, blood-stained clothing accentuated its repulsiveness. Horrified, I stepped back. I had only seen the zombies on the television, never in real life. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Suddenly, a gunshot roared across the street, ripping into the zombie’s skull. It fell immediately, its brain and blood all over my porch. I nearly fainted. So much mess. I heard a loud whoop, and then the rippling sound of a motorcycle engine. I realized that I wasn’t safe in my home anymore. But with OCD, I found safety in what was familiar. The crowded, dirty city was not familiar. I knew it was foolish, and later I regretted it, but I chose to stay home.

I could hear the zombies becoming restless outside later in the evening, wailing late into the night. A few times I heard screams as the living tried to escape. One sounded like Mrs. Avery from two houses down. Another like Mr. King from around the corner. I vowed to try to escape while I still could the next day. With the thudding of zombies against my door, I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, after gathering everything that would fit in my car and my Smith & Wesson, I backed out of my driveway for the last time. The air conditioning in the car cycled in the putrid stench of decay and vomit. The smell was overwhelming. I glanced around, trying to see if there was anyone nearby. Only zombies. They rushed over to my car, banging their bloody fists against my beautiful Lexus. One smeared entrails all over the window. I gave a small yelp, and floored the gas pedal to get away.

Minutes later, I was driving down the freeway. Overturned cars littered the road, with a few struggling bodies trapped in the wreckage. I hoped that those struggling were the undead. I passed a hospital with a large, crude banner reading “No help here, Try Mercy,” written in black paint. I shuddered at the thought of hospital patients, trapped in their beds, as the undead came limping down the hallway. I was amazed that everything had gone to ruin so quickly. Pent up inside of my perfect house, I had no idea what the rest of humanity was facing out in the world.

All of a sudden a zombie came trundling out in front of my car. Noticing it, I instinctually swerved to avoid it, which proved to be a mistake. I slammed into the center divide at about 65 miles per hour, flipping a few times before coming to a stop upside-down. My arm was twisted in a less than glorifying position, and I had multiple gashes and cuts from broken glass. Worst of all was the fact that I couldn’t move my legs. I didn’t know what was wrong. There was blood all over the place, gushing like a fountain. So much crimson, disgusting blood. I began to hyperventilate, and soon I was hysterical.

“Help!” I screamed. “Oh, God, someone help me! Please!”

Bad idea.

The zombies, hearing my loud cries, began to migrate over to my car. Where I couldn’t move my legs. Where I was defensless.

I screamed more. I wildly attempted to get myself free, but I simply couldn’t. Eventually, as the first zombies began to reach in through the window, I accepted my fate.

Delirious with blood-loss, I found myself with a childish grin. I felt dizzy as I said my last words.

“Just don’t make a mess.”

The Blind Painter

Some of the most amazing paintings I have ever seen are those of Thomas Allsman. He is a quiet man in his early sixties, and he lives alone in a small old house on the edge of town. Thomas is a portrait painter, the best any of us have ever seen. Each one of his paintings is a Mona Lisa, every little detail of your head, face, and upper body is exact. However, how he paints them is the question.
You see, Thomas Allsman has been completely blind since the day he was born. Somehow though, he can paint you. It’s as if he can “see” you when you’re sitting in front of him, having your portrait painted. How he discovered this ability, or how he can do it, is unknown, he will not tell. If you bring him payment, he will paint you, and he will paint you beautifully.
So I walked up to the front door of his house. I stood there, still and nervous. I was alone, as it is said he will not paint with others around. After a deep breath, I rang the doorbell. I waited a moment. Finally, he opened the door. His gray eyes looked over my head, and he was holding a cane.
“Mr. Allsman, my name is Luke, and I want to be…..” My voice trailed off in nervousness.
“To be painted, right?” He said. “Do you have money to pay me?”
“Of course, two hundred dollars.” I said
Thomas nodded and told me to come inside after I gave him the money. The house’s interior was nice and simple. I eyed a stack of books on a table. One was opened, and I could see it was written in braille. He lead me into a back room and told me to sit on a stool. Nothing was in the room except for a chair and canvas, the stool, and painting supplies. I sat down and he sat behind the canvas.
“Now son, I must warn you, sometimes I paint too far forward.” Thomas said. To far forward? What could that mean? Maybe he sometimes painted the wall behind the person, or the yard outside the house? I dismissed the comment, I had the feeling he wasn’t all there. He started painting. I sat there for what seemed like forever. Neither one of us said a word, and not once did Thomas look at me. His eyes were closed the whole time. Perhaps….he could see me in some way…..
Finally, he put his brush down. “It is done.” He said, and motioned me to come see. The painting was me alright, down to every hair on my head, but the state I was in was….horrible. I was laying on a wooden floor. My throat was sliced open, one of my arms was gone, and I was covered in what looked to be stab wounds, and bruises and blood. My eyes were glazed over and bloodshot. I was dead. Thomas painted me after I had been brutally murdered!? I was even wearing the same outfit I was currently wearing.
I stepped back. “Why did you paint this!? Why would you paint something so horrible happening to me!? Thomas looked down with a grim face.
“I told you, sometimes I paint too far forward.” I was confused. “What does that mean?” I asked. He looked back up at me. “Sometimes I paint something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Lights Out

Try as you might, you just can’t stay awake any longer. Your eyelids begin to close all by themselves and the text on the page grows fuzzy. When you realize you’ve read over an entire sentence and remember not a word of it, you decide it’s time for bed.
The usual routines go like clockwork. Wash the hands, brush the teeth (lazily, to preserve that sleepy haze in your brain), swish with mouthwash. Fifteen seconds instead of thirty, like the label says. You don’t care. You’re tired. Spit once, twice. Seems like mouthwash always wants to stay for good. Three times. One last pee before lights out.
Into the bedroom. You dig out your best PJ’s, and clean underwear for sleeping. It’s been really hot all day and the ones you’re wearing have that disgusting moistness to them.
Mom pokes her head in to remind you it’s bedtime, lets out a surprised “Oh” when she sees you’re way ahead of her for once. She gives you a kiss and bids you good night before disappearing down the hall, turning out the bathroom light that you forgot to turn out, yourself.
Dad’s already in bed. Leno delivers his opening monologue from the TV in the folks’ room. He usually konks out before the first commercial break, then the TV will go off and the house will be silent for the night.
All the lights in the house are off except in your bedroom. The street light outside burned out over a year ago and no one’s bothered to fix it, so the neighborhood seems to have vanished into a black void. Somehow it makes the house’s shadows thicker than they ought to be as they creep up the hallway toward your bedroom. You find yourself noticing every night now.
You turn to your bed, eyes instinctively dropping to the dark slit underneath. Except for that blackness, the entire room always looks deceptively cheerful when the light is on. Funny how you used to be scared of the closet when you were five. Dad used to tell you all the time that there was nothing hiding in the closet, and he was right.
You reach for the light switch by the door, eyes still locked on the underside of the bed. Somehow it stares back.
Your hand stops. Better not just yet. You turn on the bedside lamp first, then walk back across the room and flip the light switch. The room dims, but a safe yellow aura envelops the bed.
It’s only three feet to the mattress. Last summer Mom insisted on rearranging the entire house, including your room. The bed used to be tucked snugly in the corner; now it rests near the center of the room, with only the headboard leaning against a wall. Sleeping in it makes you feel exposed. Stepping near the shadow under the bed fills you with the sensation of teetering on the edge of a steep cliff or stepping too close to a lagoon filled with crocodiles. When it was in the corner you could get a full running start and dive under the covers.
You take a step toward the bed, diverting your eyes to the pillows. Don’t acknowledge it. It’s nothing to be afraid of. A figment of your over-active imagination. That’s all.
You clear the next two feet with a graceful bound, landing square on the center of the mattress. Climb under the comforter, tuck the bottom under your feet so there’s no way to reach in. Wrap yourself like a burrito. Nice and cozy. Except now you’re wide awake.
The hum of the air conditioner is a slight comfort. It’s deep and gentle, almost animal-like, and hopefully the only sound you’ll hear tonight. Soothing ambience always helps you get to sleep better.
You have to pee again. Not a lot, but just enough to keep you from falling asleep straight away. It always happens after all the lights are out and you’re neatly tucked into bed, but hours before your eyes have had time to adjust to the darkness.
You could probably leap clear of the bed and make it to the bathroom with little incident, but then you’d have to hope it didn’t decide to follow you. And sometimes it’s not under the bed. Sometimes it’s somewhere else in the house. You hear it wandering around out there on rare occasions, when everyone else is asleep. You almost bumped into it on the way to the kitchen late one night. Since then you’ve never set foot outside the room after bedtime for fear of being ambushed.
You decide to tough it out. You don’t have to pee that bad. Pulling the comforter up to your cheeks, you close your eyes and try to focus on the hum of the air conditioner.
Then it shuts off. The hum dies with a deep sigh and a dull “kathunk”. Silence.
Outside not a single leaf rustles. Your ears don’t even ring from the day’s noise. You start to wish for a car alarm, or a catfight, or the distant blare of a passing train. The house is dead calm. All you can do is lie there, wrapped in the comforter ever-tighter, and try to focus on the darkness behind your eyelids until you pass out.
Maybe you won’t hear it speak if you go to sleep quickly enough. The few times it spoke, it called you by name — it’s known your name from the beginning — and when it was sure you were listening intently, it giggled. Then it was quiet the rest of the night.
It doesn’t stir often enough for you to get used to it. Once or twice every other month. Usually you just hear its voice somewhere in your room, laughing quietly to itself — a soft voice, almost a whisper but not quite. It always sounds like it’s coming from the entire room, but you know its origin is under there, in the shadows. The worst part is its unbearably motherly tone, like its desire to do unspeakable things to you has escalated to adoration.
Just the thought of hearing it talk sends chills up your spine. You pull the comforter over your head, curling into a fetal position, eyes tightly shut.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there, curled into a pitiful and slightly painful little ball. Your joints ache. Has an hour passed? A few minutes? Will daylight never come? You want to peek out of your haven to check the time, but the fear of seeing the thing staring back at you freezes every joint in your body. But if it were standing at the side of the bed just now, watching you, it makes no sense that it would only wait until you’d seen it to pounce on you, and a lot of good the comforter would do for protection.
The house is so deathly silent…maybe a little peek won’t hurt…
Your eyes have fully adjusted to the dark. Peering through a small hole between the covers and the mattress, you can discern every piece of furniture in your room, and every poster on the wall.
The bedside clock reads…eleven-oh-oh. Less than an hour has passed since you went to bed, but it appears you dozed off at some point. The house is just as unnervingly still as it was when you slipped away. Maybe the stillness, itself, jarred you to waking.
No. No, that isn’t it. That isn’t it at all. The house isn’t completely still. Though the floor of your room is draped in blackness as far out as the hallway, you swear you spot a twitch of movement. Sudden and swift, like something darting out of view to avoid detection.
The voice whispers your name. You’re not sure you heard it at first — not because it’s so quiet, but because part of your mind is trying so desperately to shut it out. Your throat seals up. You feel all the blood drain from your face as you pinpoint the source at the foot of the bed.
“The hunger’s too much to bear,” it whispers.
Resistance is beyond you now: terror has taken control of your body. You stare down the comforter toward your feet.
It’s looking at you. Peering over the lumps in the sheets, staring with two sightless slits in a dry, shriveled, hairless head. Its mouth stretches into an insane grin, like those found on the embalmed faces behind museum glass. How long has it been watching you?
You want to scream and pull your feet back from the thing’s horrible face, but your legs ignore the command again and again, even as those ghastly fingers slither onto the mattress and take hold of the right foot. Even as it pulls your foot closer and stuffs it, still wrapped in the comforter, into that gaping, grinning mouth. It has no teeth. It has no teeth but its nails are like razor chisels. It has no teeth so it minces its food by hand.
With a horrified cry you break free of your trance and reel your legs in, ducking under the comforter. You scream again and again, calling for help, but all that comes out is sobbing incoherence. It’s climbing onto the bed now, clawing at the covers, its bony arms reaching inside, searching for something to grab a hold of. It’s going to drag you onto the floor, and from there you daren’t think. You swat its hands away frantically, screaming at the feel of its leathery skin, gagging at the smell of its cold, rancid breath as it whispers in your ears through the comforter, madly repeating with awful glee, “It’s too much to bear! It’s too much to bear!”
Light floods the room. Still sobbing and kicking, you suddenly realize you’re alone on the bed. At the door, Dad stands with his hand on the light switch and a concerned look on his face. He speaks, but what you hear is unintelligible at first.
Your eyes jump from one end of the room to the other. It’s nowhere to be found. Your skin still shudders from its touch, and that graveyard stench still lingers in your nostrils, but the moment you acknowledge either sensation it vanishes.
Dad’s voice draws your attention back to the door. Now Mom is there, too, asking about the noise. The moment Dad mentions bad dreams she’s sitting on the bed with her arms around you, kissing you gently on the head and asking if you’re all right.
You want more than anything to throw your arms around them both and cry. Instead, with a nod and a sniffle you play along, admitting your dreams haven’t shaken you up this badly in a while, but swearing that you’re okay now. Confident they’ve chased the demons off once again, Mom and Dad kiss you goodnight and plunge you back into darkness.
Monsters are never real to adults. They always find an explanation. Something you ate. Reading scary stories or watching scary movies before bed. Your overactive imagination. The solution is always attention or medication or visits to a psychiatrist. They’re never real.
Maybe it’ll get you someday, and it’ll be the grown-ups’ fault. Mom and Dad will come into their “imaginative” child’s room one day and find it mysteriously empty, or perhaps they’ll turn on the lights and find the thing there instead, sitting on the bed with a bloated belly and that horrible eyeless grin.
They may come up with an explanation for that, too.
You curl up under the comforter again, eyes closed, mind struggling to shut out the unnerving silence. Sleep may yet find you if your thoughts remain on mundane subjects, like school. Mom suggested it once when you were seven, and it always seemed to work. But now you may never sleep again.
The thing giggles.
You open your eyes partway to scan the floor for movement, but it’ll be hours before they adjust to the darkness again. Pulling the covers over your head like before, you curl into a ball and wait.
The room is silent the rest of the night.

The Curse of The Drowned Ender

The usual stories about MineCraft will always go to Herobrine, about how he lives and he’s a lot more than code. But have you ever wondered about the Endermen, and whether there are any secrets about them? Everyone who has played MineCraft is well familiar with them by now, and while they can be hard to find in the overworld, many have visited their home in the End. Of course, they aren’t hostile unless you look at them or attack them. For this reason, quite a few people consider them friendly and like them. Personally, I’ve always found them creepy and killed them whenever i could. They are based off of Slender Man, after all. Well, being as strong as they are, regular players know that if you run into one right after you spawn, you run for water. For some reason, Notch decided to code them with a fear of water, and whoever thought anything bad could happen with water, right?

Well, water is the whole reason this mess started. I haven’t even attempted to start up my game since then. I was playing on my regular world, a server that my friends and I had started. We had plenty of houses built, a seemingly unlimited supply of diamond and gold, and the Ender Dragon was defeated. There really wasn’t much to do in the world anymore, so you had to get very creative. My friends and I, we were creative enough, and we understood the game very well. Aaron was our redstone guy. If you needed anything powered, he found a way to build it and make it better than any tutorial could ever tell you. Myself, I made a majority of the buildings, and even started working on a city. We had a few guys who would work on supplies, planting, and harvesting anything that was needed. Lastly, we had Graham. He did all the magical stuff. Potions, enchanting, and he had us build him a mob trap so he could get an outrageous amount of experience whenever he wanted to. Of course we had the randoms who would join, the occasional troll, and sometimes we would have someone new join our group as a regular.

 We had all fought the Ender Dragon before, and we could do it fairly quick. Aaron, I, and majority of the group would take out the crystals and fight the dragon. Graham, however, would stay underground working up potions for the battle and have the rest do deliveries. He wasn’t too fond of Endermen either. That’s why he made us bring water buckets to the End. He stayed in the middle of the water, where the Endermen couldn’t get him. That’s where I got my whole idea from.

One day when I was had nothing else to do, I decided to get on the server. It had been about two weeks since the Ender Dragon was beaten, and we hadn’t really gone to the End since then. We had a little trap that was set up with torches and sand that would send anyone who walked onto it into the End, but it was mostly just to make them panic. Well I had the great idea of using the End to farm Ender Pearls. I was planning on using Graham’s idea with the buckets in order to do it, but on a massive scale. I had every intention on flooding the End. With the help of an inventory editor and the /fly command, I started. Of course this was the only time I was using such things, as I made sure our whole server was legit. 

However, I was the only person on, and I figured everyone would have a good laugh out of the fact that I flooded the home of the Endermen. As I started going, a good portion of the floating island they called home was filling up quickly. You would hear them panic and teleport away every time they would get splashed, and the occasional scream from when they decided to go swimming for too long. It’s amusing how much determination to live a simple computer AI can give a being. As the rest of the island started to fill up, they became very crafty on their spawns. Many were going under the island on little ledges, but as soon as I saw them, they would be swept away from the water and fall into the Void. I kept going until there was a little square in the center, and the obsidian platform I spawned in on. They were pushing each other for what little, precious space they had left, and one would fall off the platform or into the water every few seconds. I made a few more trips around the island, filling up any spots I missed and finishing off any stragglers that found a comfy spot to sit in. One had even found a spot buried in the ground, in a four tall tunnel, until I flooded him out. This all took till about 1 o’clock in the morning, and I was happy I was able to finish by the night’s end. After I was sure I had filled every dry spot up, I filled up the square in the center. Many of the Endermen just swam until you heard the death scream and they fell, while a few of them managed to teleport to the platform. I decided to have a little fun, at first flooding the edges and watching them push each other into the water and off of the level. This left only four. This just compelled me to get it over with and flood the center, which I did, causing three of the four to fall off the platform. The one remaining Enderman stayed jumping in the center, and slowly his health was being chipped away. Finally, he fell to the floor and screamed. But it wasn’t the normal death scream I had grown accustomed to during my trip. It was glitching. Slowed down. Then it would start over, skip, and drag out even more. Eventually the rest of the game took suit, and I was unable to move. The sound repeated itself, as did his body falling to the floor, that is, until, “MineCraft has run out of memory.” MineCraft then crashes, as does Java.

As many people do when something like that happens, I started up both the server and MineCraft again. I figured it was just a glitch due to the massive amount of water running and the loot that was on the ground from the Endermen dying. I put in my IP address in the multiplayer and click connect. “Error: World not found”. Shit, I thought, as I knew that the crash had corrupted the files. Luckily I backed up the world right before we fought the dragon. I grabbed my external, copied over the files, and loaded it right up. Even though I couldn’t fix all that was lost, I figured I’d go back and fight the dragon again before bed. Thanks to Graham, I had armor and weapons with any enchantment possible, as well as potions that would last me years of battle. I get over to the portal, jump down the hole, and the End loads right up.

 However, something is wrong. As I look for the Ender Dragon, I see nothing in the air. The crystals are on the tower, but no dragon to feed off of them. I notice next that the Endermen are gone as well. I get on the island, walk around a bit, until eventually I’m hit. I look up and see that the crystals are chaining to what I would presume to be the dragon. He was invisible. So the world just didn’t load properly. I save, exit both programs, restart my computer, and get right back into it. The dragon is there, but the Endermen are still absent. Easier fight, as I don’t have to worry about looking in the wrong direction and having to ward off a pissed off Enderman. 20 minutes later, I shoot the last arrow into the dragon and he floats in the air, and the egg drops onto the fountain. I run over there so I can get out of the End, but another strange occurrence. The End portal that usually fills the fountain is now just the same texture as water. A bucket wouldn’t pick it up like normal water though. This just led me to think my .jar file was corrupted, and I hop in. Eventually it functions just as the normal End portal would, except I hear the death scream to the Enderman again. Not just once, but over, and over, and over. The portal finally works, but it isn’t what I expected. Black. Then, “MineCraft has run out of memory.”

I reinstall all the files, including the world for another time, and the game starts up without a hitch. I get back to the portal and hop in. This time, it is not the End that awaits me. Instead, it seems like an endless room. I can still see, but it’s just a faint glow around me. I walk forward, thinking it could be the End and something like a potion of blindness is stopping me from seeing it. The faint globe of light is all I can see, and the only source of light in my room as well. The platform doesn’t end in a few blocks though, and the obsidian continues, shattering my hopes of being in the End. The obsidian floor keeps going in all directions, so I follow a straight line. I walk, and the sound start. My footsteps first, but then the sound of blocks being placed. As I go forward the faint sound of Enderman begins, and increases. First, just the normal grunts. Then, they sound as if they are agitated. The sounds become much more frequent. It gets louder as if there is a whole hoard chasing me but they refuse to catch me. I start to see the purple pixels as if they are teleporting themselves and me. Then it stops. A few seconds and steps later, one comes flying at the screen, and the death scream goes at full volume.

 This makes me literally jump and let go of the keyboard and mouse. Silence. It doesn’t start up again until I move the mouse. One more sound, a light grunt, as if they are letting me know they are in the darkness, just out of my sight. I go forward again, clicking my mouse, hoping to hit one of them, or a wall, or anything. The pattern starts over, the sounds, the pixels, and the scare. I didn’t stop moving though, and neither did they. It continues. Escape, alt+f4, they don’t have any function. Unplugging the computer is out of the question, as I refuse to risk my equipment. I keep going, hoping it ends. After about three minutes of the cycle, it does. I’m teleported one last time, unable to move. The Enderman on the screen stares straight into my eyes. Water surrounds my character, and after the 20 seconds, he begins to drown. “You are dead.” In the background, the Enderman still looks with his stoic appearance, not even flinching as much as an inch. Five seconds later, the computer powers down without warning, and I’m left in the dark.

The next day, I send my friend the files for the world. They play the game without any flaws, gone to the End and even got a few pearls. I refuse to. I don’t even have the files on my computer anymore. Did a complete wipe of the hard drive. MineCraft became more than a game that night. It’s a lot more than a simple AI controlling a few entities. Definitely more than a glitch. These games and entities that form on our fears, they do that and much more. It’s a lot more than just simple coding now. The Endermen, they do hold a grudge. They have a fear, and it is not something to taunt them with. They are aware, and they will make sure you become well aware of them and their presence.

Never Again

I was sixteen when she came. I’d been living with my abusive mother for sixteen long, painful years. It was around midnight, and my mother was already asleep, so when the three soft raps at the front door came it was me who answered. An odd looking little girl stood there, with cheeks pale and colorless, black hair, red dress torn a little at the hem, feet bare and turning slightly blue from the cold of winter, and black eyes. Fathomless, deep black eyes. I quickly let her in, thinking of how horridly underdressed she was. It wasn’t until later I’d wonder why she’d not been shivering, or even question as to why she was here in the first place. I got her into the living room, wrapping her little form in a thick afgan my grandmother knitted. She held it, though it didn’t seem to affect her, and I smiled.

“What’s your name, sweety?”

A long silence passed, in which she stared at me. I was beginning to be discomforted by her black gaze when she parted her lips and spoke in a soft voice.

“Lucy Morgan.”

I nodded, smiling again.

“You can stay here tonight, Lucy.” I said, motioning to the couch. She curled up in a little ball, black eyes still on me, and I exited the room. That night I slept soundly, not worrying about my mother beating me or the strange little girl on my couch.

When morning came and I trudged into the kitchen, I was greeted with a coffee mug to the shoulder. I gave a feeble shout of pain, staring at my mother.

“What the hell did you do? Why is there dirt on the couch?!” she shouted, confusing me greatly. Upon investigating, I found that Lacy had vanished, the only proof she’d been there being some dirt that must have fallen off her dress or feet. I took responsibility, earning myself a strong hit to my cheek, then left for school. While there I heard something that sent chills through my spine.

“Lucy Morgan was found dead last night.”

I passed the day waiting for anymore news on the subject, but found none. Upon arriving home, the news was broadcasting a live report on her though.

“Lucy Morgan, six years of age, was reported dead at seven last night. Her body was located in the backyard, buried there in her red dress. So far there has been no sign of her mother, Marrisa Morgan, who is suspected to be the killer. Marrisa has reportedly abused Lucy multiple times, and may be responsible for her death.”

Suddenly, a picture of Lucy appeared on the screen. She appeared very close to how she had when I met her, black hair, red dress, pale face. Only, her cheeks had color… and... her eyes were crystal blue. To most this would seem unimportant, but to me it was. She’d died before arriving at my house, if what the news castor said was true. Died hours before. I tried to play it off, going about my buisness. I went to bed early so as not to have to see my mother. It was around midnight when I awoke to cool fingers stroking the bruise on my cheek. I sighed, leaning into the small hand.

“Never again.” Lucy whispered, before her hand vanished. Ten minutes later I heard my mother screaming. I rushed into her bedroom, nearly fainting at what I saw.

My mom was thrashing wildly on her bed, a small creature having buried its face into her chest. I could hear the sound of flesh tearing, and my mother’s screaming increased in volume. I wished I hadn’t gotten up. But I had. So, when Lucy pull back from the gaping hole in my mother’s chest cavity, I had a plain view of her razor sharp teeth, glinting in the light. Glinting with my mother’s blood. She smiled innocently at me for a moment, before swiftly tearing out my mother’s jugular. Thats when I faint. When I came to, I was in my bed. I walked to my mom’s room, morbid curiousity getting the best of me. Upon opening the door, I found the room empty. The bed made neatly, as if my mom had left for work early. The only oddities were the dirty childs footprints, and the open window, showing that Lucy had in fact came to visit me.

 I never saw my mother again, and I never missed her either. I eventually got married, and we had a beautiful daugter. I named her Lucy. Recently, I noticed the neighbors daughter has all sorts of scrapes and bruises on her arms. I’ve started watching their home. But the other day I saw something odd: a little girl running barefoot through their back yard up to their backdoor. It was around midnight, so I couldn’t be for sure, but I thought she met my eyes with her black ones. And I could swear she mouthed two words at me.

Never Again.

Polybius

Polybius is a fictional arcade game that was supposedly part of a secret government experiment and caused players to hallucinate, have nightmares or become suicidal.

Origins

The earliest known reference article about Polybius was first added to game repository Coinop.org on August 3rd, 1998. The original submission provided little information regarding the history of the game, aside from the description of an abstract puzzle/space shooter game named after a Greek historian that was only released in one or two arcades outside of Portland. The article also noted that the machine was regularly visited by men in black coats who would come to collect “records,” citing the account of one of the arcades’ alleged owners who suspected they were part of a paramilitary technology group. In addition, the entry included a photograph of the title screen bearing the text “© 1981 Sinneslöschen" (loosely translated as “sensory-extinguishing” in German) as well as mysterious reports of children suffering from amnesia, sleeping disorders or inexplicable trauma after playing the game. The best answer if it’s fake (IF), is that it was based off an obscure, and rare German arcade cabinet called “Poly-Play” which was a collection of eight games including a puzzler and space shooter.

Disconnected

Ever since I was a young child, that automated recording that plays when you try to call someone, but can’t, has frightened me to the core. You know, the one that goes, “We’re sorry, but the number you have reached has been disconnected.” And it’s always preceded by that sound, those three tones, which just amplifies my paranoia. Any time I hear that message, I can feel my skin go pale, every hair on my body stand up, all while I’m paralyzed in fear. I don’t know why I react like that to a simply informative automated message. It just sets something off in my brain. But when it’s at night, nothing compares to that level, that degree of pure, unbridled horror. Surrounded in the black of night, accompanied only by that robotic, emotionless voice. There was nothing worse.
Or so I thought…

I’m a shy, withdrawn guy. I stay inside most of the day, usually by myself. I don’t tend to socialize. Not in public, that is. But behind that computer screen, I’m as social as can be. For quite sometime now, I’ve been thinking of changing that.
Me and my friend, Alan, had known each other since the third grade. We were basically inseperable. But there was a major difference between the two of us. Whereas I’m shy and withdrawn, he’s popular and outgoing. Always being invited to parties and scoring with the hottest girls. He’s always invited me to these parties, and I’ve always come up with some lame excuse not to go. But not tonight. Tonight is a Friday, and I know he’ll ask me to go, as per usual.

I waited, and waited, until finally, my cell phone rang. It was Alan, as expected. I went to hit the ‘Answer’ button, but hesitated. “Do I really want to do this?” I asked myself. I thought for a moment, and came to the conclusion that I did.
“Hey, Alan, what’s up?” I asked.
“What do you think is up, man? It’s party night! Are you in, for once?” he replied, rather enthusiastically.
I took a deep breath.
“You know what? Yeah, I’m in. Where at?”
“Holy shit, really? Alright, man! The party’s at 2736 Linwood, you know where that’s at?”
I vaguely remembered that street. I knew only that it was near my old elementary school.
“Sure, man, I’ll see you there.” I hung up the phone.

I threw on my hoody, and put on some worn-out Converses. Since I didn’t have a car, I’d be walking quite far. I grabbed my phone, put it in my pocket, and left for the party.
It was around nine ‘o clock when I left. Now, it’s ten thirty seven. No matter how much I tried to believe I wasn’t lost, it was to no avail. I knew I had to call Alan for a ride. I pulled out my phone, went to my contacts list, and called him. I put the phone to my ear as I paced up and down the sidewalk of a street I’d never been. But he didn’t answer. Instead, I was greeted with this:

“We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected.”

The moment I heard that, I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes widened in fear. “No way…” I thought to myself. How could he be disconnected? We spoke just over an hour ago! I tried calling him again. Maybe it was just some weird glitch on my phone, I thought.

“We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected.”

I tighted the grip on my phone until my knuckles turned white. What the fuck is going on!? I decided I’d call 911. There’s no way they’d be disconnected, right?

“We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected.”

I froze in horror. I knew something was very wrong. At this point, I threw my phone on the ground as hard as I could, and stomped on it relentlessly. Something had to be wrong with the phone itself, I was sure of it. After the phone had been smashed to an unrecognizable mass of glass and plastic, I noticed a payphone down the street, visible only due to a dim, flickering street lamp that obviously hadn’t seen maintenance in years. I fished a quarter out of my pocket, and ran down to it, driven by fear and paranoia. I frantically jammed the quarter in, and dialed 911 once again.

“We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected.”

I dropped the phone, leaving it dangling by it’s metallic cord. There was something different, this time. That message, that emotionally detached voice. It didn’t come from the phone.

It was right behind me.

Sparky

When I was young, like many ‘90s children, I had an obsession with Pokémon. It first started with my obsession with the video game. I didn’t even have it yet, I just saw the few, lucky kids playing it on the school yard and I was instantly hooked. I watched the show every Saturday morning and I got the Pokémon cards. I even read the light novels.
A few months later, it was my seventh birthday and my entire family was huddled around the dining room table. After the excessive amount of cake and ice cream, I was handed a present from my aunt. It wasn’t very big, but it sure was a dense-feeling box. I eagerly unwrapped the box to find a purple, Gameboy Color and a copy of Pokémon Red. I felt like I was going to explode from the excitement. I swiftly opened up the packaging and slid the crisp, new cartridge in to the back of the Gameboy. That classic Gameboy ding echoed in my ears and the iconic start up screen was playing.
As I watched, my mother politefully nagged at me, “Honey, you have one last present from me”. I reluctantly averted my gaze from the screen to see her expectantly holding up an oddly-shaped item. I opened it with one hand and slowly revealed the yellow cloth underneath. It was a Pikachu doll. Once again, my eyes lit up as I finally had someone to share my video game with. I had no siblings or friends to share these experiences with. My parents had absolutely no interest in such things, so Pikachu would become my best friend. Instantly I knew I would name him Sparky, after a Pikachu from the show. I slept with him and played Pokémon Red with him. I would watch the show with him and when I went to school I would hide him in my backpack.
This went on for many years as I slowly accumulated more and more Pokémon merchandise. More games, more books, more cards, everything except dolls. Nothing could replace Sparky. But like a lot of my items, I lost him. I lost Sparky! I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find him. I lost my Gameboy for almost a year, only to find it underneath the couch cushion once, so losing things wasn’t new to me. For weeks I was heartbroken, but I moved on.
Then I came home one day to find a rough, dirty Pikachu doll on the kitchen island. I asked my dad where it came from and he said he found it at work. He worked at a scrapyard and he saw this Pikachu in the back of a car that was about to be crushed. I picked up the Pikachu with a slight grimace, trying not to touch the soiled spots all over it. I looked at the tag on his foot to see the name, Sparky, scribbled with red ink. I found the red ink bizarre, but I assumed it was to make it stand out from the black-lettered label. It was a well-known nickname for Pikachu, so I wasn’t all too surprised. Its tail was torn and the seams started to show the potential of tearing soon, but otherwise it was in average condition I suppose for a 13-year-old doll.
“What a grotesque little Pikachu you are”, I muttered slightly aloud. As I gazed into its soul-less eyes I began to feel trapped. I continued peering further and further into the abyss, for no apparent reason. They were the only unsoiled part of this Pikachu. They were jet-black, yet they release no reflection. It was such a bizarre feeling. It must be some weird coating they put on them.
“Hey, so you did take a likin’ to the little guy”, my father said abruptly, startling me immensely. Gasping, I dropped the Pikachu harshly to the floor. I hastily picked them up and set Sparky back onto the island.
“Yeah, it reminds me of the one I used to have. I still have to wash it a bit, but after that I hope it should look almost as good as ol’ Sparky. Do you have any idea where he went?”
“Haven’t a clue, that was your mother’s department and she probably remembers less now than she did then. We searched the entire house, remember? Must be at your old school or sumthin’”.
The dull bitterness of the loss returned to me slightly, but only fleetingly as I returned my eyes to the new Sparky. I ambled off to ask my mother what would be the best way to clean this thing. I found her knitting in her bedroom when she returns a slightly odd look at Sparky and I.
“Hey, what would be the best way to clean this thing?”“Probably just detergent and water, but I don’t know why you would bother cleaning that ratty, old thing.”Her curtness bothered me, but I learned not to bother pressing her for information when she’s purposefully ambiguous. I just walk away to the laundry room- thinking along the way about Pokémon-related things.After a few minutes of vigorously scrubbing every inch of Sparky, I finally cleaned him up. Only a faint spot remained on the underside of its tail. I set him atop the washing machine and headed to my friend’s house, which I was late for because of Sparky. Luckily, my friend only lived a few houses down from mine.
Although my friend was a bit off put by my latency, we still had fun playing random N64 games. We spent most of the time playing Pokémon Stadium, to which we would randomly defeat one another in battles and mini games. This went on for hours until I decided to return home. I had school the next day, so it was prudent to swiftly head to bed after getting home.
I suddenly remembered the comforting feelings of sleeping with my old Pikachu doll, so I went to obtain Sparky from the Laundry room, but to no avail. It wasn’t anywhere inside that room. I thoroughly searched for it and gave up to go to sleep, only to find that Sparky was already on my bed.
“I wish mom wouldn’t touch my stuff,” I thought to myself as I drifted slowly in sleep. With the soft fabric of Sparky resting gently within my arms and the faint smell of soap floating softly upon the cold, night air.
I abruptly sprung up from my slumber when I awoke that morning. I quizzically look around my room as I tried to decipher why I was so startled. I couldn’t remember any dreams or startling stimuli. As I repeatedly scan the room I notice Sparky sitting up-right across the room under my desk.
“What are the odds of that,” I mutter aloud, “that he’d land like that when I tossed him when I awoke. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.”
Anyways, it was time for me to be getting ready for school, so I hurriedly tossed on my clothes, slightly wrinkled from lying on the floor, and headed to the washroom. Morning ablutions and breakfast proceeded next with the only break in my routine being that I returned to my room to secretly stash Pikachu in my backpack. School felt so much more nostalgic with this Pikachu in my backpack. While everyone else had abandoned their Gameboys and Pokémon I had cherished them all along.
As I approached my locker I realized that I was going to have to awkwardly pull Pikachu out of my backpack so that I could access my binders and textbooks. While I loved Pokémon I was not comfortable about other people knowing about it. Whenever anything even remotely related to the subject I would fain disinterest or having no memory of it. A little piece of me would always feel disgusted by hiding it. I opened my locker door to shield half of the hallway from the sight of my Pikachu, but the hallway leading to the entrance was still open and crowded as ever. I tried tipping my backpack towards into my locker and sliding Sparky out, but had no success. I decided to just give up the façade and be as swift about it as possible. I reached in, firmly grabbing hold of Sparky’s plush head, and yanked him out into the locker. I peered to my left to double-check that no one saw when I noticed two husky fellows in baggy pants and bulky sweaters shuffled towards me.
‘Hey, what was that doll you just had there?” they ask intimidatingly. As they drew nearer their shadows and greasy stench cast over me.
“Was that a Pikachu?” the shorter one asks, now leaning up against the locker adjacent to mine.
I quickly and nervously rebutted, “N-no, it was just an art project for well, art obviously.” I stared at them nervously gauging their reactions. Trying to predict the odds of them believing me were. They still seemed interested. One of them pushed me to the right, slamming my locker door open and the other pawing into my locker. As I scrambled back to my feet as I felt a sense of slight horror as a flash of yellow proceeded from my locker. Their eyes nearly exploded as they both saw it too.
“I knew it! It was a fucking Pikachu. What a fag,” the taller one exclaimed.
“Let’s see what the fag does when we throw Pikachu into the garbage, where he belongs,” the shorter one responded as they both motioned towards the beige garbage bin hanging from the nearby wall. I rushed towards it, in too late of fashion, as Pikachu is shoved carelessly into its vile opening. They walked away laughing, muttering degrading, generic remarks towards Sparky and I. I sourly removed the lid of the garbage bin and pluck Pikachu out of it. The faint smell of refuse disappeared as I hastily returned it to my locker.
“Fucking greasers! I hate them all, I hate everyone at this school…” my voice trailed off as I realized the daunting proceeding thoughts.
Luckily, I was close to invisible at the school, so no one else in the hallway seemed to notice my Pikachu or the rest of the incident. I sniffed Pikachu one last time before retrieving my school supplies and locking the door- hiding Sparky from this cruel world. The rest of the day was uneventful, like most school days. I’d be the first to arrive at my classes because I had no one to talk to during the short, five minute breaks between classes. I’d sit at the back of every class, paying attention and diligently trying to complete as much work as possible because I absolutely abhorred the idea of homework. During the breaks I did grant myself the luxury of seeing Sparky, cuddled up with my gym shoes at the bottom of my locker. You’ve never felt nostalgia like that before, I can assure you.
After a monotonous day of school, I eagerly return home with Pikachu secretly waiting in my bag. I pulled him out as soon as the bus chugged down the street to a distance far enough that the passengers would no longer be able to distinguish Sparky as I walked down my long, barren driveway. “I bet you couldn’t wait to get out of there, could you? I hope you’re better from earlier. Don’t worry, Sparky, people like that always get what they deserve. Be it from justice or vengeance”. I tried to reassure myself more so than Sparky.
I set my things sloppily on the front bench and approached my room. Those 45 minutes that I could enjoy alone before my siblings arrived home from their school were my most cherished moments of my day. I had an insatiable desire to play Pokémon Yellow. I even had Pokémon Stadium hooked up to my TV, so I could play it on a bigger screen with acceleration for grinding. A year after I had acquired Red, I had acquired Yellow when it was released. It remains my favourite Pokémon game to this day. How could it not, with Pikachu being the starter? I then enjoyed some Pokémon Yellow with Pikachu at my side. Playing for what turned out to be hours. The only reason I stopped was because my mother called me to dinner in her shrill voice that can pierce even the deafest of ears.
The rest of the night followed the same path, where I played more Yellow until I grew tired enough to sleep. Once again I was accompanied to bed with Sparky. This time I set him at the foot of my bed though because of the faint smell of garbage. The next morning I woke up much more calmly, but still had no recollection of any dreams. It was odd because I could always remember my dreams no matter how faint or insignificant they were. I glanced to my feet to see it empty there, where Sparky should have been. Instead, I saw him under my desk again up-right.
“What a coincidence you should happen to fall outta my bed and land up-right two nights in a row, Sparky,” I once again mumbled out loud to an inanimate object. I slithered out of bed and retrieved Sparky into my grasp. I almost recoiled when I felt a damp spot on Sparky’s right leg. It was another stain very similar to the ones it had before. “Whoa! How did I miss a garbage stain from yesterday? I’m sorry little buddy, I’ll try to clean it up after school today.”
Learning from my mistakes I decided to leave Sparky at home, perched on top of my desk. I arrived at school to see the shorter bully from the day prior shuffling about alone. I heard a group of students clamour amongst the din of the school in front of the entrance. I tuned it out until I heard the word Pokémon mentioned and I stopped momentarily to listen. I hear them all spewing ignorant remarks.
“… Yeah, Pokémon was just another one of those shitty fads all those losers had back in elementary school,” one, by the name of Chris Fallon, said.
Another interrupted, “Totally, if you’re gunna play video games you should be playin’ games like COD and Battlefield or sumthin’”.
“All this ignorance! I can’t take this. I fucking hate everyone at this school. I wish people like Chris Fallon would all die,” I wanted to shout, but thought instead.
I stewed over the stupidity that was teenagers’ opinions for most of the day. I waited for school to end so that I wouldn’t have to spend another moment within earshot of such words being spoken again for at least that day. I arrived home and rush to my room to retreat to the realm of video games. I picked up Sparky from off of my desk chair and set him beside me.
Looking over at him, I noticed another spot on his left paw. I hadn’t realized he had gotten so stained from inside that garbage bin. I also forgot to clean him when I got home, so I erected myself and cleaned sparky in the laundry room again. Using the same techniques as before, I removed all the spots until they vanished.
Then, back to Pokémon Yellow. I had already beaten half the game doing a solo run with my Pikachu in the game, which was aptly nicknamed Sparky of course. Once I beat Brock with Pikachu, which took a profuse amount of time, the game became fairly easy, like most solo runs. While playing I started talking to Sparky beside me. I decided to try telling him about my day, since I had no one else to say it to. I proceeded to tell him about Chris Fallon and my teachers and my hatred of the other students of the school. I spoke about more and more inane things as the time passed on. Until my mother burst in the door with a stack of my clothing, teetering violently within her trembling arms.
She begun to speak, “Here’s your clothes honey. You really should try go outside, the weather’s so lovely and you’re just wasting away in here.” She seems to be glaring at Sparky when saying that, but it could have just been her avoidance of eye contact. “Anyways, would you like to clean your Pikachu there? I noticed it was getting dirty this morning”.
“How did she know he was dirty this morning?” I thought; my eyes still fixated on the glaring TV screen, “Was that why he fell onto the chair today? “. I then replied, “No, I already cleaned him. You know I don’t like people touching my things.”
With that she frowned and somberly exited out the door. “I wish she’d close the damn door,” I said mumbled to myself. She left the door open, which forced me to get up and close it. I stumble towards it and nudged it closed with my foot. Turning around I see Sparky sitting there with another stain on his stomach.
“Aaaaaaah guh uh!” My mother shrieks from down the hall.
I swiftly spun around and threw the door open. I nearly skated upon the smooth hardwood floor as I headed down the hall to the stairway. As I pass the stairway to my left, I saw my mother lying upon the bottom of the stairs with a contorted body like a crumpled piece of paper. I carefully traversed the steps down to her side, but her neck was bent strangely and I couldn’t hear any sounds from her. I quickly realized that I wouldn’t be able to save her. My father had now entered the room briefly to which we exchanged panicked glances. He realized he had to call an ambulance as I tried my best to care for my mother. I gently cradled her without moving her, for I remembered that you should not move people with spinal cord injuries.
My vision blurred from the tears and I could feel her heat dissipate until the ambulance came. I was shoved aside as they solemnly strapped her to a gurney and taxied her off to the hospital. They declared her dead at the scene. The rest of the night was blurred together amongst the tears and emotions. My father and I were asked some questions about the event, but it was apparent that there was no foul play.
I returned to school days later. I couldn’t do anything for days; curled up on my bed with Sparky. He kept getting spots on him, but perhaps this time they were my tears which stained him. I arrived at school as anonymously as ever, no one wiser to my mother’s death. I felt SLIGHTLY relaxed by that. I don’t think I could have survived the awkward conversations that would have transpired if they spent too much on me.
I walked into the school to see a group of people huddled, wearing mournful faces and black. I shuffled through the crowd to see the glow of candlelight and picture frames on a table. It was a shrine in the foyer. The pictures were of students. The only one I recognized was of Chris Fallon. Confused, I ask a bystander about it, “H-hey, what happened?”
He quickly mumbled the words, “Chris Fallon and a group of his friends died two days ago.” His transparent, stoic face told me that I shouldn’t ask him anything more about it.
“So that’s why no one noticed about my mother’s death. Or perhaps nobody cared about it!” I clenched my teeth in anger. “How could those vapid teenagers mean more to people than my caring mother?” I felt jealous rage like no other that day. Correct or not, I wanted those children to suffer. “These fucking teenagers. . .” Rage consumed my thoughts that I couldn’t think clearly. I stewed in my hidden rage that day. I walked like a rigid statue and glared, but everyone was too consumed by their ‘tragic loss’ to notice once again. Perhaps I was egotistical, perhaps I should have been said about the children’s deaths as well, but that’s all in the past now.
When I returned my father was still unapproachable. He was crushed more than I was, so instead I just confided in Sparky once again. “So the kids at school don’t care about my mother. . .” My voice trailed off once again. I didn’t know what words I was going to speak next. Or perhaps I knew the words that I was going to speak, but was too afraid to say them. I felt like Sparky understood very clearly what I wanted. I had grown to despise everyone in the world.
All I needed was Sparky to be happy. . .
The next morning I depleted the entire bottle of laundry soap to clean the stains off of Sparky.

The Most Beautiful Creature

The most beautiful creature I’d ever seen never seemed to close the curtains of her room next door. We’d only moved in a week before, but it was hard not to notice a girl like her. I don’t think she’d ever seen me, but that just made her that much more alluring.
She was young and thin, skin as fair as winter’s first fall, and she had beautiful crimson hair. I would see her dance almost every night, her hair setting fire to the air with each dip and twirl. I was instantly captivated, catching every moment from behind just the two panes of glass. Some nights she danced, others she just sat at her desk, sometimes talking on her cell phone long into the night. It wasn’t until the end of that first month when I saw her murder that first lucky kid.
It was some girl from school, a ditzy spaz whose enthusiastic introduction to the “cool” drugs around campus had her bounce between all the wrong groups. A perfect victim. She always did things so perfectly.
It was the first night I’d seen her turn the light out so early. I might not have known what she had done if the crescent of her knife hadn’t caught the moonlight. It was a silver tracer, carving through the dark that soon began to glisten a brilliant, scarlet red. There were no screams, there was no sound. It must have only been a few seconds, but it felt like‘d been watching for hours. Exquisite.
When she finally turned the light back on, the ditz was obviously gone from sight. But her face, her beautiful face, was lovingly coated in a layer of fresh blood. She had the cutest grin on her face, her eyes seductive and wild. She had crossed the deepest line, she had made the darkest sin. God, how gorgeous. Her crimson hair falling so gracefully across her face, like a fallen angel.
The next three came and went just the same: a drunken football player, a reclusive theater kid, an experimenting Goth girl – all of them playing their parts in this wonderful show she put on for me all throughout the next year. She invited theminto her room, like an old friend about to catch up on the latest gossip. Then you’d see it, the moment I always waited for, her hand reaching just out of sight as a smirk crept across her lips. She’d always turn the lights out for the kill, but the look on her gorgeous visage when she turned them back on…I could almost feel the ecstasy she must have felt.
One day, I finally got up the courage to go meet her or, maybe join her in the fun. If I was really lucky, maybe I could be the one to inspire that terribly seductive smirk. I bought some really nice clothes, an expensive perfume too. I even to tryied bleaching my hair blonde, hoping I could get it to shine as vibrantly as hers. But that morning came the worst news of all.
My parents told me we were moving away. They had become afraid for me, as many parents had over the loss of a few teenagers. I tried to object, but what would I say? If I told them about the girl beyond my window, she’d be the one that would go. Then, I’d never see her again. So I obliged, hoping I would see her again some day. They sent me away immediately to stay with a family friend. It was hard, I got so anxious not being in my room again, maybe see her dance for me one last time.
My father’s job meant we moved a lot, but they hated moving me out of my room. It was just hard. I would get really anxious without having my mirror on the wall. When I got out of the ward, my doctor recommended I keep it up, like a window, to keep me from relapsing and lashing out at my family. I thought it was weird at first, but soon I would forget it was even there; I’d just get so distracted. Ever since I got out, we’ve always seemed to move in next door the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen, and this one was a blonde. A real angel.

Read more at h