So there we stood, silently. Our eyes locked on each other’s as my dead best friend lay between us. The blood from her head began to escape quicker than I had anticipated. The crimson tide’s effusive force inched far too close for comfort towards my satin heels. I took two small steps back, eyes still on the culprit. Mirror neurons fired in his brain as he followed my lead and, too, stepped back from my besties internal matters. The thick air that filled the abandoned factory infiltrated our lungs with each breath. Bounteous particles of dust and asbestos congregated in all four lungs, setting up shop for a malignant metastasis in years to come. I took another step back. The murderer followed. We continued this dance around death for a few minutes, our tango of lost life. He opened his pale lips as if to say something, but closed them abruptly. His eyes shifted from mine for a brief moment towards the bullet hole is my dead friend’s skull. His vision ricocheted from his crime and connected back to my view. Pupil’s dilated and eyes wide open, his mouth hung agape once again. I was sure we would sit in drab silence forever, but this time he spoke. “I thought she was you.” “I’m well aware of that, Mr. Sanders.” Our words too calm for the crime that had just taken place. In my peripheral vision I realized I had missed my cue. Red rushed past my heels that sat like dams. My self-absorbed mind could only conjure up one question, does blood stain satin? Already in the midst of bloodshed, I stepped towards Mr. Sanders. “But me or her, you’re still a murderer,” I insisted with ruby red lips. “But at least if it had been you, I would have gotten paid.” “Endearing, really.” I could see every muscle in his body tighten as my steps neared his trembling flesh. The gun sat quietly in the darkness of one of the rooms four corners. It seemed now the only weapon Mr. Sanders had was persuasion. I stepped over my friend’s corpse and stood a few inches from the man who had wanted me dead just moments before. “And I only wanted you dead for the money, nothing personal.” He spoke quickly, as if time were running out. To be honest, I couldn’t really be that upset. He wasn’t the only henchmen my ex-husband had sent to destroy me. Getting half of his billion dollar estate and winning his stupid mutt in the divorce triggered something in Fredrick I would never have imagined existed. If I would have known he could be this cruel, I might have actually liked him during our eight year, prosaic romance. I inched closer yet to the still shuddering Mr. Sanders. “Do you know what I need?” “What?” His voice shook. “A drink.” “What?” “Care to join me?” I didn’t let him answer as I marched out of the room, leaving perfect size 6 footprints in the bright pattern of best friend’s blood. I turned the corner and leaned against a large pillar. Mr. Sanders sat in the room a few moments, undoubtedly questioning my motives and replaying the scene in his head. But within a matter of seconds he was facing me, his back against some dusty, mold ridden wall as he lit up a cigarette. I pulled the elastic from my ponytail and watched his eyes follow the movement of my long, blonde hair. A few minutes ago I was contemplating what to do with dear old Mr. Sanders. Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? All were plausible considering one of Fredrick’s ‘workers’ had fallen victim to each scenario. But now, as I watched his eyes entranced in my luxurious waves, I had arrived at my conclusion. I placed my right hand on my thigh, pulling my little black dress up a few inches. Mr. Sander’s eyes widened with amusement, his trembling hands were finally steadied. I continued to pull at the material until a flask was revealed between garter and milky flesh. Mr. Sander’s licked his lips as I pulled out the metal and placed the spout to my lips. After a few swigs I passed the liquor to my ex-husband’s accomplice. He copied my swigs in both number and duration, and then rested his eyes on mine. I could almost see the delusional, perverse fantasies dancing in his head. I inched closer in gory heals. No time was wasted as he placed his left arm around my waist and pulled me tightly into him. He began kissing my neck with wondering hands. I tried to step back but he pulled me closer still. “Mr. Sanders,” the words fell from my lips with seduction and betrayal. He loosened his grip, intrigued, and I stepped back. “You got another surprise under there?” He asked as his eyes fell to the hem of my dress. “As a matter of fact, I do.” My lips folded into a mischievous half smile. I reached my right hand over to my left thigh. I slid my dress up, slipped my fingers between skin and garter, once again. “What is it?” I pulled out a small scalpel, by the handle, and rested the blade up the length of my arm, hidden from view. With furrowed eyebrows Mr. Sanders stepped forward in hopes of catching a glimpse. I pushed him back against the rotting wall, hard. He looked perplexed, aroused and worried in one humorous expression. A thousand thoughts were birthed per second. They tumbled on low within that meager brain of his. I saw each one race just behind murderous eyes as small beads of sweat began to form within each pore of his forehead. I leaned forward and bit his lip, holding it tightly between my teeth until I tasted blood. A tiny whimper resonated from his vocal folds and fell from his quivering mouth. He pushed me back with one hand and held the other at his wound. His eyes darted back and forth between mine. He curled the fingers that sat uneasy at my chest. His hands began to tremble again as he stared hard into my eyes. He could see my thoughts, too, perfectly complex and neatly aligned. Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? His eyes squinted as he tried to predict my next move. His hand shifted steadily from his lips and reached to his pocket. As his fingers dug deep, then began to escape, I made my move. I jolted my dominant hand upwards and jerked my elbow to my right. Palm side facing Mr. Sanders, the scalpel slid across his skin and slit his throat before he could use whatever was in his pocket to finish his initial job. He fell to his knees with blood rushing past both hands that grasped the grotesque, yet effective, method of murder. The mundane gasping lasted about a minute until he fell to the floor, finally dead. I leaned over and pulled at his fingers. All that sat tightly in his fist was a crushed box of cigarettes. I stood above my lifeless assailant and dusted off my dress. I brushed my blonde locks over my shoulder and looked at the crime scene. My lips pursed as my eyes connected with the molding wall, the backdrop to my crime. The blood that had sprayed from killer, turned victim’s throat and up the amoeba inhabited drywall seemed to stretch much further than anticipated. I turned from the atrocious display of murder and deceit and began to walk away, leaving perfect size 6 footprints in the vibrant shade of stranger’s liquid vitals.

From Horror photos & videos May 26, 2018 at 08:01PM

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My grandfather told me this story about how one time he was sitting in a chair in front of the house, when he heard his wife repeatedly calling him from inside the house. The thing is, my grandmother passed away a few years before that. But he told me that the voice was so pressing that he actually got up to look inside the house, and as soon as he got inside he heard a loud crash behind him and turned around to see that the chair he has been sitting in moments ago had been crushed by the cast iron gutter that fell on it. If he hadn’t come inside the house he would have probably been seriously injured. I don’t know if it’s paranormal or not, but every time I think about it it sends chills down my spine.

From Horror photos & videos May 26, 2018 at 05:14PM

She woke, cursing God for not taking her during the night; a daily ritual. Rising slowly, opening her eyes, swinging her legs over the side of the bed until her feet felt the floor, then standing; it was all such a chore. Not again, Lord; let it not have happened again! She sighed, stepped forward. She took hold of the handle of her bedroom door, but hesitated. Get it together, girl! Another sigh – one of resignation – and she opened the door. As soon as she stepped through she could smell it. The coppery odor she had become accustomed to. Loathed. Feared. Her eyes watered, but she forced herself forward. Turn left, down the hall, past the opening to the front room, to the end. Bathroom door in front of her, another door (the dreaded door) to her left. Nature had to be satisfied first (A short reprieve!), so into the bathroom she went. Ignoring the pooled water beside the tub (and its slightly red tint), she did her business, washed her face and hands – repeatedly, until she felt she had steeled herself, and was ready to face it. She left the bathroom. Through the (dreaded) door to her brother’s bedroom she went. He didn’t sleep here anymore; not since their parents had died. She didn’t know where he slept. He still used the room, though. Every Saturday night. And there before her was his handiwork. Her heart skipped a beat. You’d think I’d get use to this! She took a path around the girl tied to the chair, until she stood in front of her. She gazed upon the horror, saddened. The girl’s throat had been sliced open just like mom and dad’s, she recalled. The blood had stopped flowing, but the girl’s naked front was streaked in her own blood. It had pooled on the seat around her thighs and buttocks, and a larger pool had formed on the floor beneath her. She shook her head sadly, resignedly. she made a half turn and went into the bedroom’s private bathroom. This had actually been their mother’s walk-in closet until her brother had turned it into a bathroom – of sorts. There was a stool, but the sink wasn’t an ordinary one; it was an industrial type; the kind she was certain you’d find in a slaughter house. She looked up above the sink and looked at the assortment of saws, knives and tongs. She chose the items she would need (she’s a little thing; shouldn’t need the heavy-duty stuff) and laid them out on the stainless steel top at one end of the sink. She looked down at herself. I can’t ruin these; I just bought them! She stripped off her underwear and hung them on a hook beside the door. She stepped out of the bathroom and faced the girl again. “I’m tired of cleaning up after you!” she said aloud, even though no one could hear her. Sighing heavily, she resigned herself to the task, and started forward. He was her brother, after all. She was certain he was the one who had murdered their parents, even though the police never seriously considered him a suspect. He was doing them both a favor, really; there had been years of abuse… she shoved the thoughts away, and began her Sunday Ritual’ – cleaning up after her brother. Hours later, she was tying up the final bag. She had cleaned up the tools and equipment (except the bone saw, which had broken right as she was almost through with it – that was in one of the bags, now. She looked around the room, seeing if she had forgotten anything; but she hadn’t. She was pretty much covered in blood, but a good shower, and she’d be ready for her trip to the dump site – one the cops had still not discovered (thank God!). Several more hours had passed. She was turning back onto the main road again, having finished her grizzly work, leaving the body of her brother’s latest victim in a shallow grave in an area frequented – by no one. Her brother had snapped, of course. Killing our parents shattered is physique! She had often wished she had been strong enough to do it! He did it for me, as well as himself! she thought. And that is why every Sunday morning, for the past year, she would wake to the horror, and clean up after him. She realized this made her an accessory, but what was she suppose to do? Turn her brother in? The only family she had left? The only one alive that she loved and who loved her? Fifty murders, she thought. Fifty murders, and the police still had no clue! Of course, her brother was a smart one. Straight A’s in school. He’s probably taking them from towns all around the city. Even fifty missing hookers, between New Jersey and NYC, wouldn’t be easily noticed as a serial killer. Her heart skipped a beat again. Serial Killer! She screamed in her head. My brother’s a serial killer! Still, what was she to do? Turn him in? Her brother… in prison for the rest of his life. No! She couldn’t do that to him. Not after what he had done for them. For me! But he was tortured. She knew that. He was as tortured as she was; of this, she was certain. So do it! She startled herself by the vehemence in her own thought. Do it! her though persisted, put both of you out of your miseries! She started to cry. They weren’t tears of sadness though; they were tears of relief! For in that moment, she knew she had finally made the decision – the one she should have made long ago! It was the only answer. No life in prison for her brother, no more tortuous Sundays for her! When she came to the next exit, she took it. She wasn’t sure what city she was in, but it looked like it was a rather large one. Certain this city would have what she needed she started following the signs of urban blight. It didn’t take long. It had barely turned dark when she saw the sign: “Perry’s Pawn – Guns, Electronics, Books and More!” She pulled into the small parking lot, took up a parking space and went inside. The clerk on duty proved younger than she had expected, but that was a good thing; when he mentioned the waiting time law, a little feminine wiles (and an extra hundred dollar bill) got her the desired result. “Just don’t go telling anyone about this!” the clerk told her, handing her the bag which now contained a used .38 cal pistol and a box of ammo. She let her hand linger as his finger rubbed the back of her hand as she took the bag. She smiled seductively. “What time do you get off?” she asked him. “I close the place at midnight,” he responded. “Mmm,” she cooed, “I guess that means you’ll be ‘getting off’ about one?” she winked. His eyes gleamed with lust. “See you at midnight, hon!” Another wink, a wave, and she was out the door. She got into a car, took the gun out of the bag and loaded it. She lay her head on the steering wheel. She felt disgusted by her actions, but it had been necessary. Still, between her impression of a whore and knowing what she had resigned herself to do, she was feeling nauseous. She shook herself, started the car and drove off. Back inside the pawn shop, Gus, owner of Perry’s Pawn, stepped through the door from the back office. He looked at his young clerk, and smiled cruelly. “Forget her, Jimmy; she won’t be back.” “You was watching?” Gus guffawed. “I’m always watching, Jimmy!” ‘Yeah? Well, why you so sure she won’t be back? I’m pretty good looking!” Gus leered hungrily at the boy’s body. “Yeah, that you are!” Seeing the boy’s discomfort, Gus quickly added, “She’s been in here before, your new love.” “Oh?” “That’s the fifth .38 she’s bought off me. Wooed me four times to get around the waiting period. “ He laughed meanly when Jimmy scowled. He took a big cigar from his pocket, clipped and lit it, and took a deep draw from it. Then, using the cigar to point at Jimmy, he said, “I’ll be docking your pay fifty dollars, by the way; my cut of your ‘tip’.” Seeing Jimmy’s anger sent him into uproarious laughter. He puffed steadily on the cigar as he went through another door, leading into the back room. She had talked to her brother, and found out he planned to go bar hopping in Manhattan Saturday night. Tonight! She would end all this tonight. Finally to rest! She’d been walking the streets for some time with no luck. She passed a hooker, dressed in red. She smiled, in spite of the situation. With any luck, she thought, I’ll save your life tonight, whore! She walked on. He was momentarily startled. He wondered how long he had been standing there looking at the toy train in the window. I always wanted one, but dad wouldn’t get one for me. He looked around, glad to see no one was staring at him –no one even looking his way. He turned left and moved off swiftly down the sidewalk. It was a pleasant evening. For hunting! his inner voice added, making him chuckle. Then he saw her, about twenty feet ahead. A pretty little thing, all dressed up in white! His hand went to his right pocket – and was startled at what he felt there! He quickly ducked into the space between two buildings. He dug into his pocket and pulled the object out. He looked down and was shaken to see it was a gun! What the f! He tossed the gun further into the narrow opening. He felt a moment of panic, but when his left hand found the shape of the large switch blade in the pocket, he relaxed. Leaving the puzzle of the gun for later, he stepped back out onto the sidewalk He approached the scantly-dressed – all in white! – female, smiling. “Hi!” He said gaily. “Well, hey sweetie!” the girl drawled, “What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for a date!” he explained. The girl – Can’t be twenty yet! – looked him up and down. She seemed indecisive for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I can do ‘ya! Gonna be a hunnert, though.” “Well, that’s a bit much,” he feigned his own indecision, “but you sure do look yummy!” They both laughed. “Okay then, let’s do it!” he told her, then looked around. “Where?” In response, she nodded her head toward the alley behind them. She stepped briskly into the shaded alley. He followed her to a short dumpster. The prostitute pulled her top off. “You got the hunnert, honey?” When he pulled the bill out from his back pocket and handed it to her, she deposited it in her purse, then patted the top of the dumpster. “Up here, honey.”She dropped to her haunches. “You sit ‘n let me give you some face!” “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he told her. “You see, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He was really feeling the hunger. His blade was out, raised high above her; she didn’t see it. “Police! Drop it!!” a voice called out. He ignored it. He thrust the blade downward. A shot rang out. The two detectives were standing over the dead woman, while the hooker cowered beside the dumpster, crying. “So it was Susan Holt, after all,” the female detective said. “Good thing we were following her!” Her partner nodded. “The killing spree is over,” he said.

From Horror photos & videos May 25, 2018 at 08:01PM

Mr. Joshi was on his way back home from the cinema. It was 10 P.M. and the evening show had finished just an hour earlier. He was in a happy mood. The movie had been interesting—he liked the part where the hero fought and defeated all the villains single-handedly despite his background in journalism. Like most Nepali movies it had a happy ending and the hero not only managed to get the girl but also was able to convince the girl’s parents to let him marry her. The audience had cheered and whistled and applauded when the couple finally kissed and then the movie ended. He used to go to the cinema alone. He could not remember the last time he took Mrs. Joshi to to the cinema or anywhere else. Inside their house, they had their own private little lives and each respected the other’s privacy. Mrs. Joshi had been a widow before he married her. He had decided to stay unmarried until he finally yielded to his family’s wishes and decided to marry at the age of thirty eight. There was a narrow path that branched out from the main road that led to his house. On either side of the path there were vegetable patches—cabbages, little radishes and turnips. It was difficult to navigate the path at night. His pocket torchlight lit the way, projecting a consistent beam of light. As he approached his two-storied house he heard the sound of leaves rustling in the direction of his guava trees. As he pointed his torch in that direction he saw a silhouette of a man standing just below the trees. Except it wasn’t a man. It had the body of a man—in a black suit. His humanlike qualities ended just as the neck began. It was a headless body. Mr. Joshi let out a scream. He dropped his torch and fell back. The torch fell on the ground and flickered for a second but continued illuminating the grass. Mrs. Joshi must have not heard his scream; she would have come outside the verandah if she had heard him screaming in front of the house like a lunatic. He picked himself up and stumbled towards the door. He banged the door with his fists. As he banged the door incessantly, he could see the body at the same place where he had first seen it. It was standing awkwardly—as if it was hung by the neck with a rope. Then it gave a lifeless twitch. Finally, he heard footsteps from inside and the door opened and he burst inside. He bumped into his wife and nearly fell on the floor. “What are you d—” she began. “Out!” He said. He could not speak. “Outside!” he cried as he pointed to the door. It was all he could say. She went outside. “There is nothing out here.” she called back. “A m- man” he stuttered “A man with no body!” He wanted to say “a man with no head.” He was breathing like of a drowning man. Mrs. Joshi closed the door and looked at him with a perplexed expression. “Just sit there on the sofa. What you need is a warm cup of tea.” she said as she started walking towards the kitchen. “Wait!” he said still shaking violently and struggling to from coherent sentences. “I’ll come with you” he blurted out. She gave him a smile and went to the kitchen and he straggled behind her. He let out a bloodcurdling scream as he saw the body— sitting on the dining table—black suited and headless. It got up. Horrified, he turned towards his wife to grab her and get out of the house. Instead, he saw a knife in her hand and a wicked smile on her face… And then the lights went out.

From Horror photos & videos May 24, 2018 at 08:01PM

I had finished my shift in a call centre, which was located in the city, and after dealing with innumerable complaints from angry bank customers, I was relieved to get a seat in the overcrowded train. As I settled down into my seat, I slowly began to relax as the train slipped by familiar suburban stations. After falling asleep, I suddenly jolted awake, fearing that I had missed my stop. The sun was still shining brightly at 6 pm, due to daylight saving, and as I looked out of the window, I was surprised at the unfamiliar scene before me. On the left side of the train, there was a large expanse of water, a receding headland, and expensive looking houses that were scattered along the beach-front. It looked like the harbour that I knew so well, but when I looked out of the window on my right, there was nothing but barren scrub-land that sloped up and away from the station’s rickety old platform. And scattered among the scrub-land were narrow huts, numbering about six, which were situated about five hundred metres apart. As I stared at these queer looking huts, there was a solitary human figure standing motionless in some of them. It was all very strange, but as I was still feeling groggy, I assumed it was only a dream. But just then the train lurched to an abrupt halt, and a gruff voice announced over the intercom. “Attention all passengers, due to a track blockage further up the line, you are required to disembark temporarily, in the interests of your safety”. The other passengers begin to leave the train quickly, so I reluctantly joined them on the platform. A cheery looking uniformed station employee walked along the platform telling us that we would have to move onto the island, as it was going to take some time to fix the train. He disappeared very soon after this grim pronouncement, so I was left with no other recourse, but to follow the others along a narrow bridge that led away from the platform. An unsettling feeling began to grow in the pit of my stomach. I must have gotten onto the wrong train. My normal commute home rarely varied as I caught the same train every day. But like most days, I was in such a hurry to get home that I had barely glanced up at the indicator board and had just rushed onto the train. The path that we were following meandered through the scrub-land and then led away from the water further back into the island. The path came to an abrupt end in a large clearing. The clearing was full of white marquees, and there were small groups of people who were either sitting around picnic tables or standing around chatting. I had begun to tire of this bizarre charade so I pulled out my mobile phone to ring my mother to tell her I would be delayed, but the screen showed that there was no service available. I tried to ask some of the people that had left the train if I could use one of their phones, but they just ignored me and seemed to walk off in a daze. I walked up to a picnic table where a man and a woman were sitting. “Hi! I seem to be having problems with my phone. There’s no reception. Can I use your phone?” I asked. They looked at me uneasily and then quickly moved away. Annoyed at their rudeness, I tried asking other people why there was no phone reception, and if I could use their phone, but they too moved quickly away. In frustration, I headed back to the station to see if I could find the station assistant. But the platform was empty and the train had disappeared. After wandering around the platform for a few minutes, the station assistant suddenly appeared again. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back to the community. You can’t wait here,” he said. I was feeling very unnerved, “Why can’t I wait here? What’s going on anyway, and where’s the train? And why can’t I use my mobile?” I demanded. “I’m seriously going to complain to State Rail about this.” He smiled tightly and said, “Look, you have to be patient. The train has been taken away to be fixed. The best thing to do is just go and wait with the others.” The uneasiness that I had felt earlier was now bordering on panic. In an effort to calm my nerves, I tried to talk to him again. “I just want to go home, OK!” I pleaded. “Can I use your phone to ring my mum and let her know what’s happening?” The smile that seemed to be permanently fixed on his face quickly disappeared. “I don’t have a phone,” he snapped. “Go and wait with the others. It won’t be long now.” I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, so I trudged back up the hill. Again I tried to talk to people, but they just turned away from me. There were a few women that I approached, who seemed to want to talk with me, but as soon as I started asking questions, they walked away. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to communicate with others, the almost omnipresent station assistant appeared once again with that eerie smile plastered over his face. He roughly grabbed my arm and propelled me towards a large white tent that stood at the top of hill and overlooked the whole community. The tent’s entrance was flanked by two burly men who looked like security guards, and inside there was a man dressed in dark casual clothes, sitting behind a large table and reading through some papers. The man introduced himself as the Overseer, and then asked me to sit down. “Young lady, I hear that you’ve been upsetting this community with your persistent questions. You will have to accept this situation like the others have come to accept it,” he said sternly. “What situation?” I asked. He continued to smile at me, but the smile didn’t reach his deep-set black eyes. His fixed smile reminded me of the station assistant. “This community is to be your home for the time being. You see, for the moment, there is no other transport available.” His black eyes bore into mine. The rising fear that clutched at my heart was turning into pure terror, but I took a deep breath to try to remain calm. I thought about the other people in this weird community. I wondered how they had felt when they first arrived. They were all acting like nothing was wrong. And what about their families who were no doubt worried sick about them? I thought about my own family – my mother and sister – especially my elderly mother. These thoughts raged through my mind and I began to feel dizzy. The Overseer seemed to read my mind. “All I can offer you right now is a opportunity to see your mother, but you won’t be able to speak to her. Close your eyes.” From his tone, it was not a request. As there was no visible technology in the tent, and no mobile reception, I wondered how I would be able to see my mother. Before I could say anything, my mind and body suddenly relaxed and my eyes closed involuntarily. My vision went black, and then I saw my mother sitting with my sister, side by side on the couch in our lounge room. They were distressed and trying to comfort each other. My mother was looking up and speaking to someone I couldn’t see. I assumed she was talking to the police. Tears filled my eyes when I saw the fear on her face. “What has happened to my daughter?” she asked, trying to hold back tears. “I haven’t heard from her since she left for work. She should’ve been home hours ago.” The vision vanished. When I came to my senses, I found myself outside the tent with the mysterious leader of the community. With no expression on his face, he said with a warning tone. “If I hear that you are still asking inappropriate questions of the people in this community, I will have to put you into isolation.” Before I could respond, He went back inside the tent and I was left alone. Feeling exhausted, but knowing for the meantime there was nothing else I could do, I wandered through the community. The people seemed to be happy enough. As they smiled, laughed and joked with each other, I wondered again at their strange behaviour. I was expected to be act like them – and just comply with mute acceptance – and just laugh it all away. Maybe this was a survival technique they had adopted. The sounds of their voices washed over me, and I willed myself to wake up from this horrible nightmare. I was certain that when I awoke in the morning, this would all be forgotten. As I walked aimlessly among the crowds of happy smiling people, some of them watched me curiously. I was surprised when a young woman stopped to talk. She told me that she had also arrived by train some time ago, but when I tried to ask further questions, she looked afraid and rushed off into the crowd. A feel of revulsion gripped my stomach and I had to get away. So I left the crowd and headed back to the train station, which was still empty. In the distance, I could see those strange narrow huts that had greeted me as the train had arrived at the platform. I realised then, that each of those poor people who were standing in those huts were experiencing what the Overseer had meant by – ‘isolation’. Like me, they had asked too many questions and were now receiving their punishment. It was now clear to me that this community had begun due to the many trains that had been diverted to this abandoned train station. Each trainload of sleepy and worn out commuters had been told the same story and had found themselves added to ‘The Community’. I was just one of many who had been stranded on this seemingly innocuous little island. The sun was beginning to set and as the daylight darkened into evening, the lights of the houses over on the other side of the black expanse of water began to twinkle like beckoning life- buoy beacons. Did the people in those houses know what was happening here? Could I escape over there and if so, how? Despite these impossible questions that had no answers, it seemed that my only chance was to get in contact with the people who were imprisoned in the huts. Maybe we could work out an escape plan together. Right now, all I could do was mingle with the rest of the community, and then make my move later when everyone was asleep. As I turned to head back, the two guards who had been outside the Overseer’s tent appeared. They tied my hands behind my back and silently led me along the station’s platform and past the strange huts, to an empty hut. I offered no resistance as they roughly pushed me back inside the cold damp darkness of the narrow space and secured my feet to the floor with chains. And there I stood, frozen in place, like a statue, gazing blankly out at the twinkling lights across the harbour.

From Horror photos & videos May 23, 2018 at 08:01PM

When I walked into my living room and saw it, I thought I was daydreaming and it was just Butch, our German Shepherd laying on the sofa, but when I opened my eyes again and saw what it really was, I almost dropped my backpack and ran. My mother was sitting on the opposite sofa, the one under the window, frozen, and a look of terror had swept across her face. Butch was nowhere to be seen. What lay on the sofa wasn’t our loving dog… it was a huge, pale grey squid. Its tentacles weren’t long as one would would expect of a squid, but they were short and stumpy, as if it hadn’t grown properly. Its head was massive and covered the whole of the mocha sofa. The stench was horrible, but the protective slime that covered its smooth parchment skin was dripping onto the carpet. The smell reminded me of the fishmonger’s at the precinct. It had huge pebble shaped black eyes and a mouth that was almost human. “It’s eaten Butch,” my mother muttered, and got up off the couch. From the kitchen, I could hear the radio, and Genesis were singing ‘In Too Deep.’ My brother was in there and he was looking for a knife, my mother told me. Her face looked pallid and beaded with sweat. I stood there, unable to fathom this. Where the fuck had it come from? That was my first thought, but my mother looked equally as stunned. The squid moved and looked at me. It opened its huge human-like mouth and seemed to yawn, revealing teeth that were a mixture of razor sharp teeth and human molars. They were a brilliant white colour, as if the fucking thing kept to brushing and flossing twice daily. “Jim!” I shouted for my brother, and the squid winced. He came to the kitchen door holding a serrated knife. The squid muttered something that sounded like “go for it, I dare you.” It giggled and smiled. More slime plopped on the carpet. It stared at me again, looking right into my eyes and a cold shiver went down my spine. Gooseflesh rose on my arms. The skin on my balls seemed to crawl and tighten. “Go on, human, cut me, and I’ll see to it that you never stop screaming. You’ll dream of me, human.” It uttered a high pitched warbling laugh and I grabbed the knife off my brother and slashed the side of the squid’s face. A tentacle reacted and felt for the cut…gash. It was a gash. It screamed. “No!” It hailed, and then it growled at me. “Fucking NO!” It laughed again. Green ooze spilled from the open wound. It tried to get up, but its tentacles were to short to complete the manoeuvre. It turned and tried to roll itself off the sofa and onto the floor, but it seemed too heavy. “Fucking CUNT!” It said, and chattered its teeth at me. Its tongue licked its lips.”Come here while I taste you, you fucking human SCAB! Your father is screaming in Hell as we speak! He’s screaming for FORGIVENESS!” My father died in the winter the year before Reagan took office, from lung cancer, and this thing knew of that passing. It spoke in tongues, revealing secrets that only my father had told me. I cried and slashed at the squid again, this time cutting into one of its huge black eyes. It wailed and grabbed the knife from me. I was too close. “DIE!” It screamed, and threw the knife. I felt the air in front of my face get heavier, and it just missed, but the knife slammed into the door and buried itself up to the handle. I saw blackness pouring out of the squid’s eye. “Shit,” I muttered. My mother ran from the room and out of the front door. “Jim,” I said. ‘Get the paraffin and the matches. I’m gonna burn this motherfucker!” Jim ran back into the kitchen. “Your dog tasted just fine, Harry,” the squid said. More black gunge was dribbling from its damaged eye, and I saw that the other wound I had inflicted upon the beast was healing somehow. “It was a little feisty at first. But when I got a hold of it, it tasted…just…fahhnnn.” Its tongue emerged again and licked its lips. It giggled then and I couldn’t help but relate that sound to a child’s laughter. “I wonder how YOU will taste?” It said. Its voice sounded demonic. Jim came in with the matches and paraffin. I splashed some over the pale grey squid and it seethed at me, as if in pain. The eye I had slashed was now completely sunken and gumming over with a thick slime. The black gel had stopped coming out. “This isn’t over! You hear me, human?” It promised me. Somehow I believed this statement. I lit the match and threw it at the squid. The flames were immediate and brilliant. The squid writhed and screamed. My mother was watching from the front garden. The sun outside was lovely and I wished I had stayed at work for the overtime. The flames started to penetrate the squid’s skin and the sofa caught fire. It smelled like calamari cooking on a bed of rubber. “We have to go,” I said to Jim and we ran for the front door. I looked back. The squid looked at me with its one remaining eye and muttered “I will get YOU!” before it screamed it’s final screams. We went outside. The house was gutted. The fire brigade put the fire out and the police did their investigations. We told them the story, but they didn’t believe us. In fact, I was fined for wasting police time. Next time, they said, they’d press charges. I never told them we started the fire. Arson is a terrible crime. The fire crew brought out a green pack that was slightly large. It was a heavy duty refuse sack. Yes! I thought. They’ve got the remains of that fucking squid! A burly fireman came over to where we stood with the policeman and said “we found your dog. Burned to a crisp. What do you want us to do with it?” I could only stare at him, and my mother started screaming. We stayed with our aunt for the rest of that year. My sleep was never the same. I stayed in the same room as my cousin, Jack. What little sleep I did get, came in the early hours. It tried to evade me, but, by God, sleep DID come, only after I could hear the faint giggles of children, and the sound of slime dripping on the floor.

From Horror photos & videos May 22, 2018 at 08:01PM