 ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Lawler, and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved, and unexplained. While listening, be sure to check out the Weird Darkness website. At WeirdDarkness.com you can sign up for the newsletter to win monthly prizes, find paranormal and horror audiobooks I've narrated, watch old horror movies for free, listen to my other podcast, The Church of the Undead, plus you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Coming up in this episode, it's Creepy Pasta Thursday. From CreepyPasta.com, Evelyn Burstrand has crafted an amazing tale about a grandchild finding out something incredibly disturbing about a deceased grandparent with the story my grandmother left behind some really dark secrets. I'm highlighting stories from Christopher Maxim. He's written close to 30 stories on Reddit from what I've been able to find, and those stories of his that have been posted to CreepyPasta.com almost always score over 8 or 9 out of 10 stars, which is quite an accomplishment on the site for a single author with so many stories. Tonight I'll be sharing Christopher Maxim's tales, and the last is considered by many a classic Creepypasta. Redditor NS Lewis brings us a story where just the title grabbed me, My Wife Has a Removable Face. Another Redditor by the name of R.L. Rogers tells us about the asylum in the woods, and we'll learn about a secret bar as told by author K. Banning-Kellum. And then I'll come back later with some classic horror from a master, H.P. Lovecraft. But first up, I'm reaching back to 1893 for a classic tale of horror written by an American Civil War soldier, wit and writer, Ambrose Beers. The story, the damned thing, appeared in the magazine Town Topics on December 7th in 1893. The magazine interestingly enough not known for horror at all, but more for art, music and society. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the weird darkness. Chapter 1 One does not always eat what is on the table. By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light on it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the moon, darkening a number of faces and figures, or besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent, motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm, any of them could have touched the eighth man who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet his arms at his sides. He was dead. The man with the book was not reading aloud and no one spoke. All seemed to be waiting for something to occur. The dead man only was without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in through the aperture that served for a window all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness, the long nameless note of a distant coyote, the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees, strange cries of nightbirds so different from those of the birds of day, the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seemed always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company. Its members were not over much addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance. That was obvious in every line of their faces, obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. There were evidently men of the vicinity, farmers and woodsmen. The person reading was a trifle different. One would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco. His foot gear was not of urban origin and the hat that lay by him on the floor, he was the only one uncovered, was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. Its countenance the man was rather prepossessing with just a hint of sternness though he may have assumed or cultivated as appropriate to one an authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading. It had been found among the dead man's effects in his cabin where the inquest was now taking place. When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He clearly was not of mountain birth and breeding. He was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty however as from travel. He had in fact been riding hard to attend the inquest. The coroner nodded. No one else greeted him. We have waited for you said the coroner. It is necessary to have to be done with this business tonight. The young man smiled. I am sorry to have kept you. He said. I went away not to avoid your summons but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate. The coroner smiled. The account that you posted to your newspaper, he said, differs probably from that which you will give here under oath. That, replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, is as you please. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news for it is incredible but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony under oath. But you say it is incredible. That is nothing to use, sir, if I also swear that it is true. The coroner was silent for a time. His eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said, We will resume the inquest. The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn. What is your name? The coroner asked. William Harker. Age? 27. You knew the deceased's Hugh Morgan? Yes. You were with him when he died? Near him. How did that happen? Your presence, I mean. I was visiting him at his place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him and his odd solitary way of life. He seemed like a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories. I sometimes read them. Thank you. Stories in general, not yours. Some of the jurors laughed. Against a somber background, humor shows high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise. Relate the circumstances of this man's death, said the coroner. You may use any notes or memoranda that you please. The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket, he held it near the candle and, turning the leaves until he found the passage that he wanted, began to read. Chapter 2 What May Happen in a Field of Wild Oats The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral, Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Suddenly we heard, at a little distance to our right and partly in front, a noise as from some animal thrashing about in the bushes which we could see were violently agitated. We've started a deer, I said. I wish we had brought a rifle. Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated chaparral, said nothing, but had cocked both barrels of his gun and was holding it in readiness to aim. I thought him a trifle excited which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness, even in moments of sudden and imminent peril. Oh, come, I said. You're not going to fill up a deer with quail shot, are you? Still, he did not reply, but catching a side of his face as he turned it slightly towards me, I was struck by the intensity of his look. Then I understood that we had serious business in hand, and my first conjecture was that we had jumped a-grisly. I advanced to Morgan's side, cocking my piece as I moved. The bushes were now quiet and the sounds ceased, but Morgan was as attentive to the place as before. What is it? What the devil is it? I asked. That damned thing, he replied, without turning his head. His voice was husky and unnatural. He trembled visibly. I was about to speak further when I observed the wild oats near the place of the disturbance moving in the most inexplicable way. I can hardly describe it. It seemed as if stirred by a streak of wind which not only bent it, but pressed it down, crushed it so that it did not rise, and this movement was slowly prolonging itself directly towards us. Nothing that I had ever seen had affected me so strangely as this unfamiliar and unaccountable phenomenon, yet I am unable to recall any sense of fear. I remember and tell it here because singularly enough I recollected it then that once in looking out of an open window, I momentarily mistook a small tree close at hand for one of a group of larger trees at a little distance away. It looked the same size as the others, but being more distinctly and sharply defined in mass and detail seemed out of harmony with them. It was a mere falsification of the law of aerial perspective, but it startled almost terrified me. We so rely upon the orderly operation of familiar natural laws that any seeming suspension of them is noted as a menace to our safety, a warning of unthinkable calamity. So now the apparent causeless movement of the hermage and the slow, undeviating approach of the line of disturbance were distinctly disquieting. My companion appeared actually frightened, and I could hardly credit my senses when I saw him suddenly throw his gun to his shoulder and fire both barrels at the agitated grain. Before the smoke of the discharge had cleared away, I heard a loud, savage cry, a scream like that of a wild animal, and flinging his gun upon the ground, Morgan sprang away and ran swiftly from the spot. At the same instant I was thrown violently to the ground by the impact of something unseen in the smoke, some soft, heavy substance that seemed thrown against me with great force. Before I could get upon my feet and recover my gun, which seemed to have been struck from my hands, I heard Morgan crying out as if in mortal agony, and mingling with his cries were such hoarse, savage sounds as one hears from fighting dogs. Inexpressibly terrified, I struggled to my feet and looked in the direction of Morgan's retreat, and may heaven in mercy spare me from another sight like that. At a distance of less than thirty yards was my friend, down upon one knee, his head thrown back at a frightful angle. Catlus, his long hair in disorder and his whole body in violent movement from side to side, backward and forward, his right arm was lifted and seemed to lack the hand, at least I could see none. The other arm was invisible. At times, as my memory now reports this extraordinary scene, I could discern but a part of his body. It was as if he had been partly blotted out. I could not otherwise express it, and that a shifting of his position would bring it all into view again. All this must have occurred within a few seconds, yet in that time, Morgan assumed all the postures of a determined wrestler, vanquished by a superior weight and strength. I saw nothing but him and him not always distinctly. During the entire incident, his shouts and curses were heard as if through an enveloping uproar of such sounds of rage and fury as I had never heard from the throat of man or brute. For a moment only, I stood irresolute. Then throwing down my gun, I ran forward to my friend's assistance. I had a vague belief that he was suffering from a fit or some form of convulsion. Before I could reach his side, he was down and quiet. All sounds had ceased, but with a feeling of such terror as even these awful events had not inspired, I now saw again the mysterious movement of the wild oats prolonging itself from the trampled area about the prostrate man toward the edge of a wood. It was only when it had reached the wood that I was able to withdraw my eyes and look at my companion. He was dead. Chapter 3 A man, though naked, may be in rags. The coroner rose from his seat and stood beside the dead man. Lifting an edge of the sheet, he pulled it away, exposing the entire body, altogether naked and showing in the candlelight a clay-like yellow. It had, however, broad maculations of bluish black, obviously caused by extravasated blood from contusions. The chest and sides looked as if they had been beaten with a bludgeon. There were dreadful lacerations. The skin was torn in strips and shreds. The coroner moved round to the end of the table and undid a silk handkerchief which had been passed under the chin and knotted on the top of the head. When the handkerchief was drawn away, it exposed what had been the throat. Some of the jurors who had risen to get a better view repented their curiosity and turned away their faces. Witness Harger went to the open window and leaned out to cross the sill, faint and sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man's neck, the coroner stopped to an angle of the room and from a pile of clothing produced one garment after another, each of which he held up a moment for inspection. All were torn and stiff with blood. The jurors did not make a closer inspection. They seemed rather uninterested. They had in truth seen all this before. The only new thing that was new to them being Harger's testimony. "'Gentlemen,' the coroner said. "'We have no more evidence, I think. Your duty has been already explained to you. If there is nothing you wish to ask, you may go outside and consider your verdict.'" The foreman rose. The tall bearded man of sixty coarsely clad. "'I shall like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner,' he said. "'What asylum did this your last witness escape from?' "'Mr. Harger,' said the coroner gravely and tranquilly. "'From what asylum did you last escape?' Harger flushed crimson again, but said nothing. And the seven jurors rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin. "'If you have done insulting me, sir,' said Harger, as soon as he and the officer were left alone with the dead man, "'I suppose I'm at liberty to go?' "'Yes,' Harger started to leave, but paused with his hand on the door latch. The habit of his profession was strong in him, stronger than his sense of personal dignity. He turned about and said, "'The book you have there. I recognize it as Morgan's diary. You seemed greatly interested in it. You read in it while I was testifying. "'May I see it?' The public would like, "'The book will cut no figure in this matter,' replied the official, slipping it into his coat pocket. "'All the entries in it were made before the writer's death.' As Harger passed out of the house, the jury re-entered and stood about the table. On which the now-covered corpse showed under the sheet with sharp definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle, produced from his breast pocket a pencil and scrap a paper, and wrote rather laboriously the following verdict, which, with various degrees of effort, all signed. "'We, the jury, do find that the remains come to their death at the hands of a mountain lion. But some of us thinks all the same they had fits.'" Chapter 4 An Explanation From The Tomb In the diary of the late Hugh Morgan, are certain interesting entries, having possibly a scientific value as suggestions. At the inquest upon his body, the book was not put in evidence. Possibly the coroner thought it not worthwhile to confuse the jury. The date of the first of the entries mentioned cannot be ascertained. The upper part of the leaf is torn away. The part of the entry remaining follows. Would run in half-circle, keeping his head turned always toward the center, and again he would stand still, barking furiously. At last he ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought at first that he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no other alteration in this manner than what was obviously due to fear of punishment. Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some cerebral center with images of the thing that emitted them? September 2nd Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively disappear, from left to right. Each was eclipsed, but in instant, and only a few at a time. But along the entire length of the ridge, all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out. It was as if something had passed along between me and them, but I could not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its outline. Don't like this. Several weeks entries are missing. Three leaves being torn from the book. September 27. It's been about here again. I find evidences of its presence every day. I watched again all last night in the same cover, gun in hand, double charged with buckshot. In the morning the fresh footprints were there as before, yet I would have sworn that I did not sleep. Indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible, insupportable. If these amazing experiences are real, I shall go mad. They are fanciful. I am mad already. October 3. I shall not go. It shall not drive me away. No, this is my house, my land. God hates a coward. October 5. I can stand it no longer. I have invited Harker to pass a few weeks with me. He has a level head. I can judge from his manner if he thinks me mad. October 7. I have the solution of the mystery. It came to me last night. Suddenly, as by revelation, how simple, how terribly simple. There are sounds we cannot hear at either end of the scale are notes that stir no chord of that imperfect instrument to the human ear. They are too high or too grave. I have observed a flock of blackbirds occupying an entire treetop, the tops of several trees and all in full song. Suddenly, in a moment at absolutely the same instant, all spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not all see one another, whole treetops intervened. At no point could a leader have been visible to all. There must have been a signal of warning or command high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard. I have observed too the same simultaneous flight when all were silent among not only blackbirds but other birds, quail, for example, widely separated by bushes, even on opposite sides of a hill. It is known to seaman that a school of whales basking or sporting on the surface of the ocean miles apart with the convexity of the earth between will sometimes dive at the same instant, all gone out of sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded, too grave for the ear of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck, who nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a cathedral are stirred by the base of the organ. As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum, the chemists can detect the presence of what are known as actinic rays. They represent colors, integral colors in the composition of light, which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect instrument. Its range is but a few octaves of the real chromatic scale. I am not mad. There are colors that we cannot see. And God help me. The damned thing is of such a color. Up next, it is a modern Creepypasta. Imagine a grandparent passing away and then finding out that that grandparent had some really dark secrets. A truly macabre story by Evelyn Bertrand is up next on Weird Darkness. When Salem Roanoke took a job near his family's new home as a hired hand in the Texas hill country, he anticipated learning the rancher's trade but a series of strange events, shocking murders, and unholy revelations divert him down another path. This terrifying trajectory puts him directly into the middle of a struggle between monsters, magic, and men. Armed and backed by a militia of ranchers, Salem attempts to combat the creeping tide of evil that threatens to engulf his new home and destroy the people most important to him. Will Salem manage to save his home or have his actions condemn everyone he hopes to save? The Witch Trials, a summer of wolves and season of the witch by SR Roanoke. Available in paperback, Kindle, and audiobook versions, look for The Witch Trials by SR Roanoke on Amazon or find it on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash audiobooks. I really don't know where to start with this, except to say that my grandmother, God rest her soul, has never been a mystery to me. She was an open book to all of us, especially my mother, giving us a sense of security and comfort during really hard times. My mom's car accident in the following coma, my learning struggles, my brother's drug abuse, and she always did it with a smile on her face, telling us that everything's going to be all right, dear, just you wait and see. And things would always work out for us in the end. Always. The man who caused my mom's car accident not only had to pay for the hospital bills, he also had to pay her damages when she sued him in court, a substantial amount that a man of his status could more than afford. After a few tutoring lessons with my grandmother, I began excelling in school and ended up as a valedictorian. My brother never had an overdose, but instead chose to enter rehab after a short conversation with my grandmother and the family. Anytime we would tell our grandmother the good news, she would smile and nod her head, telling us, see, I told you everything was going to be all right, and then she'd give us cookies or make us a great meal. Over the meal, she'd tell us stories about her own mistakes from when she was a child. Like the time she snuck out of the house at 13 to have a cigarette with the boy next door and ended up getting sick. She'd also give us lessons from when she was an adult, twice divorced before ultimately meeting and marrying my grandfather at the tender age of 26 and giving birth to eight children afterwards. She was always quick to point out her flaws and what she learned from her experiences, both at home and in the workplace, as she worked as a schoolteacher until she retired at the age of 72. I could always go to my grandmother and talk to her about anything, even though I have a strong relationship with my mother, my sisters and my brothers. She'd listen to me without interrupting and then ask me for my feelings on the situation or issue before asking me if I would like her opinion. She never judged me, she never pressured me to do anything, and she'd always take care to make sure that I was feeling better about the situation than I had before I spoke with her. All of this to say that she passed away last week. I know this kind of sounds like a eulogy, but I promise it's not. The reason I can say that is because, well, everything surrounding her death and the events leading up to this post have been very strange. Strange and dark. My grandmother did not live in the continental United States. She lived in Puerto Rico, in the same house that she'd been gifted by my grandfather's parents when they got married. My entire family is spread out across the U.S., and we're all adults now, and my parents decided to move back east. When I first got the call that my grandmother had passed, both my mother, who phoned to tell me, and I, we assumed it was due to her age. She was in her late 90s, and although she was in good health, one can assume that there's not much time left when you're pushing a hundred, you know? But that wasn't the case. I found out later that my grandmother had died not at home, but in the church down the street. The church is open to worship 24-7, and since Hurricane Maria, it's been a refuge of sorts for the community. She'd spent a lot of time there, which my mother appreciated as the community always sought to look after her, and she didn't die of old age. The Padre of the church told me that she'd been completely fine in the church when he noticed her at 11 a.m., the only other person in the church at the time. He even spoke to her before running a quick errand, which took less than 10 minutes. When he got back, the grandmother was lying face down inside the pew that she'd been sat in, clutching a Bible in one hand into black rosary in the other. When the Padre turned her over, her eyes were open with a slight smirk on her face. That's creepy, right? An old woman passes away in a church with a smirk on her face? Gives me the chills every time I think about it. But it gets stranger. My mother made it through the Novena, the nine nights of mourning that our family observes during the passing of relatives and loved ones. But she just couldn't bear the thought of clearing out the house her mother had spent the better part of 70 years in. Just too many memories. So she sent my sister Ava and I to do it. I'm not going to recount the journey there, because it was boring until we got to the island. We went straight from the airport to our grandmother's house, which had been left untouched except for the memorial the community left outside. Then we got to work cleaning the house. We started in the kitchen, which is small and barely fits two people. It's basically a hallway. You can stand in the middle of the kitchen, stretch out both your hands and touch both counters. This is where we found the first odd thing. Deep in a cupboard underneath the counter, we found an old shoebox filled with feathers. Okay, not that weird, right? Except they all had blood splatter on them and had red or black string tying the bundles together. The feathers also seemed to have something written on them, but time had erased them so well we couldn't figure out what it said. I thought it was weird, but Ava? Ava was extremely disturbed. Let me stop here and say something. Ava and I have always been close, but our views of religion, faith and spirituality differ quite a bit. While I'm agnostic, she's pagan in her views. I find it fascinating that she has devoted her entire life to the study of the esoteric and the occult. She even has a master's in semiotics, whatever that is, and is a researcher at her university in the field. Ava told me that it looked like folk magic, which I brushed off. My grandmother was a devout Catholic. She had been her entire life. While she never discriminated against any religion or faith, she was not one to ever speak about folk magic. I changed my mind, though, when I found the books. Ava and I had been in our grandmother's bedroom several times. We camp out there during our summer trips and watch movies on her little CRT TV and have midnight snacks. She'd watch the horror movies with us. She'd also do my sister's hair and nails in her bedroom, giving her a makeover as often as she wanted. I never saw anything weird while we were there. It was while we were clearing out her closet that we found it. Another box. This one was old, made of real wood with brass hardware. It was big, too, almost as big as a trunk, and it was buried in a dresser that stood in her closet. We both thought it was really heavy and when we opened it, we found out why. There were two large books, seemingly handmade, stacked on top of each other. There was no indication of what the books were about just by looking at them. One was black, the other was red, both had a gold leaf symbol on the spine, but other than that, they were just leather-bound books. I opened the first one and found that the first page was devoted to a name that I'd never seen before. Ava recognized it, though, and forbade me from ever speaking the name out loud or even writing it down. I'll just say that the name was Maria. Her initial reaction to seeing the name freaked me out, but nothing ever prepared me for her taking the book, flipping through it, getting a shot to look on her face and then telling me, This is bad. This is really bad. I took the book back and flipped through it. I couldn't read any of the writing. To me, it just looked like scribbles and symbols. The drawings that accompanied most of the pages made a little more sense, but those were disturbing. Pictures of decapitated animals, people's portraits with a large X over their face or scribbles over their eyes, nose or mouth, weird plants and symbols. Sigils, not symbols, Ava would tell me later when I asked about it. She also told me that the book, which was the black book, was a grimoire. It was used to record spells and their results, along with other information in this particular folk magic. It's really weird, Ava said as she flipped through the book. This type of magic isn't usually practiced in this area. I wonder where she picked it up. It took me a second to realize that she was actually saying that our grandmother, a school teacher and the rock of our family, was a practicing occultist. I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. It would have sounded hollow coming from my throat because the realization that was setting in was that our sweet grandmother was not so sweet after all. The Red Book. The Journal. Man, I wish I'd never taken a look at it. I'm serious. I've been having nightmares about it since reading parts of it. My dreams are just the words on the page accompanied by my grandmother's voice and images about how she might have done what she did. The Red Book was a journal about how my grandmother had taken it upon herself to use her magical practices to influence our lives, and I don't mean in good ways. Remember how I said my grandmother would never pressure me into anything? Well, that's not true. She apparently used magic to influence not only my teachers into being more lenient with my grades until I could get a handle on my education, but she influenced what I studied later on in college, the college I attended, and even chose my fiancee for me based on what she wanted me to accomplish. She had even done some sort of banishing ritual to get rid of my former girlfriend who I mourned for a year because she died in a freak accident on the very day that I was going to propose to her. And she did it to every single one of my family members. This was all recorded in the journal, which we found later was the last in a series of over 30. We found them hidden in the garage in a large hole under a loose tile. The records went back to her adolescence, in fact. The things she had done both with her magic and on her own were haunting, people that she had neutralized, events that she had set in motion to punish others, and most disturbing how she had managed to get rid of her first two husbands and later my own grandfather. I'm still not sure what the journal means by this, but apparently she sacrificed them all to Maria, the entity the grimoire was dedicated to. She'd finally found an acceptable partner in my grandfather, but when he found out about her practices when they were both in their 70s, she sacrificed him too. A grandfather's death was sudden, unexpected and odd. The doctors didn't know why a fit man in his 70s who still went on regular runs, ate a vegetarian diet and didn't drink or smoke would crash his rental car into a harbor during the day and not try to escape. They found his body in the car still strapped in, his hands on the wheel, his hands on the wheel, his eyes wide open and a look of confusion on his face. He had made no attempt to be saved by the people who jumped in to help him, having locked the doors and unusual habit for him prior to going into the harbor. He just let himself expire. We read all the journals that day and well into the night. We'd each read a journal, then swap, moving our way backwards through our grandmother's life. There's so much in those journals, just too much to put here. One thing is clear, if these journals are true and my grandmother wasn't senile, then she had caused so much damage and grief in the course of her life that it would break our mother's heart. She too had lost former boyfriends. Eva lost some children and these events were unfortunately also in the book. Telling her might cause her to spiral into a depression. So Eva and I came up with a plan. Eva would take the books, the feathers and the other weird things we found in the house. The garden in particular held a lot of disgusting secrets with her so she could research everything further. I would help her clean out the rest of the house, dispose of what wasn't needed, go through everything we were going to take back to our mother and never ever mention the things we found. The one thing that gets me is this. My grandmother started some sort of ritual the day that she passed. It was the last recorded entry and she described going to the lair of the enemy to conduct the ritual. It also states that her heir would take up the mantle of the work and complete it, but no heir was named. My mother has four sisters and three brothers so I suppose it could have been any of them. However, our mother is the eldest so it would make sense that it would be her. Until Eva pointed something else out, a grandmother had given every member of her line including our family little symbols. These would appear in the grimoire and the journals indicating which family member was being targeted or having magic used to help them. My symbol showed up above the air word in the journal. I spent a week since we left Puerto Rico and my sister keeps telling me not to be worried. Still, when she says it I know she's lying. She's worried and well, I am too. Because at night, right before I fall asleep to the sounds of my fiance playing video games in the living room, I can see my grandmother standing at the foot of my bed, smiling at me. Behind her stands a tall slender woman, her left arm around my grandmother's waist and her right hand beckoning me to her. The Blood Keeper I live in a small but lively town in Massachusetts. Its local legends have fueled my love affair with the paranormal. It's a subject that fascinates me to this day. Coupled with insomnia, this passion led me to spend many a night at the nearby cemetery, hoping to see a ghostly apparition while walking through to pass the time. These outings were unfruitful, void of all activity, supernatural or otherwise. My dream of stealing a glimpse at what comes after eventually subsided, but I continued to visit the graves. It was a place where I could collect my thoughts when sleep eluded me. One night, however, something changed. It was a dark spring evening. I was bored, couldn't sleep, and felt the need to do something outdoors in the cool night air. As it so often did, the local graveyard called out to me. I obliged, unable to resist the allure of its calming nature. Sometimes, I was even tempted to set up camp there and sleep amongst the dead. Knowing this would be frowned upon and perhaps morbid, I settled for my walks. They were enough to make me at least somewhat weary by night's end. After a couple of hours there, I decided on one last stroll along the headstones in an attempt to become tired before heading home. Upon starting my walk, I noticed something. There was a light on in a groundskeeper's shack. It wasn't like him to be working so late. This wasn't completely out of the ordinary, until you factored in the large, gaping hole nearby, big enough for several caskets. It was a miracle I hadn't fallen into it earlier in the night. Curious as to what the old man was up to, I crept over to the shack, making my way to the busted window on its side. What I saw was strange. Inside were nine men wearing tattered, blue shrouds, partaking in a makeshift feast. The main course was an oily red stew with a horrific smell that permeated the shack's walls and ventured up my nasal passages, tempting me to gag. The men winced when putting it to their lips, save for three. A tall man at the end of the table and the two sat beside him. When the feast was over, this tall figure stood up and addressed the room. Hello newcomers, I hope dinner has been to your liking. He spoke with a firm voice. It resonated throughout the shack and beckoned even me to listen. Now that our bellies are full, Elijah will explain the rules of your impending trial. I listened closely. It seemed the men in the shack were part of a collective known as the Blood Lights. The trial the tall man spoke of was something akin to a medieval gladiator sport used to initiate new members. I listened on as Elijah divulged the game's inner workings, fearful but curious. Two teams were to disperse to opposite sides of the cemetery, each consisting of four members, three blood runners and one blood baron. The initiates would be the runners and the tall man's henchmen would act as the barons. There was one more participant to be discussed, the tall man himself. He was the blood keeper. Though not on either team, he was the most crucial facet of the game. He kept and guarded what was referred to as the blood. I gathered that this referred to the red amulet hanging from the keeper's neck, as he firmly clasped it every time the word blood was uttered. The job of the runners was to retrieve the blood from the keeper. The barons acted as counsel, overseeing each team and helping where needed. After Elijah finished his lecture, the blood keeper took over. With every wound, there is blood. With every drop of blood, there is solace. Without death, there can be no light. The keeper opened a large cupboard in the corner of the shack, revealing a woman, bound and gagged, futilely attempting to cry out for help. My heart sank. This was not your normal run of the mill cult ritual. I had to find help, but what if they heard me? Unable to nail down my next course of action, I was immobile, frozen in fear. The blood keeper continued, the light of blood can only be seen in death. Pulling a large red dagger out from his cloak, he grabbed the woman and plunged it into her gut. I watched in horror as the life left her eyes. She began to shriek but was soon cut off by a cut to the chest, followed by a final blow to her neck. I was mortified. After throwing his kill to the floor, the keeper pulled out three vials, filling each of them with the blood that dripped from his blade. This was the blood the runners were after, not the annulate. This is all the blood I have to offer. That gives at most three of you the opportunity to become bloodlights. And remember, you are being watched. Those who fail to collect must be disposed of. The same goes for any outsider you encounter. Corpses are to be thrown in the pit. Dear God, I was truly in danger. That's what the nearby hole was for. The perfect hiding spot for a mass grave. You will stop at nothing to obtain one of these vials. All others will be sacrificed. Your thirst for blood must be as strong as your will to live. The men exited the shack to begin the trial. I scurried silently to the wooded part of the graveyard and hid behind a large tree, not wanting to end up like that poor woman. I just needed an opening to escape without being noticed. Glancing out at the cemetery, I saw a runner knelt before a grave. Eyes closed. I assumed this was a requirement before the game commenced. A perfect chance for me to make a run for it. Let the trial begin. The bloodkeeper's voice echoed through the trees before I could even take a single step towards safety. My survival still hung in the balance. Using a moonlit pool of water by my feet as a reflective surface, I watched as Elijah and three runners strategized just 10 yards from my position. My heart was pounding so hard I was worried they would hear it. Between the beating in my chest and the conspiring whispers that filled the forest, my ears were consumed with an unsettling symphony of torture. Just when I couldn't bear another moment, silence cut through the brisk night air like the keeper's dagger piercing that woman's skin. A chill then burrowed into my spine. The puddle's reflection bore no cloaked figures. Peering out from behind the tree confirmed that they were gone or at least nowhere to be seen. This was my chance. Looking off into the distance, I saw a tomb by the main road, maybe 100 yards away. It would provide the perfect cover to escape towards civilization, but there was no way I could waltz over there without being seen. The woods wrapped around the cemetery, so running from tree to tree would strengthen my odds of survival. I took a deep breath, embraced myself. Without so much as a second thought, I dashed to the next tree on the path to safety and took cover. I then gathered my wits and surveyed my surroundings. No cloaks in sight. I sprinted to the next tree and took another glimpse out at the world. The coast was still clear. As I was about to take off in the direction of my next hiding spot, panic sat in as my feet inexplicably left solid ground. My blood ran cold as I was lifted into the air by some unseen force. The next thing I knew, my body was hoisted up and placed atop a tree branch. There I was greeted by the unnerving sight of my captor, a blood runner. I didn't scream or try to get away. It would be no use. I sat there in terror and exhaled what I thought would be my last breath. Instead of gutting me, the man spoke. What's your name? I was too shocked to respond. Come on now. Who are you? He spoke clearer this time, revealing a slight English accent. Look, I noticed you at the window over there, leaves dropping. If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you then. I want you to help me. Help you, I ask. Yes, I'm going to use you to my advantage. I take it you know what we are doing here, and you know the rules of the game. I nodded slowly, still shook. Good. With you, I may be able to turn the tables and get the upper hand. I was frightened, but I calmed down enough to focus on the runner's plan. See that tomb over there? That's where the blood keeper is. My stomach turned to think this guy may have just saved my life. I need you to go over to the tomb and open the door slowly. The blood keeper will surely take a swing at you. Just as he's about to end your life, I'll swoop in and end his. But why, I asked. That's not part of the game. Right you are. You need not concern yourself with the why. Just know that if you don't do as I say, I will kill you myself. Now, get going. The man gave me his cloak for protection and pushed me out of the tree. I didn't want to risk facing the blood keeper, but I didn't want to perish at the runner's hands either. My fear of dying kept me from deviating. I again ran from tree to tree, eventually making it to my destination. The stench of blood shed wafting through the air as runners fought for control of the field. With my back pressed to the cold, aged stone, the pull to escape grew. The main road was within reach, but the thought quickly subsided. I was far too worried the Englishman would catch up with me and take his price. He was able to climb a tree and lift my weight into it without a sound. It was clear he possessed the agility and stealth needed to take me by surprise during a haphazard run for the hills. I sighed in defeat, knowing that one way or another, I would probably die that night. Mustering up every bit of courage I had left, I crept around the tomb and faced its door. My shaking hands reached for the rusted handle and pulled it towards me. Before its hinges could even creak at the motion, the door burst open, pushed from within. The force knocked me over, my head connecting with the unforgiving ground. The moments that came after remained fuzzy. The blood keeper towered over me, half of his body in shadow, the other soaked in moonlight, a vision of death there to steal the blood from my racing heart. My eyes grew weary and shut for an instant before opening to see another figure. I couldn't make out who was who in my dazed state, but one attacked the other, completely overpowering them. The prey in the scuffle fell to his knees before landing face first into the cold, cemetery soil. The familiar sound of metal colliding with flesh rang through the air as the victor saw to it that the job was done. I prayed it was the blood keeper being torn apart, otherwise I was a goner. My eyes shut again before unconsciousness finally took hold. Hey, are you all right? I heard an old man's voice as I came to. Are you okay? I opened my eyes to see who it was. The groundskeeper stood over me, holding a lantern to my face. What? How? Where are they? Where's who? He asked. You don't understand. I should be dead. The groundskeeper stared at me, confused, but then smiled. Come on, you cats cold out here. The groundskeeper, who I now know to be Pete, invited me into his shack. He prepared some food and tossed me a blanket to keep warm. Thankful and in need of an ear to fill, I told him everything, despite how I knew it would sound. I didn't describe the man by their given titles, but Pete seemed to know who I was talking about. Sounds like you had a run-in with the blood keeper. That's him. How did you know? His spirit has been visiting these grounds for over a hundred years now, I suppose. His spirit? Incredible. It was all haunting. Something I always thought I wanted to experience firsthand. Pete and I talked for a long while. He knew all about the bloodlights and their dastardly deeds. Apparently there was a sadistic cult that formed in the 1800s, terrorizing the local community. Each bloodlight initiation brought with it more disappearances. They used the cemetery as a space for their trials, burying casualties and sacrifices at the end of every night. After all, who would look for the bodies in a graveyard? Over 50 souls fell victim to the bloodlights before their sinister games were brought to a halt. During their last outing, an Englishman infiltrated their ranks and killed the blood keeper, avenging the death of his wife who had been murdered during one of the trials. Soon after, his disciples came forward claiming to have been controlled by the keeper's amulet, alleging that it had supernatural powers. No such amulet was ever recovered. After Pete explained everything, I sat in awe. Dumbstruck by the whole ordeal. Had I relived that fateful night? Or did I time travel and help that man fulfill his goal? I may never know what happened that day, but one thing is certain. I will never visit another cemetery for as long as I live. Just in case the ghost of the blood keeper is still out there, making his rounds. More stories from author Christopher Maxim when Creepypasta Thursday returns on Weird Darkness. Are you a member of the Darkness Syndicate? The Darkness Syndicate is a private membership where you receive commercial free episodes of the Weird Darkness podcast and radio show. Behind the scenes, video updates about future projects and events I am working on. You can share your own opinions on ideas to help me decide upon Weird Darkness contests and events. You can hear audiobooks I am narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You also receive bonus audio of other projects I am working on outside of Weird Darkness. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Weird Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com A diner opened 25 hours a day. Late one night, I found myself driving down what seemed like an endless stretch of road. I was on my way back from a week-long business trip, facing at least a 12-hour drive home. Having always been scared of flying, the monotonous trek was unavoidable. Though tedious and sometimes downright soul-crushing, I'd grown used to the lonely road trips back and forth from state to state. In an effort to minimize my commute, I usually refrained from making pit stops. I'd push through exhaustion and discomfort, making my way home in one fell swoop. I would then enter my bedroom and meet my blankets with a hard dud, falling asleep almost immediately after my head hit the pillow, picturing my eventual slumber as what kept my foot on the gas pedal. On this drive, however, I grew particularly hungry. I tried to ignore the feeling, but this became increasingly difficult as the night went on. I found myself longing for a sustenance, fantasizing about dreadful gas station food, anything that would placate my insatiable late-night hunger. I was between a rock and a hard place, as tightly squished as one could be. Unable to fight off the urge to eat any longer, I gave in to my stomachs groaning and got off the highway somewhere in Massachusetts. I'd been to the state on several occasions, but this time I was in unfamiliar territory. There were many trees, more than the average Cape Sidetown. On top of that, there were no buildings in sight. Despite the lack of residential growth, I was sure I could sniff out a convenience store and indulge in a microwave burrito or a slice of rubbery pizza. I drove on for what must have been 30 minutes or so. No gas stations, no fast food joints, no buildings of any kind, just miles and miles of wooded area. Worst of all, I didn't even have a phone signal to pull up my GPS. I was just about to give up on Operation Midnight Snack when I saw faint glow off in the distance. This signal to me that I must have been reaching the outskirts of civilization. Furthermore, it meant nourishment was just around the corner. As I approached the glimmering light, I realized it was that of a large neon sign. Coming closer, I was able to make out what it said. Supernova Diner, followed by an even larger subheading, opened 25 hours a day. I guessed that they really wanted to drive the We Never Close angle home and in a cheeky manner no less. Cheekier and larger still, there was a big flashing arrow beneath the sign, pointing to the diner in question. Hungry as ever, I pulled in without hesitation. I jumped out of my car and rushed towards the entrance, but not before taking a quick look at the place. It was a beautiful, retro-themed, silver boxcar diner. The smooth metal exterior gleamed in the moonlight as I walked up. It was so sleek and well-crafted that I wondered why it was located in the middle of nowhere. Could they really get by on the odd passerby here and there? After admiring the diner's craftsmanship, I barged in, intent on satisfying my late night case of the munchies. The diner was void of life, but I heard a voice yell out from the kitchen, be right there! While I waited for service, I surveyed my surroundings. A gorgeous red checkerboard pattern painted the interior of the building. Lining the perimeter were red booths and tables, so immaculate they looked as though they'd never been touched by human hands. To top it all off, there was a row of similarly red, identical cushioned bar stools at the counter. The diner definitely had a classic 50s vibe to it. It was too crisp and clean to feel truly authentic. After a few minutes of waiting, a middle-aged man came out of the kitchen, drying his hand with a dish rag. Hello there! Welcome to the Supernova Diner! My name is Hank, and I'll be your server tonight. How can I help you? Hank wore a retro soda-jerk cap, a comically large bow tie, a spotless white apron, and a smile almost too wide for his face. He pointed up at the large menu on the wall behind him when I noticed quicky food items like the Milky Way Shake, Galaxy Sliders, and Planet Fries. Yeah, I'll have whatever the special is. I didn't feel like asking him to translate the menu for me, plus I didn't really care what I was eating so long as my stomach stopped growling. The Nebula Express coming right up! Hank shot me another awkwardly wide smile. To escape his eager glare, I pulled out my phone and glanced at the screen. Still no signal, but I noticed that it was approaching midnight. I groaned a bit, knowing that my detour had cost me a swift return home. Still, I knew I couldn't ignore my biological needs any longer. I would have ended up stopping at some point anyway. I put my phone in my pocket and looked up at the counter. Hank was still there, smiling away. Uh, shouldn't you be getting my order? He didn't react to my query. Instead, he remained silent and motionless. Okay then, I'm going to leave now. Bye. Just as I turned around ahead for the door, Hank spoke up. I wouldn't do that if I were you. What was that? I asked. Well, it would be a waste of time. I turned back and glared at him. What are you talking about? Are you going to go get my food or not? He laughed at me. He can't leave now. The fun is just about to begin. Your order is being prepared as we speak. Just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. Hank pulled out a stopwatch from his apron. The digital readout appeared to be counting backward from an hour. I didn't know if it was a restaurant gimmick or a strange prank at my expense, but either way, I was fed up. Bye, Hank. It's been weird. Thanks for nothing. I turned around and continued marching towards the exit. As I did this, my jaw dropped. The door was gone. My eyes quickly darted from left to right, revealing to me that the windows had vanished as well. There was nothing but continuous wall on either side of me. Perplexed, I looked back to Hank. He chuckled to himself and then asked me a question. So, how do you like your meat? What? I asked, completely dazed. Your meat? How do you like it? Well done. I like it well done. Well done, huh? I like my meat as red as possible. A little color does the body good. I looked at him confused. Hank, where's the door? Well, let's just say it's temporarily unavailable. Anything else I can help you with? Yeah, what the hell is going on here? Well, there are a number of possibilities. I've outlined them here on the menu. Hank pointed up at the menu again, only this time the food items were gone. The letters had seemingly been rearranged to form bullet points numbered one to three. I read them aloud. One, during your business trip, one of your colleagues slipped you some LSD as part of a half-hearted practical joke. What you are experiencing now is a product of the drug's potent hallucinogenic properties. I like that one, thanks, Ed. Unluckily, but it's fun, wouldn't you say? I moved on to the next possibility. Two, you fell asleep at the wheel. This is merely a vivid dream that will continue until you inevitably crash your car and die on impact. Alternatively, you may have already crashed your car and lived, albeit barely. You're currently in a coma and your sleeping mind disformed a narrative based on the hunger you felt before the accident. The diner is a metaphor for the coma itself and you won't escape until you awaken, which may very well be never. Hank bore a look of concern. A little morbid, I admit, but it is possible. I reluctantly looked at the last option. Three, something supernatural is afoot. Mysterious forces beyond your comprehension are at play, trapping you in an otherwise normal eatery. These forces will not allow you to leave under any circumstances. The best thing you can do is accept this and allow yourself to succumb to whatever classic paranormal tropes are throwing your way. Death will be your only escape. That's all I could come up with, Hank said. I'm not sure myself, but I'm leaning towards number three. What the hell, Hank? What the hell is this? And shouldn't you of all people know? You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I guess I wouldn't tell you if I did now, would I? He offered me another one of his smiles as a consolation. I wanted to punch it clean off his face. Instead, I partook in a nervous breakdown of sorts. I slammed my body up against the wall where the door had been. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and I even grabbed a few bar stools and tossed them in different directions as hard as my arms would allow. All the while, Hank remained calm and still. His lips stretched from ear to ear. Just as I was about to take a swing at him, the kitchen door behind him popped open. Oh, your order must be ready. Please come with me. Hank disappeared into the darkness beyond the kitchen's door frame. I stayed behind, hesitant to follow him. After a few minutes, I heard him yell out to me. My kid, aren't you hungry? It's true I was hungry, but I was more so cautious, especially given my peculiar situation. Because of this, I sat down in one of the booths and waited. I didn't know what I was waiting for exactly, but it was all I could bring myself to do at that very moment. It wasn't long before I heard Hank's voice again. It can't wait out there forever, kid. As if in response to his statement, the lights in the diner began to flicker. Then, one by one, they went out, spreading darkness from booth to booth. Eventually, I was left with just one bulb above me, wavering in and out of life. It provided me with just enough light to make my way to the kitchen, and Hank knew it. I had two choices. Go to the dark kitchen, or let the bulb go out and sit in the dark diner. Neither option was ideal, but deep down I knew only one had the potential to lead me to answers. No matter which one of the far-fetched scenarios on the menu was true, as such, I gave in to the narrative that was unfolding around me. It was clear to me at this point that fighting it was futile. As I passed the threshold into the kitchen, the door shut itself behind me. Bright light poured out from the ceiling, washing over the entire room, revealing vibrant white walls and flooring. In the center of the room was a chair, slanted in a diagonal position, not unlike one you'd find in a dentist's office. Next to the chair was Hank, who had treated in his diner uniform for a flashy white lab coat. Finally, come sit down, take the loot off. If only out of fear for what might happen next if I disobeyed, I did as Hank told me. It's not like I had much of a choice at that point. I slowly walked over to the chair and laid down. As I did this, leather straps wrapped themselves around my legs, arms, and forehead. I no longer had the luxury of movement or peripheral vision. Hank walked around to the front of the chair and pulled out his stopwatch. You're doing fine, kid. Only 40 minutes left. Without warning, six or seven shadowy figures came rushing over from either side of me. They brought with them rolling carts filled with what looked like medical equipment and power tools. I tried to make out even a single face in the crowd, but I could not. They lacked discernible features of any kind and moved about in perfect harmony with one another like animated silhouettes doing the bidding of some unseen higher power. Over the course of the next few minutes, the figures poked and prodded me, drew blood, took hair samples, and inserted their utensils in places I rather not discuss. As much as I squirmed and screamed, none of them reacted, not even Hank. Feeling helpless, I eventually stopped struggling and simply braced myself for each needle that penetrated my skin. It made things a little more tolerable. After a while, the figures stopped. Instead of going away like I had hoped they would, they traded their needles and test tubes for surgical scissors and began cutting my clothes off of me. This continued until I was completely naked. I tried talking to Hank, but he was too busy playing around with the samples that had been collected. Even if he did respond, no amount of encouragement could have prepared me for what happened next. Using nothing but scalpels and brute strength, the figures began cutting away at my skin. It was an absolutely horrific orchestra of deadly incisions and one that continued until they peeled off every last bit of my epidermis. For one reason or another, I remained both alive and awake during the entire ordeal, though at the time I wished I could have died. The pain was excruciating and came in waves. Just when I thought I was going numb, another unbearable, sharp, throbbing sensation would overtake my entire body. I had never felt anything like it before. By the end of it, my ears were ringing from the volume of my own screams. There's that color! Hank exclaimed, gazing at the bloody mess that I'd become. Why are you doing this? I yelled. I'm not doing anything, kid. I'm just here to observe. Relax. Only 27 minutes left. I would have argued with him further, but the figures grabbed the power tools and started tearing through my muscle tissue. The buzzing sound of saws filled the room, drowning out my cries of agony. Through blood-soaked eyes, I could see Hank mouthing the words, tick, talk, tick, talk over and over again. I watched him mock me until the buzzing stopped and the next stage of torture commenced. I never wanted to see my organs. I never wanted to see my bone. I could have gone my whole life without knowing what they looked like. Now I can't get the image of them out of my head. I'm afraid I never will. After successfully ripping apart my skin and muscles, the shadowy demons took hammers to my insides, smashing up my spleen, stomach, liver, kidneys and lungs. They broke through the brittle, white ivory that made up my skeleton, making sure to leave no bone unturned. They even destroyed my skull and scooped my brain matter into jars. After all was said and done, they cleaned up my remains like fallen hair in a barbershop and swiftly left the room. You're probably wondering how I lived. I'm not entirely sure. They stripped away every physical aspect of my being, but I was still there, a sort of bubble of floating consciousness. I could still see and hear, but I was without a material body. As jarring as this realization was, I was just happy to no longer be in pain. I didn't realize it, but Hank was still in the room. He walked over to me and leaned in real close. Stopwatch in hand. See, that wasn't so bad, was it? Look at here. You've only got 18 minutes left. How will you spend them? What things will you see? We had our fun. Now it's your turn. Hank turned around and walked out the kitchen door, leaving me alone in the white room. Within an instant, things began to change around me. The walls, floor and ceiling faded, revealing an array of distant stars behind them. I somehow went from being in a diner on planet earth to floating around in the vacuum of space within mere moments. Within seconds of the room completely fading from view, I was unwillingly hurled through the universe at light speed. Everything around me blurred and my bodyless soul spun around uncontrollably. If I still had a stomach, it would have been turning. I'll never forget what I experienced in the coming moments, but I'll never fully remember it, either. Even now, I only have access to bits and pieces of what happened. Perhaps the extreme velocity in which I traveled somehow damaged the fragile fabric of my memory, rendering me unable to retain the information I was presented with. Or maybe my feeble mind just couldn't process the imagery. Who knows. In truth, I can only tell you what I felt. That will never go away. As I sped through deep space, I was stopped in specific locations, mostly foreign planets and dead star systems. In these moments, I saw unspeakable things, gruesome things, things I never knew could exist in the universe. I was plagued with disturbing sights and concepts of horrific proportions. So horrendous, in fact, made my impromptu autopsy look tame in comparison. I don't know exactly what it was I saw out there, but I still feel an immense dread whenever I try to recall it. After what I felt like an eternity of torture, I was transported to what I can only assume was a location outside of the observable universe. There were no stars or any light to speak of. Not even off in the distance, I was alone in a blanket of darkness left to suffer with the memories of what I had endured. Just as I was beginning to accept my circumstances, a light glow appeared in the distance. As it came closer to my position, I recognized its features. It was Hank's stopwatch. The readout was approaching zero. Ten. Nine. Eight. I started to feel weary, almost like I was falling into a deep sleep. I wondered if that was even possible in my current state. Seven. Six. Five. Like a projected movie, the past hour of my life appeared on the black canvas of space behind the stopwatch. It played in reverse at high speed like a VHS tape stuck on rewind. Four. Three. Two. Feeling faint, I tried to focus on the imagery. I relived everything that happened to me in the diner within a few mere seconds. One. Zero. And poof. Just like that, I was back in the diner parking lot, body and flesh intact. My car was there next to me, right where I parked it. I took out my phone and checked the time. It was 1201. Everything had returned to normal somehow, to the way it was before. You laid it, I jumped into my car and started it up. I was about to drive off like a bat out of hell, but I decided to take one last look at the diner. Somehow, within its walls, there does exist an extra hour in the day. How is that possible? And what its purpose is, I can't be certain. Maybe Hank was right, and that third scenario had something to do with it. The only thing I do know is that I survived, and I won't be making another pit stop anytime soon, no matter how hungry I may be. Just then, before my very eyes, the diner lifted itself from its foundation and flew upwards into the night sky. I followed her home by Christopher Maxim. For months, I caught glimpses of Clara from the safety of my cubicle. So beautiful. Faultless. Through innocent eavesdropping and pattern recall, I unknowingly learned almost every detail of her life, when she had lunch, who her friends were, and where she would be at any given moment of the workday. I even knew where she lived as we both took the same bus to work. On the long commutes, she never so much as batted an eye in my direction, unfazed by my existence. Admiring from afar was all I ever did, but on this day, I felt an inexplicable urge to connect with her. After settling in at my workstation, I became aware of a grouping of words that made up an ominous internal dialogue. This is the day. She will be yours. My blood ran cold. The choice of words and the cadence with which they were spoken. This voice was not my own. Hello? I asked quietly, unsure if what I had heard was even really there. A reply confirmed its presence. You need her. I stood upright, officially rattled. Who's there? By this point, everyone was staring at me, including her. I smiled awkwardly. She made a perturbed look and walked away, seemingly frightened. A wonderful first exchange. Everyone else averted their eyes and returned to work. I sat down and attempted to do the same, chalking up my bizarre experience to a lack of sleep. I sugar-coated the denial further with an internet search that backed up this theory and confirmed that audible hallucinations were also a very rare side effect of the new allergy medicine that I was taking. Satisfied with my haphazard research, I craned my neck around the confines of my cubicle and noticed that Clara was shuffling some papers around at the copy machine. A strange feeling overcame me in this moment. For whatever reason, I felt I could bear the distance between us no longer. My legs began moving, opposite the signals my brain tried sending them to stop. I couldn't believe what I was doing, but infatuation seemed to outweigh my fear. I felt such a strong need to reach out and touch her. Just as I was about to take my final step in her direction, our boss came over and pulled her aside to discuss some work-related matters. I sighed in relief, shaken by my own actions. Another internet search turned up very little evidence that sleep deprivation coupled with certain antihistamines could translate to a hormone imbalance potentially leading to an increased libido. That must have been it, I thought. Despite its many holes, this explanation sat well with me. At least for a few moments. Chase her down. Demand her attention. The voice, it was back. Panic set in as I dove into my work and did my absolute best to ignore the taunting, as well as my new urges. This was easier said than done, especially with how often Clara walked by my cubicle to get to and from her various workplace destinations. At one point, I almost grabbed her legs as she strolled past. I was able to pull my arm back with my other arm. Luckily, she hadn't noticed. I tempered my outbursts and went about business as usual. Although we went to work at the same time, Clara always left an hour before I did, just in time to catch the last bus. My projects ran late, so I would usually have a willing co-worker bring me home. On this day, however, it was the middle of winter, and there was a storm coming. Most of the staff had left early to beat the snow. I would have been smart to do the same, but focusing on my work was the only thing keeping my mind off of Clara, which in turn kept the disembodied voice at bay. Closing time snuck up on me faster than I expected. Find her. I stopped at the elevator. Please, just leave me alone. I begged in a hushed tone. The voice repeated its demand louder this time. Find her. No, I shouted, fed up, but still scared. The voice responded in kind. Then suffer. All at once, I stopped breathing. I thought my chest began to cave in as the oxygen within dissipated. I fell to the floor before I could reach for the phone at my station and call for help. Just as quickly as it started, the episode ended. An air once again filled my lungs. Do not disobey. This warning was enough to render me terrified. From this point forward I had no choice but to give in to the voice's commands. Someway, somehow, I would have to go to Clara. I pulled out my phone. As expected, there were no ride-sharing services available. A driving ban had just been issued due to the coming weather. Fantastic. Upon exiting the building without so much as a long-sleeved shirt to keep me warm, I headed off in the direction of Clara's home, backtracking over the route taken by our bus. It would take me roughly four hours to get to her by foot. Knowing this, I made long and firm strides in the hopes of minimizing the amount of time it would take me to reach her. While walking down Main Street in this fashion, I noticed a lot of the businesses closing up for the night due to the approaching blizzard. One of these shops was the local florist. A gift. Knowing what the voice had in mind, I pushed the door open just as the florist was about to lock up, startling the hell out of her. I grabbed the nearest rose I could find, threw some money down on the counter, and left in haste. I did not wish to feel my lungs collapse again. I began power walking towards Clara's house, hoping I would beat the storm there. Before making it too far, I felt a sharp pain in my hand. I looked down and saw droplets of blood spattered across the ground. It was the rose. I had grabbed an uncut one, thorns and all. My palms now bleeding profusely, but I kept walking. The voice returned to encourage me, but this time it was faint, barely a whisper. She's waiting for you. I trudged through harsh winds, my pace never wavering. The storm was closing in. At about the halfway point, I felt snow. It began falling at a swift and steady rate, making it almost impossible to see in front of me. I stood still, with my back to the current in an attempt to catch my breath, but another whispered incentive kept me going. Continue, I pressed on, feeling the sting of the snow on my bare face. After an hour or so, a mark formed on my arm. It was beginning to turn black. This was the onset of frostbite, I guess. It only grew darker as time went on. The other soon followed it. I could only assume the rest of my skin was turning as well. I was concerned, but not enough to falter and face the deadly consequences. After another long and treacherous hour, I finally arrived at her street. Be with her. The lawn was covered in snow, but I could still see the stone walkway leading the way to the front door. I took a step onto it, but quickly fell to the ground, slipping on a sheet of ice. My arm met the unforgiving ground below. It was more than likely broken, but I couldn't feel a thing. I stood up and kept walking. Having more than likely heard the sound of my fall, Clara opened the front door and walked out to meet me. She said nothing. She simply looked at my frostbitten and disfigured form with a horrified expression. She raised her hands over her mouth in shock. I reached up and presented her the rose. I had little energy left to speak, but I managed to offer her a couple of words. For you. She stared at me, just as she had earlier. Those eyes of disgust, that look of confusion. It was now turning into sheer terror. Before I could offer an explanation, she began to scream. She screamed so loudly that a splitting pain consumed my ears. My feelings for her would not be reciprocated. Without warning, a swirling vortex of red energy burst from my frozen skin and hung above us. We both cowered in its presence. Before we could escape, the entity rushed to Clara and wrapped itself around her arms and legs, pinning her in place. In all too familiar sound rang through the stormy night and I understood what was happening. The voice was no longer in my head, and it was not happy with Clara. Kill her. Just as it had earlier in the day, my body moved without me. My arm was raised and I noticed a red glow emanating from the rose, similar in color to the entity. I was compelled to strike Clara, to slash her open with its thorns. I did my best to resist, but my possessed legs quickly closed the gap between us. As my arm wound up for the attack, I cried out, No! I yelled, to which the entity responded, Do as you are told. I can't quite explain it, but in this bleak moment, an idea sprung to mind. Lesser thought than it was a feeling. A last-ditch effort to fight back. Okay, okay, I'll do it. Just please release me. Very well. Make it quick. My restraints were lifted. I was surprised it had complied, but did my best not to show it. I then looked at Clara with saddened eyes. I'm sorry. I swung the rose and struck skin. Blood poured onto the snowy ground. My blood. What are you doing? I sliced open every inch of my skin I could see. In a low whisper, the voice pleaded with me. No! Stop this at once! I beg of you! Clara was free from her binding and ran back into the house. I kept cutting until there was a pool of red surrounding me. I fell into it and lost consciousness. When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed. To my left was Clara, asleep in a chair. I was in a great deal of pain, but it seemed my wounds had been attended to. Better yet, I no longer felt the darkness within. I guess my plan worked. I tried to get up, knocking over my IV in the process. The noise woke, Clara. You're awake. Please lie back. You need your rest. Her eyes were just as beautiful as I remembered. Are you okay? I asked. I'm fine. Just a little frazzled and confused as all. She picked up the IV and handed me a glass of water. What was that thing? How did you know how to stop it? I had to dwell on it for a second to recollect all the details. I don't know. It was a strange sensation I became aware of. I felt as though it was tied to my veins in some way, a blood demon of sorts. Without my blood, it couldn't survive. She stared at me, silent. You probably think I'm crazy, don't you? She shot me, an infectious smile. I was there too. I heard it. Saw it even. If you're crazy, we both are. We laughed. A far better exchange than my first, if I was keeping score. The rest of the day was nice. We talked for hours and really got to know each other. Before she left, Clara promised she'd visit the following day. For a brief window, things were looking really good. But then a familiar voice broke through, shattering the illusion. I told you she would be yours. When Weird Darkness returns, I have one more story from author Christopher Maxim. A tale many consider not just a creepy pasta, but a classic one. I'll have that story for you in just a moment. Nothing goes better with chocolate than vanilla, and nothing goes better with the darkness than vampires. So we've combined all of them into a new blend of weird dark roast coffee called very vampilla. This bloody good blend combines a medium dark roast coffee with hints of chocolate, vanilla, and just a tad bit of dried cherry too. So good, you'll want to sink your fangs into the fresh roasted bag itself. Weird dark roast very vampilla, the only thing at steak, sorry, not sorry, bad pun, is your dissatisfaction with your old coffee. Sip it while the sun is down if you're one of the undead. Or when the sun is up, if you just feel dead and need a bit of a boost. Get your Weird Dark Roast very vampilla at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Monster in the Pantry. Unexplained phenomenon is a staple in human culture. Strange goings on, paranormal in nature are prominent in our lives in one form or another. You may not think about them all that often, but there is always a piece in the news or a crazy story from a friend or a passerby that makes you recall such strangeness. No matter how many times you forget about the subject, there will always be a moment that drags the notion back to the surface of your memory. For several years I had forgotten all about the monster living in my mom's pantry. I had forgotten all about it. That is, until now. I was ten years old when I first became aware of the monster's presence. It was a normal evening at home. My mother and I awaited my father's arrival, and I helped her out with dinner preparations. I look back on these memories fondly. I loved cooking with my mom and was overjoyed whenever my father came home from work. I had what some would consider a picture-perfect childhood, save for one peculiarity. The thing that resided in the pantry would audibly reveal itself that very night. While cutting up vegetables for my mom's famous beef barley soup, I heard a scratching at the pantry door. Startled, I jumped nearly cutting off one of my fingers in the process. My mom looked over at the pantry, then to me with a concerned smile. I looked to her for answers utterly baffled by the noise. There it goes again, scratching at the pantry door. What is it, mom? I asked. I'm not too sure, sweetie, but it's been here ever since we moved in. Sometimes it scratches at the door, other times it'll knock food off the pantry shelves. Some nights it doesn't make a sound at all. There was no comfort derived from her explanation. I was still frightened, and my mother noticed this. It's nothing to be scared of, honey. Is it something bad? I asked. No, of course not. But just then the scratching recommenced. I jumped a second time. My mother then walked over to the pantry door. Here, look. She opened it up as the scratching continued. Once the door was completely ajar, the sound ceased. See, sweetie, there's nothing to be worried about. Despite my mother's comforting words, my 10-year-old heart couldn't help but race with fear. In the coming years, I continued to help her cook, but I never once set foot back in that pantry, convinced that the thing living in there was a monster out to get me. This fear was kept alive by the scratching that would interrupt otherwise happy moments. I ignored it the best I could, but sometimes I would have to leave the kitchen. Eventually, the sounds stopped altogether. It's now been many years since then, and both of my parents have passed away. In their wills, I was left everything, including my childhood home. It took me a while to come to terms with their deaths and move back in, but I eventually accepted the situation and embraced the living space where I grew up. It was the little memories sprinkled throughout the house that helped me cope. Sometimes I would walk into the living room and see my dad sitting in his chair, smoking a cigar and watching his favorite sitcom. At other points, I'd see my mother in the kitchen making us dinner. These caporial fragments of a time long since past kept me going. After a while, the house felt like home again. Until one day. I had just arrived home from work when it happened. I sat down on my dad's favorite chair and flipped on the TV to unwind. Something crossed my mind. Minus the tobacco, I had actually become my father. This thought put a bit of a smile on my face as I reclined the chair to relax. Relaxation never came though as an all too familiar scratching sound emanated from the nearby pantry. My smile quickly vanished. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen to investigate. The scratching continued and increased in volume. I stared at the door hoping an answer would jump out at me, but also hoping whatever was inside wouldn't do the same. Without many options at my disposal, I was forced to open it. Much to my anticipation, the noise ceased, and I found nothing behind the door but some empty shelves and an old broom. This was the same thing that happened when my mother opened the door many years ago. I was no longer a frightened child, but the sound's return was still unnerving. At least it was at first. After a while, it became nothing more than a bothersome fixture in my otherwise normal days. Whenever I came home from work, woke up in the middle of the night or sat down to watch television, that terrible scratching would invade my ear space, not stopping until I opened that damn pantry door. This routine continued for over a year. One night, however, everything changed. I had just gotten home from a long day of work and flung myself into the comfort of my bedsheets. I wanted more than anything to drift off into a peaceful slumber, hoping the day's troubles would melt away in the form of happy dreams and restful sleep. Unfortunately for me, the moment my head hit the pillow, the scratching started up once more. I groaned in anger, not wanting to leave my bed for anything, much less that damned noise. Because of this, I made the mistake of not getting up right away. I hit my internal snooze button and allowed myself to drift off for a few moments. When I came to, something was amiss. I didn't notice it at first, but the unsettling silence made way for a startling revelation. The scratching had stopped. How strange. It's never stopped on its own before. Perplexed, I jumped out of bed and ventured downstairs to investigate. What I saw upon entering the kitchen alarmed me. The pantry door was wide open. That can't be. It was definitely closed when I got home earlier. Turning the light on only revealed the usual empty shelves. It wasn't until my hand met the wood of the door that I noticed something unusual. Embedded in the hard oak were deep gashes, claw marks that covered the entire bottom half of the door. Those weren't there before. What the hell is going on? My childhood was beginning to catch up with me. Memories of the pantry came bursting through the floodgates, the scratches, the nightmares, the fear. But I wasn't a child this time, and I wasn't going to let a little superstition get the better of me. It was just a raccoon or a large rat, that's all. At least that's what I told myself. I scoured the house for nearly an hour, ignoring my fast-beating heart the whole time. Whatever escaped from the pantry was nowhere to be found. As I stepped back into the kitchen to close the doors and call in a night, something stopped me in my tracks. A shadowy figure raced across my field of vision and into the pantry. The pantry door shut on its own. Shaking the walls around it. A bone-shilling vibration reverberated throughout the entire house in an instant and was then followed by an eerily dead silence. My heart sank to my bowels. I was officially rattled. Running on pure instinct, I grabbed the heaviest things I could find and piled them in front of the door, including my dad's old chair. Once satisfied with my blockade, I raced upstairs, locked my bedroom door and jumped underneath the sheets. I was a kid again, scared witless of the monster living in my mom's pantry. After the fear and adrenaline tapered off, I managed to get a little bit of rest. My late-night adventure had come to an end. I woke up the next morning in denial, a defense mechanism of a mind bruised by fear. Pretending nothing happened the previous night, I went about my morning routine as usual. After breakfast, I was able to walk right past the pile of crap in front of the pantry without flinching. I even ignored the scratch marks on my front door as I left for work. Everything was fine. There was no monster, no supernatural entity taking over my home. That was absurd. It was just a raccoon. A very large raccoon. The lies only lasted for so long. Driving away, the terror set back in, sending me into a desperate frenzy of distress and unease. Though distracted by my strange predicament, I managed to make it to work in one piece. Work brought me no solace. All I could think about was what awaited me at home. I was on edge, and my boss noticed this. He asked if I needed to leave early and get some rest. I practically shouted the word no at him, begging him to let me stay. I wanted to be away from that house for as long as I could. Though confused by my unorthodox behavior, my boss obliged. I might have been able to stay at work, but I had to clock out eventually. The day went by far too quickly, and before I knew it, I was back home, sitting in my driveway, dreading the thought of opening the front door. Because of this, I sat in my car for a while, attempting to come up with a plan of action. What do I do? Who can I tell? Where will I stay? The questions swirled around my tired mind until I shut my eyes and took a deep breath to relax. The weariness caught up with me in this moment, causing me to drift off into a stress-induced coma of sorts. I woke up a few hours later to the terrifying sight of scratch marks on my driver's side window. That was the last straw. That's it, I proclaimed out loud. I wasn't going to let this thing control my life, and I certainly wasn't going to let it drive me out of my own home. This is where I grew up, where I spent my childhood with my mother and father. They were still with me. The recollections scattered throughout the house, reminding me of who they were and the impact they had on my life. No amount of scratching was going to tear through the memories I had of them. Fed up, I got out of my car, walked up to the house, and swung the front door open. I was greeted with the sound of scratching, but this time it was louder than it had ever been before. As I stormed over to the kitchen, the noise morphed into a thunderous banging at the pantry door, causing the stuff I piled in front of it to move a bit. Whatever was inside really wanted to get out this time. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. My fight-or-flight response was begging me to run, but it was too late. I had already made up my mind. I was going to face this thing, head on and get to the bottom of the mystery. This was my home after all. It belonged to me and my family, not whatever this thing was. In removing the stack of furniture, the banging continued and grew louder. The kitchen cabinets around me swung open. Various pots and pans fell off the shelves. An earthquake of supernatural proportions filled my home, but I did not allow it to rattle me. I knew what I had to do. After a moment of mental preparation, I opened the pantry door. There, sitting behind the door, was a dog. It sat there and looked up at me in confusion. I did the same to it. After giving me a once-over, it walked over to me and nuzzled up against my leg. I instinctively reached down and pet it as I would any dog. But this wasn't any dog. After a few minutes of getting to know each other, it walked back into the pantry and vanished before my very eyes. It was a ghost. My fear completely dissipated after that day. I now come home to the sound of scratching and smile. I no longer open the pantry door in fear but instead to let my new friend out. He walks around the house exploring, just like a normal dog would. He even sits down and watches TV with me from time to time. He is a bit shy though, vanishing whenever I have company over. Still, he is a good dog. A very good dog. I assume he belonged to one of the many owners of the house, seeing as it had been built long before my parents moved in. I guess he just couldn't let the place go. Neither could I. A few weeks of bonding later and I realized that I didn't have anything to call him by. I walked over to the little guy and pet him on the back of his neck. That was his favorite spot. I thought about it for a moment and then came up with the perfect name. I will call you Monster. My wife has a removable face by Redditor N.S. Lewis. Samantha told me about it on our third date. We were watching a movie on her couch when I made my move to kiss her. She whipped her hand in front of my face and blocked me. There's something you need to know, she said. I braced myself. Here it comes. I'm not ready for her relationship. Nothing to do with you, of course. It was the absolute last thing I wanted to hear because I was already crazy about her. Okay, I said. I have a removable face. That's a new one. You have a what now? I was about to laugh, but she was wearing a deadly, serious expression. I have a removable face. Is that like a metaphor or something? No, my face is literally removable. Look closely. She lifted her chin and traced her jawline with a finger. You can see the seam. After admiring how beautiful her neck was for a dizzying moment, I leaned in for an inspection. It was very hard to see, but it did look like there was a slightly unnatural transition there from her face to her throat. I grew dizzyer as a dozen questions rushed into my brain. Don't bother asking why or how or anything like that, said Samantha. I can't tell you. If that's going to be a problem, you should leave now. I'm letting you know this because I like you and I want to take the next step, but this is non-negotiable. Okay, I said. I'm unsure of what was happening. Not a problem. So what? You have a removable face. Who cares? It looks good. There's something else. Once a day, usually in the evening, I have to remove the face and disinfect the inside of it. If I don't, it will rot. This takes about an hour, give or take, depending on how my day went. During this time, you must never, ever look at my real face. Never. Do you understand? Yes, got it. Don't ask about it. Don't look at your real face. Samantha stood up. Now, I'm going to go into the bathroom and clean my face. That'll give you plenty of time to think about what I've told you. If you're here when I'm done, that's great. I would like that. But if you're gone, I'll understand. She turned and walked into her bedroom. I sat in stunned silence as I heard the bathroom door close. I gave the thing some serious thought. It was possible that it was a joke of some kind. It was possible that it was a delusion. Was it possible that it was true? Well, it was certainly possible to transform an actor's face with movie makeup, so I suppose it was possible that Samantha wore a removable face every day. Maybe she had had a horrible accident where her flesh had been mangled. Maybe her face had been melted by acid or burned by fire or the skin shorn off by heavy machinery. If it had, I would never know because she would never tell me and I would never see it. A picture to face of raw, naked muscle rotting away. Could I kiss her if that was what I was kissing? But wasn't that what we all were under the skin? Just muscle and bone and blood and squishy organs? I paced around the living room, running my hand through my hair. I liked Samantha a lot. She was smart and funny and beautiful. But was that beauty real? Did it count? Did it matter if it was real or not? Was I being superficial even worrying about that? When she came out of the bathroom, I was still there. I looked at her face. She smiled and I was in love. We dated. We moved in together. We decided to get married. For the most part, it was a completely normal relationship, typical of two young people in love building a life together. During the day, it was easy to forget about the face altogether. It looked natural enough and only in certain positions, in certain lights, was there ever any indication that it wasn't natural. But every night was the same. Samantha would close herself in the bathroom, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for two, and clean the inside of her face. The curiosity never left me. I would sit there and wonder what was under that face. I came so close to barging in on her a few times, but I never did. I did occasionally ask her about it, about what, if anything had happened, about how it was possible to make the removable face look so real, about what it really looked like underneath. I tried to coax her into showing me, assuring her that I loved her no matter what and I didn't give a damn what her real face looked like. I was just curious. That's all. But she never showed me or told me the story behind it. She didn't get upset at me unless I was really badgering her. She just shrug and say, You know you can't see it. You know I can't tell you about it. I never told anyone about Samantha's removable face. It's not that she asked me not to, I just didn't think it was anybody's business. Except once. I did tell somebody. It was during my bachelor party. We'd rented several cabins and big sir and spent the night drinking and packing our noses with powders that we shouldn't have been packing our noses with. Everyone else had passed out and the sun was creeping up behind us as I stood on the majestic cliffs with my friend Chris looking down on the Pacific waves crashing against the rocks. Chris was my best friend as close to a brother as I'd known. We'd grown up together and visited each other at college often and spent the summers together. After college we'd moved to different cities but we stayed in close contact. Standing there on the cliffs, I told Chris about Samantha's removable face. At first he thought I was joking. Then he had a thousand questions, most of which I couldn't answer. What's underneath? I don't know man, I don't know. Doesn't that drive you crazy not knowing? I shrugged. Lots of stuff I don't know. I don't know how to do calculus and I don't know what happens when we die. But dude, she's about to be your wife and you don't even know what she looks like. I'd have to take a look. You could set up a camera in the bathroom. That's where she does it, right? Set up a camera and have a look and then you'll know. I sighed. It drives me crazy. I've asked her a million times but she told me I could never look. Gotta respect that man. Even if I don't like it, that's love. Chris laughed. You telling me to respect a woman? Up is down now. Then we fell back into talking about old times as a new day dawned. Chris was in town for business last week and planned on spending the weekend at our house. The conversation at Big Sur had happened four years ago and we hadn't spoken about Samantha's removable face since, despite keeping in close contact and seeing each other as often as two people transforming into adults in different parts of the country can. It happened on Saturday evening. We were lounging lazily in the backyard, deep into the beer, having just finished with some grilled steaks when I got a text from work. Damn it, I groaned. I have to make a work call. Seriously? said Samantha, raising an artificial eyebrow, on a Saturday night. My biggest client, baby. Sorry. It is what it is, I guess, said my wife. I'm gonna head inside and get cleaned up. Chris, are you okay, just hanging out for a bit? Chris smiled. I'll be fine. Got my beer. Got some weeds to pull in your garden. God knows your lazy ass husband isn't doing it. These tomatoes are choking to death. It's tragedy. I rolled my eyes and went into the side yard to make my call. Fifteen minutes into it, I heard the screams coming from inside. Both my best friend and my wife were wailing in terror. I dropped the phone and ran into the house and down the hallway bedroom. Through the open door, I could see that the door to the master bedroom was also standing open. Don't come in screamed Samantha. I don't have my face on. Call an ambulance. He looked. Oh, God. He looked. She sounded desperate and truly horrified. That made me desperate and horrified and I wanted to rush into the bathroom, but I knew suddenly that that would be a mistake. I knew suddenly that Samantha didn't want me to look at her real face. Not out of a sense of vanity, but for my own safety. Chris staggered backwards out of the bathroom. He was holding a straightened out paper clip, which he had used to pick the privacy lock. Now he was stabbing it again and again into his own eyes, shouting gibberish. He was clearly in the depths of madness and it turned my stomach to see him mutilate himself like that. Call an ambulance. My wife screamed, Don't come in here. He looked. I turned and ran to the side yard where my phone was lying in the newly mowed grass. My client was still on the line, alarmed, asking what was happening, what all the screaming was. I hung up on him and called 911. When the paramedics arrived, Chris was having a seizure in the hallway. Samantha was stroking his head, sobbing. Her face was on, but it had been done hastily and everything looked a little off. My world has been dark this past week. My best friend is at a psychiatric hospital under Suicide Watch. He is completely blind and mostly catatonic, except when he slips into a violent, babbling mania. The doctors are optimistic that his state is temporary, but they don't know the truth about what caused it, because I told the paramedics that Chris had taken a large dose of psychedelic mushrooms and fallen into psychosis. I saw no good reason to tell the truth about what had happened. Who would believe that one look at my wife's real face would make somebody insane? At best, we would be the subjects of a lifelong investigation. At worst, we would have to prove that what we were saying was true by showing somebody Samantha's face. Then the same thing would happen again and what after that? I had no idea and no interest in finding out. For Samantha's part, I knew that she would never consent to show anybody her real face, no matter what the consequences of refusal were. I did get a follow-up call from the police, asking me to confirm my story. The hospital found no traces of psilocybin in Chris's blood, though that's not unheard of, since it does have a short half-life. If they end up testing his hair, I will likely be in a lot of trouble, but that's truly the least of my concerns. Samantha is in a state of her own. She still cleans the inside of her face, though not as regularly, and when she puts it back on, it's always crooked now. It's beginning to smell a little bit, too. I've tried to assure her that it wasn't her fault. He knew, I said. I told him that nobody was ever allowed to look at it. He knew and then he broke into the bathroom. This is not on you, baby. Please, talk to me. Not only me, that one look at my face makes people insane. Please, I just need some time alone. As for me, I'm doing my best to hold it together. Do you know what's strange, though? Despite what happened to Chris, I still find myself curious about what my wife's real face looks like. More curious than ever, really? Keep listening. There's more creepy pasta Thursday to come when Weird Darkness returns. Your Haunted Lives. True Tales of the Paranormal by G. Michael Vasey, a collection of creepy, often downright chilling, true experiences of the paranormal submitted by visitors to the My Haunted Life 2 website. The tales have been carefully selected and edited and range from apparitions to hauntings to demons through to the downright bizarre. This terrific collection of true stories of the paranormal will keep you looking over your shoulder. Your Haunted Lives. True Tales of the Paranormal by G. Michael Vasey, narrated by Darren Marlar. Here are free samples on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. The Asylum in the Woods by Redditor R. L. Rogers. The town I grew up in sits next to the mile-standish state forest in Massachusetts. Growing up, my friends would all tell me ghost stories about the area, a woman in a white dress following your car as you drive through, creepy laughter out by the ponds deep in the woods, and hitchhikers killing those who tried to help them. It wasn't until after I graduated that I heard the story of the mysterious asylum in the woods. I met with my friends Chris, Liz, and Ryan at a cemetery that sat about a mile outside the wooded area. We had planned to venture on a ghost hunt that evening. As the sun got low and the air grew colder, Chris decided to tell us another ghost tale about the forest. He started off by telling us that the other stories we had heard were all fake, but he knew of one that was indeed true, a story that stemmed from his own personal experience. Out in the woods, he began, is the last remaining fully operational asylum in America. Sits on a road that starts in the middle of nowhere, only accessible by foot. A friend and I had read about this supposed asylum online, only finding one mention of it at all. We decided one day to go look for it ourselves. When we went searching and finally found the road in question, it was almost midnight. We walked along the path for what seemed like hours. Eventually, we spotted it around a bend in the road, partially blocked by the trees. Chris took a moment to think back over the experience and then continued. As we got closer, we spotted what we thought was a guard roaming the perimeter. We rushed to hide behind some nearby bushes. After waiting a moment, making sure we hadn't been discovered, I peeked my head out for a better view. I pulled out my phone, went to my camera, and zoomed in on the guard to get a closer look. It was as if the man felt himself being watched because he suddenly stopped walking and slowly turned, looking directly at the camera. His face was grotesque. It looked as though he had suffered many severe deformities. As I stared upon the face of death, the building's lights went out, and a high-pitched sound caused my friend and I to cover our ears. After recovering from the noise, we lifted our heads and noticed that the asylum was gone. Freaked out, we ran back to the car as fast as we could. Chris took a moment to settle himself, clearly rattled by his own memories. After a moment of silence, he looked to us. Ryan was the first to speak. I don't know about the rest of you, but I want to find this mystery building. He looked to Liz and I, seeing if we would join him on this adventure. We both nodded in unison. Chris, if you don't want to, I completely understand, but at least tell us where it is. Ryan continued. Chris took a moment to think. He reluctantly agreed to join us, probably knowing we would go with or without his help. He made us swear not to tell anyone else where to find the asylum, not wishing to burden the unprepared with what he considered to be a dangerous quest. It wasn't something he wished on anyone. He tried to deter us, but his attempts to curb our ambitions only made us want to go even more. There was no stopping us. Excited, save for Chris, we hopped into Liz's car and headed up the road towards the forest. After passing the welcome sign and driving past the rest stop, Chris began guiding Liz down various roads that snaked throughout the woods. After half-hour or so, Chris pointed to a patch of dirt just off the main road and told Liz to park there. Once stopped, Chris unbuckled, turned around in a seat, and sat with his back to the front windshield. Before we go any further, Chris started, I'm going to make one thing very clear to all of you. We're not getting too close when we find it, and we aren't going to do anything stupid. Got it? We all agreed to Chris's terms. The rest of us unbuckled and stepped out of the car. Chris pulled out a few flashlights from his sweatshirt pocket, handed us each one, and then led the way into the brush. It was the middle of the summer, so plants, bushes and vines were plentiful and overgrown. There was no clear path along the forest floor to wherever it was we were heading. I remember wondering how anyone could have ever found the mystery road in the first place. After about an hour of wandering, Chris pointed up ahead, signaling to us that he'd found the road. We quickly made our way forward. Sure enough, there it was, the beginning of a paved road in the middle of the woods. But how? Better yet, why? We walked side by side, following the road to its end. Liz started complaining about needing to use the bathroom. Ryan was going on about dying for some pizza. The whole time, Chris remained silent. His eyes locked dead ahead, refusing to take his eyes away from the road. He was clearly dreading our destination, probably hoping the asylum wouldn't show itself this time. Another 15 minutes passed. We walked around a slight bend in the road, and there it was, a giant building sitting in the middle of the woods. There were lights all around the place. How did we not see them through the trees? We took it all in for a moment before Ryan pointed out something walking the perimeter. We quickly scuttled off to the left of the road and crouched down behind some bushes. How do you know this place is an asylum anyway? asked Liz. Chris simply replied, the screens! No one dared to ask further. Instead, we peeked over the bushes and watched as the guard walked by. Ryan moved to the side of the bush to see better and stepped on a fallen branch. It made a loud cracking sound. The guard stopped walking. Slowly, he turned to our direction. We huddled together, trying to hide ourselves behind the bush as best we could. For an instant, everything was dead silent. We thought we were safe, but we were wrong. The guard began screaming, sounding almost like a dying pig. Spotlights shown themselves on our precise location. Even if we tried to flee, we would be seen. Chris panicked. He rolled up into a ball, holding his knees to his chest. He fell on his side and just began repeating one word over and over, quietly but loud enough for us to hear. Don't! Just then, the guard ran around the bush. Frightened Liz tried to blind him with her flashlight. This gave us a good view of what he looked like, or should I say, it. In accordance with its outcry, this thing had what looked like a pig-esque mask sewn directly onto its face. It let out a wild squeal and then grabbed Chris. As it tried to pull him away, Ryan jumped up in an attempt to attack the monster, but it easily swung him away with one arm, throwing him against a nearby tree. He fell, unconscious to the forest floor. The last thing I remember was seeing three more of those things emerge from the trees and let out bone-chilling screams. When I came to, I found myself strapped to a metal chair in a room with padded walls. In front of me, Chris, Liz and Ryan were bound in a similar fashion. Chris and Liz were both conscious, but Ryan was still out cold. His head slumped back over the neck of the chair. I heard a door open from behind me, the hinges squeaking as a swung. A man in a white lab coat walked in and stood in the center of the room. He looked at Liz, Ryan and myself, and then turned to Chris. Ah, you're the one who was here last time, aren't you? The man began. Did you miss, huh? Is that why you came back? What is he talking about, Chris? I asked. My voice shook as I spoke. Oh, he didn't tell you, the man asked. He was here with us for a few days. I'm surprised he didn't mention it. I wonder if it's because she didn't leave with him. Who? Who was with him? Liz blurted out. Her face soaked from tears. Her, Chris said, this place. You see, I felt awful for a very long time. I was constantly sad for no apparent reason, missing work because I would sleep away the days. I met her in a dream. She said she could help. That's when she brought me here. I'm sorry I lied. I just wanted to see her again so badly. I didn't want to go alone. The man stood up and shoved Chris back. His chair tipped over and he fell to the floor. The loud thud his head made caused Ryan to wake. Startled, he began screaming. The man turned towards the door and waved someone to come over. One of the pig creatures walked in, picked Chris up and then went over to Ryan. It stuck a large syringe into his arm, injecting him with a green liquid. Ryan quickly fell back asleep. What is this place? I asked the man. This place? You mean its name? This place is called Astera Asylum. Here we make people whole again. He leaned in close as nose almost touching mine. He continued, here you are home. Well, as long as you pass the scan, that is. Scan, Liz asked. Started crying again but held it together enough so as not to become hysterical. A man once again waved someone in from the door behind me. In came another pig-like creature. In its hands was a device. On it were various buttons, lights and knobs. He held it in front of Ryan's face. It made a beeping sound. Seeming content with that, it moved to Liz, who was shaking. She closed her eyes and turned her head away as the monstrosity hovered the device over her face. Again, the device made a satisfactory beeping sound and the pig moved over to Chris. The man put his hand out, blocking the way of the creature. We already know he is good, he spoke. Can I just go to my room? I miss her, Chris replied, sternly. The man nodded and ordered the creature to undo his binding. Chris stood up, rubbed his wrists, looked at Liz, Ryan and then at me. He took a deep breath and walked out of the room. That was the last time I ever saw him. The pig creature made its way over to me. As it held the device in front of my face, the man became curious as he looked intently at the flashing lights. Then the device made a beeping sound like that of a buzzer. The man's face turned sour. He pointed to me and ordered I be removed from the building at once. He called me non-compatible. Before I could react, I too was injected with a green liquid. When I awoke, it was daytime, and I was lying on the pavement. I looked around, feeling very queasy. I was back on the road, just outside of the asylum. Once I recovered my focus, I looked to where the building should have been, but it was gone. In its place was a large clearing of dirt surrounded by trees. I searched the area for a bit before heading back in the direction from whence we came. I didn't have Liz's car keys, so I walked out of the forest. I went to the police station and tried to report the incident, but no one believed me. And no one ever has. To this day, almost eight years later, I still haven't seen my friends. It's almost like the world has forgotten that they ever existed. Over the years, I have gone back to that spot in the forest, but the asylum is never there. I don't think it ever will come back. I tell my story of that night to some people, not because I think anyone should look for it, not because I have hope that my friends will one day return, not even because of the twisted way I think it makes for a good ghost story. I tell my tale of that night because of the sadness I feel. The sadness of missing her. More creepypasta Thursday still to come when Weird Darkness returns, and quick note of warning, our next story is incredibly graphic and not for the years of children. Do you keep a journal or diary? If not, maybe you should consider it. It's been shown that journaling can help you reduce stress, help relieve depression, builds self-confidence, it boosts your emotional intelligence, helps with achieving goals, inspires creativity and more. In fact, my friend, S. N. Lenees has created a Weird Darkness-themed journal just for you, full of blank pages for you to use as a diary, make notes for class or office meetings, jot down ideas for that novel you want to write. Use it for keeping a mileage long if you travel for business, whatever you want. In fact, she has numerous styles of journals to choose from. Along with the Weird Darkness journal, there's one for dealing with grief or teachers' notes, for medical residencies, keeping track of your meds or health routine and several others. Journals make a great gift for others, but it's also a great gift for yourself and your own mental health. No matter what you might want a journal for, my friend Anne has it, and you can see all of our journals, including the one for Weird Darkness, on the sponsors and friends page at WeirdDarkness.com. Secret Bar by K. Banning-Kellum Every city claims to have them, and every city would tell you that theirs is the best. Most larger places will lay claim to having quite a few. I'm, of course, speaking of secret bars. The kind of bars with no name out front, where a secret password is required to get in. This is what started my obsession, and may have cost me my soul. The year was 2001. I turned 21 earlier that year, and had already done up all the new freedoms that come with that age. I had done bars, casinos, you name it. At first it was so cool because for years I had felt like a kid, like some bit behind the ears idiot that the rest of the world sort of just patted on the head. Even after turning 21, things remained annoying. People would hear that I was 21 and treat me not like an adult, but as a new adult, like a grown-up that still needed grown-ups. I was annoyed. I worked downtown in a dreary office job inputting data. The nice thing about it though were my hours, 3pm to 11pm. For a single guy in his early 20s, it was perfect. I got to sleep in every day and I'd get off work just in time to take the quick walk from the New Orleans Central Business District, cross over Canal Street and bam, I was in the French Quarter, land of booze and women. Lots of fun times were spent down there. But as I said, even that began to get boring. Really boring. So I began to research secret bars. I found a few right away and most of them were well just as boring as the regular bars. One in particular called Mythic was located up a narrow stairwell, accessible only through a tiny door located under the bar downstairs. Once I got up there though, it was just another bar. The clientele was a bit more pretentious. Most of them thought they were the second coming of the stat, but in the end it was the same thing. A bar, drinks, people and unusually crappy music. I remember one night I was at home in my tiny apartment using Metacrawler, remember this was 2001, and searching for more secrets in my city that I was old enough now to exploit. I kept finding links to the same boring places I always went to. Then my email binged or should I say announced, you've got mail. I clicked open my email and saw the heading for the message that read, secret bar. I was sure if I had asked anybody on my AOL buddy list for help, and I didn't recognize the sender. I figured maybe I was in a chat room one night and asked around, but I figured it was worth a check. The email was simple and short and read something like this. Secret New Orleans Bar Looking for a journey, not afraid of hell, not too shy for heaven? Then come to visit us. Be in Jackson Square tonight at 2 am. Wear a black shirt and grey pants and have a cup of coffee in your hand. Seat yourself in the third bench. This is your only invitation, miss it, and you will never be invited again. PS, come alone, tell no one. That was the end of the email. I was lucky that my job required me to wear a suit because it just so happened that I had a pair of grey slacks. I pulled on a black t-shirt and realized that I actually looked pretty good. I figured this could be a prank, but even if it was, even if it turned out to be nothing, I'd go out and have a few drinks anyway, maybe even get laid. I didn't have to go in to work the next day, so this night could turn out to be fun anyway. However, I may have been a bored, idiotic, 21-year-old, but I wasn't totally stupid. This could also be a trick, a trap, or something worse. So I called my best friend Mike up. I told him that I was going out with some strangers from work and that I wasn't sure about them. I told him I would call him by 4 am, and if I didn't, for him to call and check up on me, I told him I'd be in the quarter. Mike had to be up for work at 4 am, so it wouldn't put him out of his way to call me when he got up. I left my apartment at around 1.30 am. I only lived about 15 minutes from downtown, but I figured I'd make sure that I was on time. By 1.55 am, I was sitting on the third bench in Jackson Square, sipping my coffee and waiting. At 2 am, the cathedral bells rang out twice, and I received a tap on the shoulder. A gorgeous woman was sitting next to me, and I thought to myself, this is too cliche to be real. To me, she seemed like a walking cliche for a hidden bar. Goth girl, mid-twenties, really hot? Yeah, she was from the bar. I knew it from the start. I'm Jody, said the woman. Well, at least you're not Raven, or Death, or Lilith, or some other stereotypical goth name, I replied, but I did so with a smile. She returned my smile with one of her own. Nope, always been Jody, and you must be Kurt, right? She knew my name. Very cool. Of course, my name was on my AOL profile where the email was sent, so if this was her attempt at a cool trick, I was one step ahead. Yeah, Kurt, that's me. I guess you're here to show me to the secret bar, I asked. Only if you're ready to journey to hell, or heaven depending on your tastes, we like to consider this to be the first back out point for new clients. You can decline the invitation now, and go home, or to some other bar, or wherever you'd like. Only be warned that no other invitation will ever come to you again. I considered this and decided that it was already after 2 a.m. I was out, dressed, and full of coffee. I wanted to see this place. Lead on, Miss Jody, I replied. She stood up and began to walk ahead of me, at a rapid pace, I might add. We walked in silence for some time, weaving deep into the quarter, past Bourbon Street, past all the loud and drunk tourists, past the warm and safe lights, the cop cars, the music from the bars. Before long, we were in the dark part of the quarter, mostly residential, and very few people were on the streets this way. She suddenly stopped and walked up the stoop to a private residence. She fiddled with keys, opened the door, and gestured for me to enter. Is this someone's house? I asked. This is the house where the dead scream in silence, where the walls rot, where pain becomes pleasure, where pleasure becomes death. This is the house of Din. He who dwells on the black star. Enter. I thought this was the coolest pitch for a bar I had ever heard. I figured it was rehearsed, but she said that whole little phrase with a lot of conviction. I had no idea who Din was, and I certainly didn't know about black stars, but I did have a desire to push on. She walked me into the house, which was empty. No furniture, no nothing. Now, French Quarter Real Estate isn't cheap, so if this place was renting a house just to serve as the cover for a bar, they clearly took themselves seriously. This might not be so boring after all. What happened next was strange. She turned me towards a small hallway with an elevator. Now, I know that some houses back in the day had elevators, however, this one only appeared to go down. New Orleans isn't exactly known for having basements, especially in homes. As I went to step in, she stopped me once more. This is your second back out chance. Same as before, you can turn around and leave. No harm, no foul. Push the button, I replied, pointing at the down button and stepped in. The elevator ride felt long. Really long. At first, I was thinking that this was impossible. No one builds down in this city. Hell, we even have to bury our dead above the ground. As far as I could see, though, we were going down. This was one of those older elevators with just the metal great door. I could see wood and metal going past us, and this eventually gave way to stone. I was about to question this when it occurred to me. Cool trick, I said. Trick, Jody asked. Yeah, the elevator is rumbling in place while a rolling graphic goes by outside to look like we're going down, right? Because while I'm no expert on elevators, I would say that we'd have to be at least 20 stories below the city right now. I know that's just not possible. You're right, she replied, grinning. We aren't 20 stories below the city. We are by now at least 2,000 stories below, if you're using stories as a measurement. I wanted to say something back about how that was a lie. Had to be a lie. We hadn't been riding that long, and that amount of depth wasn't possible on a tiny elevator like this. However, I figured this was all part of the act, like her whole speech about the house of Dinn and all that crap. I didn't want to become too obnoxious or pushy. She might end up asking me to leave, figuring I'd ruin the scene for other patrons. Instead, I just smiled and decided to play along with a really cool and elaborate bar scene. Fake or not, this was by far the most ambitious effort I'd ever seen put forward for a drinking establishment. Shortly after, the elevator stopped. Jody stepped in front of the doors, but before she opened them, she turned back to me. This is your final chance to back out, if you wish. I will take you back. However, once I open these doors, you will be in hell. You may find your way back to the surface tonight, but some find that leaving is just impossible. Some stay forever. In the interest of free will and fair play, I am bound by the Council of Nod to offer you this final chance to return to your life. Choose now. Amazing speech, Jody, I replied. Really great. You guys clearly put some thought into this. Yes, I want to go to this bar. She smiled and opened the doors. A small door sat at the end of a wooden hallway that looked like it may have been built around the time of the pyramids. There were no lights. I could only see by the small electric light in the elevator, and the light coming from the door ahead. I walked forward and as soon as I stepped off of the elevator, the heat hit me. It wasn't so hot that I couldn't take it, but if anyone has ever experienced being in an attic on a really hot day with no ventilation, then you'll have an idea of how this felt. The air was thick beyond description. I instantly was covered in sweat, and I knew that if I stayed in this hallway for too long, I would pass out. I turned to look back and saw the elevator already heading back up. From what I could see, there was no button to call it back down, either. I guess Jody wasn't kidding when she said that was my last chance to back out. I crossed my fingers that the bar would be air conditioned and walked forward into the light. What happened over the next couple of hours is largely a blur, but I'll tell it as best I can. I entered that bar. It was small, very small, about the size of a bedroom. There was a single wooden bar, three bar stools pushed up to it, and three small tables in the corner area. The room was poorly lit. Only a small light bulb hanging from the cord was providing the light. However, it was well lit enough to see everything, and sitting right on the bulb seemed the most logical. There was a small shelf behind the bar, typical setup, liquor bottles in front of a mirror. There were five others in this room, plus the bartender. I saw a gothic girl sitting at one of the tables, sipping a drink with a rather plain dressed man. There were two gentlemen at the other table. One was wearing a business suit. The other was wearing that awful cowboy attire that was popular in almost all walks of life, even secret bars. There was another woman, average in appearance, probably in her mid-thirties, smoking at the other side of the bar. Of course, there was me too, so that completed our little circle. There was no music playing. The walls were old wood, oak maybe. The bartender, now he was a classic. White shirt, black pants, suspenders and bow tie, like something out of the roaring 20s. It was still hot too. Not as bad as the hallway, but pretty awful. Liquor would only make me hotter, but I was here now. I figured I would test the waters. As for the liquor, I saw no bottles that I could recognize. None were labeled. There was no beer either, no name brands, no cash register, no bar mat. This place was as simple as you could want. After a moment, the bartender spoke to me. Welcome to hell, he announced, smiling. Cool name, sort of expected it, though. I try not to sound rude or pretentious. They had put on a great show tonight, but calling the place hell really too predictable. Well, it translates differently in lots of places. Hell is just the way you know it. Shall I call it something else? He asked, and he didn't seem to be joking or annoyed. No, hell's fine. How about a drink? A Jack and Coke, please, I said. No Jack here, and no Coke either. He answered at once. What do you have then? I asked. Most people down here have a drink we call Regret. I can also serve you loneliness, or if you're feeling particularly bold, our health special is damnation. Wow, you guys are really playing up the hell thing. Okay, serve me some Regret, please. He had to be a drink poured from a brown bottle. It tasted amazing, too. I figured it to be a bourbon and wished I had some Coke to mix with it. Apparently, there was no ice here. I chuckled. Of course not. Ice in hell? What am I thinking? Drink was tasty, though, and the buzz hit me quick. I ordered up a loneliness and began to look around at my fellow patrons. None of them seemed to even notice me. The goth girl was cute, though, so I picked up my drink and decided to walk over to her, when suddenly the woman sitting at the bar began to whimper. I'm so thirsty. Can I please have some water? She seemed to be pleading this to the bartender. No, ma'am. He replied with that same stupid grin. No water in hell, not even a small amount. Have another cigarette, though. Wash it down with some hard liquor. No more smoking. My mouth is too dry. No more liquor or water, please. She continued, and to me it began to sound a lot like begging. Instead of handing her water, he held out an unlit cigarette. It was then that I noticed the overflowing astray, the size of a damn punch bowl sitting next to her. It was full of butts. Had to be over a thousand of them in there, and she smoked them all herself? I strained my eyes and studied her harder. Her lips were blistered badly. She had been at it for a while. The bartender patiently held out the cigarette, grin never leaving his face until she finally sighed and took it. He produced a lighter and she took a drag. She began to cough violently, gagging, too. I decided to chime in. Hey, man, she doesn't look so hot, and I really don't think she needs another smoke. She looks like she's dying of thirst, too. Call the elevator, man. She's had enough, I think. The bartender turned his big smile on me. Who? Old Nancy here? Nah. Nancy's a trooper, man. Smokes a couple packs a day, and as far as her thirst, well, she knew this place was a thirsty sort of dive before she walked in the door. But she wanted to be here. She's getting exactly what she wanted. I walked over to Nancy and placed my hand on her shoulder. Ma'am, if you want to get out of here, I'll walk you over to the elevator. You don't look so great right now. I tried to sound as concerned as a 21-year-old kid could sound. Nancy looked at me and smiled. Oh, I'm fine, just fine, she said. But her mouth quivered as she spoke. The bartender was watching us like a hawk, still smiling, but his smile no longer looked so friendly. Everything okay? He asked, beaming like a used car salesman. Nancy shakily replied, yes. The bartender turned around, and in that second Nancy gripped my arm hard, pulled me into the smog that was her breath and whispered, leave while you can. The conclusion to our Creepypasta Thursday story, Secret Bar, is coming up in just a moment and a reminder that when we return to this story, it will be incredibly graphic and not for the ears of children. Sometimes you feel a bit nutty, especially if you're a weirdo. If that feeling transfers to your taste buds as well, I've got some great news for you. Weird Dark Roast Nutty Mummy Coffee. Wrap your taste buds around this medium dark roast blend with shrouds of almond, honey, and chocolate. Each bag of nutty mummy is exclusive to Weird Darkness and is roasted to order, then bandaged, I mean, bagged specifically for you to ensure a maximum freshness for you, your mummy, and anyone else you share it with. Entomb your old coffee and bring your taste buds back from the dead with Weird Dark Roast Nutty Mummy at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. The bartender turned around, and in that second Nancy gripped my arm hard, pulled me into the smog that was her breath and whispered, leave while you can. So low that I almost missed it. Her breath was like a chimney. She must have been chain smoking for days. I smoked, and so do most of my friends, and even on nights when we would chain smoke and pound booze until the sun rose, none of us were ever that toxic. I walked over to the man in the business suit. He at least appeared sane. Hey, sir, I think that lady over there needs help, I said to him. The man looked at me and laughed. We all need help, kid. We're in hell after all. He shouted. As he did this, I looked over at the golf girl just in time to see her begin to cut herself, deep and hard from the looks of it. The plain dressed man sitting next to her began to laugh in a high-pitched tone, almost a giggle. And that was when I noticed that he was masturbating. Only not in the sense that we all do at home. No, his penis was raw, bloody, torn away in places, but he just kept going at it. Stop that! Look at what you're doing to yourselves, I screamed. They looked at me, and I noticed that the girl was crying but also smiling. Her eyes were practically begging for her self-inflicting pain to stop, yet she just kept cutting. I had seen enough. I reached over and attempted to pull the knife out of her hand. Just then, I felt a strong grip on my shoulder, stronger than anything I'd ever felt in my life. It was the bartender. He had come around the bar to grab me. No, no, sir, he screamed into my ear. Every patron of hell gets to enjoy their treats without judgment. After all, judgment has already been passed. We exist beyond that now. Let her cut. She loves it after all. Can't you see she loves it? She's smiling ear to ear. The bartender dragged me back to my stool, and with great speed was somehow back behind the bar again. Now you wanted secrets, right, Kurt? You were bored and wanted more? That's what you came for. Now drink your drink before I beat your face in. Through all of this, he never stopped smiling. He slammed a glass before me. A murky liquid was inside. He grabbed my arm and began to squeeze, the pain becoming unbearable. My mind began to race. This was no bar. This was something but not a bar. I wasn't ready to believe I was actually in hell, but I knew I was somewhere bad. Drink your drink, sir, he screamed again, and fearing that I would pass out from the pain, I slammed down the liquid in front of me. It tasted horrible. I couldn't describe it then, and I can't now, but it was fierce. He let go of me, and suddenly the room got much hotter. The light began to flicker, and suddenly I was afflicted by knowledge, things I didn't want to know, things that no one would want to know. My mother had an affair, and the man I'd grown up calling dad was in fact not my father at all. I had a brother who died. I never knew that. My boss at work hated me. My grandfather committed suicide all these years. I just thought he died naturally. My mother was going to abort me, but changed her mind because she couldn't afford the abortion. I was going to die alone. My wife, a woman I would meet in six years, and fall madly in love with, would die in a car crash with my three-year-old son in the back seat. There was nothing I could do to change this. I would go blind in my 60s from my work-related accident. There were currently 34 people in the world right now, some of who I thought of as friends, who wanted me to die. They hated me. No one, not my mother, not my father, no one had ever loved me at all. Those were just a few of the secrets that suddenly hit me. There were thousands, maybe millions more, but by then my mind couldn't process them all. There were some things, things about me, things about people I knew, that were so dark that I'm thankful that I cannot remember them, because to dwell on them for even a second longer would have brought on madness. Frantically, I looked around the bar. The woman, Nancy, was still smoking, only her throat was on fire. Small red glow, smoldering right in the middle of her throat. She was clearly in the worst pain of her existence, but she continued to take puff after puff of her cigarette. Each time she did, the glow of her throat would get brighter. I looked straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar, seeing the gore fest that had begun behind me. However, what took my attention was the small black figure standing directly to my right. It was maybe five feet tall. Its skin was jet black. The only thing that stood out was its eyes. They were human eyes, but bright, not glowing, just bright, enough to stand out from the onyx of its face. It had small horns on its head. It had very white, very sharp teeth. Somehow, I knew this was din, and I was in his house. I looked towards the door, but it was gone. The heat continued to get worse. The secrets were still popping into my mind, each worse than the one before. Entire dimensions of my soul were being revealed to me. All of it, horrible. Just then my cell phone rang. The ringtone, something from my world, something from up above. It grabbed my attention, and in that moment, the secrets slowed down a bit. I looked down. It was 4 a.m. Mike. Mike was calling to check up on me. His name? Mike. Yes, I have a friend named Mike, my best friend. The more I focused on things that were real, the more stable things became around me. The secrets were almost stopping now. The macabre scene around me was slowing down too. Nancy was back to just smoking again. The goth girl wasn't cutting. That sinister face of Din and it also retreated just a bit. Mike. Mike, my oldest friend. Yes, we grew up together. We rode our bikes together. We had sleepovers, pizza parties, and the more I focused on the real world, if I could just... the door. It was back. I bolted for it. Stop. You had your chance to back out? Screamed the bartender. I looked back just in time to see him leap over the bar behind me. I shot through the doors and back into the tiny, impossibly hot hallway. The bartender burst through the doors, and I did the only thing I could think of. If thinking about the real world weakened this place, then perhaps a real link to the real world would break it. I hit answer on my cell phone, and the voice of my best friend who was calling from the safety of his apartment greeted my ears. I could even hear music in the background. Real music. Mike, call the cops. I'm in real trouble here. I screamed into the phone. What? I can barely hear you, man. Your connection sucks. He answered. The bartender was still coming, still grinning. I had one last idea. I pushed speaker. Mike's voice, a product of the living world owned by someone who had not made a deal to enter some level of hell, flooded the hallway. The bartender stopped. He's not allowed to know of this place, to have any contact without being invited. Even voice contact. It violates the counsel of nod. That was when the final blow to the bar from hell was delivered. I heard Mike in his sleepy, yet concerned voice say, What's the counsel of nod? Contact had been made. Whatever rules governed this place had been broken. Suddenly, the elevator came down. The bartender, still smiling, looked down at me. Sorry, sir, but you have violated the rules. You are no longer welcome at this bar. Please leave. Jody was standing in the elevator. I stood up and climbed in. The effects of the drink I consumed were gone. No more secrets. My phone had died. I guess calling from hell drains a battery. However, the effects were enough. We rode up in silence. When we reached the surface, Jody walked me out of the house onto the stoop. Then she spoke. You may think you won tonight, but you didn't. You had a chance to ride this elevator up, as well as down. Your heart wanted secrets instead of happiness though, so it went down. You could have gone up, and everything you could have ever possibly desired would have been yours. So go on. Feel proud. We like proud mortals, because the proud ones always find their way back to hell. Screw you, Jody, I replied. But I did so as I was walking away. I didn't want to tempt these people any more than I had. When I got home that night, I remembered almost all of the secrets. Over the years, they have slipped away. Slowly at first. Then, like a dream, I would wake up and more would be lost. I wrote down the ones that I listed here, because I didn't want to forget them all. However, when I read them now, they don't seem like secrets anymore, just like weird lies. Of course, I called the police the very next day. I wanted to help those people down there, had to dress up the story a bit. I told the cops that I was led there by Jody after meeting her in the quarter. I left out the part about the place possibly being a level of hell and simply described it as a basement where people were being tortured. The cops got a warrant and went in. The house was empty, as I said it was. However, there was no elevator found. The cops said there was a large closet area that appears to have had an old elevator at one time, but it was long gone now. The house itself was still on the market. It had no owner. For a few years, I'd go down to Jackson Square around 2 a.m., hoping to catch Jody luring another victim into the house. However, I never saw her again. Years went on. I did marry, and no, my wife was never killed in a car accident. We don't have kids yet, though. Perhaps when I violated the contract, the Council of Nod or whatever, I somehow broke that cycle. I'll never know, but I will be careful. After I posted this, I burned a list of secrets that I'd written down. Of course, I could always read them on here, but I won't. And in time, hopefully, I will forget them, too. I never confronted my mother about the abortion plan or asked who my real dad was. Those secrets seemed so real, but Satan is also called the father of lies for a reason. I'm not sure if Din is Satan or just a lesser version of him, but I doubt that Din is a very honest sort, either. I post this as a warning, though. A warning to be careful when seeking out secrets. Some things are kept secret for a reason, and to know them is to know madness. More creepypasta Thursday is still to come when Weird Darkness returns. What kind of person does it take to build a civilization from the ground up? Astronaut Nick Burke will have to learn how to be a leader if he wants humanity to survive on a new planet, even if he himself is no longer human. Nick Burke dreams of successfully creating the first sustainable space colony in human history. After a third failed mission on Mars, Nick returns to Earth heartbroken. But during the trip home, he has an epiphany caused by a near-death experience on how to truly accomplish his dream. Nick launches a billionaire-funded startup company that solves the interstellar travel problem, transporting people in a spaceship without any people aboard. After Nick lands on his new, distant planet, he has to combat his greatest trials yet, including raising children and goats while becoming a colony-building survivalist. Fans of Andy Weir's The Martian and Dennis E. Taylor's We Are Legion, We Are Bob, will find familiar themes of innovative science fiction ideas with plenty of humor and pop culture. The hard science fiction novel, Seed, by Matthew G. Dick, narrated by Darren Marlar. Here are a free sample on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. The Statement of Randolph Carter by H. P. Lovecraft I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever, if you will. Confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice. But I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candor. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind, that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which it brought upon me. Again, I say I do not know what has become of Harley Warren, though I think almost hope that he is in peaceful oblivion. If there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together, as he says, on the Gainesville Pike, walking towards Big Cypress Swamp, at half past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns, spades, and a curious coil of wire with attached instruments I will leave in the firm. For these things all played a part in the single, hideous scene which remained burned in my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I know nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or nightmare it may have been, vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was, yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade or some nameless thing I cannot describe, alone can tell. As I have said before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects, I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master. But these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most I believe are in Arabic, and the Fiend-inspired book which brought on the end, the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world, was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies, must I say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. Warren always dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm in fact in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him. Once more, I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly it had much to do with something in the book which Warren carried with him, that ancient book in undiscipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before, but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight, for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens. The place was an ancient cemetery so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank, grass, moss, and curious creeping weeds and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley's rim, a one waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapors that seemed to emanate from unheard of canachomes, and by its feeble wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausolean facades, all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation. My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain half obliterated sepulcher and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I had with me an electric lantern and two spades whilst my companion was supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us, and without delay we seized our spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense granite slabs, we stepped back some distance to survey the carnal scene, and Warren appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the sepulcher, and using his spade as a lever sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have been a monument in its day. He did not succeed and motioned to me to come to his assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone which we raised and tipped to one side. The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture from which rushed an affluence of miaswell gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps dripping with some detestable ecore of the inner earth and bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitra. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse. Warren, addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice, a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings. I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface, he said, but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can't imagine even from what you have read and from what I have told you the things I shall have to see and do. It's fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don't wish to offend you and heaven knows I'll be glad enough to have you with me, but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine and I couldn't drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can't imagine what the thing is really like, but I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move. You see, I have enough wire here to reach to the center of the earth and back. I can still hear in memory those coolly spoken words, but I can still remember my remonstrances. Aseemed, desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulcher depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent, a threat which proved effective since he alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. And after he had secured my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod, I took one of the ladder and seated myself upon an aged, discolored gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire and disappeared within that indescribable osuary. For a moment I kept sight of the glow of his lantern and heard the rustle of the wire as he laid it down after him, but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon. In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most ghastly fantasies and illusions, and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality, a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked halo, and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the moldering tombs in the hillside, shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon. I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone, but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek, I could not answer, speechless I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again. This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified I continued to repeat Warren, what is it? What is it? Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear and now apparently tinged with despair. Stillness again, save from my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry, then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation. I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows, below me some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination, but my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause, a piteous cry from Warren, something in a boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution, Warren, brace up, I'm coming down. But at this offer, the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair. The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality as of hopeless resignation, yet it remained tense through anxiety for me. I tried not to heed him, tried to break through the paralysis which held me and to fulfill my vow to rush down to his aid, but his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror. A pause, more clicking, and then the faint voice of Warren, here Warren's whisper swelled into a cry, a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages. After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons I sat stupefied, whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those aeons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, Warren, Warren answer me, are you there? And then there came to me the crowning horror of all, the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that aeons seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, Warren are you there? And in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try gentlemen to account for that thing, that voice, nor can I venture to describe it in detail since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep, hollow, gelatinous, remote, unearthly, inhuman disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience and is the end of my story. I heard it and knew no more. Heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasma vapors. Heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulcher as I watched amorphous necrophages' shadows dance beneath an accursing, waning moon. And this is what it said. Thanks for listening. If you like the podcast, please tell someone about it. Recommend weird darkness to your friends, family and co-workers who love the paranormal, horror stories or true crime like you do. Every time you share the podcast with someone new, it helps spread the word about the show and a growing audience makes it possible for me to keep doing the podcast. Plus, telling others about weird darkness also helps get the word out about resources that are available for those who suffer from depression. So please share the podcast with someone today. Do you have a dark tale to tell of your own? Fact or fiction, click on tell your story on the website and I might use it in a future episode. Stories on Creepypasta Thursday episodes are works of fiction and links to the stories or the authors can be found in the show notes. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Philippians 2 verses 14 and 15 Do everything without complaining or arguing so that you may become blameless and pure. Children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation in which you shine like stars in the universe. And a final thought. I used to believe that prayer changes things, but now I know that prayer changes us and we change things. Mother Teresa, I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Hey Weirdos, our next Weirdo Watch Party is coming up fast. It's Friday, February 9th. The gruesome two-some of Graveyard Cinema, Horrible Henry and Mad Marty are presenting 1950's Quick Sand, starring Mickey Rooney and Peter Laurie. In the film, a man takes $20 from his employer to go on a date, planning to replace the money the next day. But he falls increasingly into more disastrous circumstances and further in need of more money, and it spirals out of control. Join us Friday, February 9th for Quick Sand. It's free to watch online, and you can chat along with the rest of us Weirdos as we watch the movie together. The show begins at 8 p.m. Eastern, 7 p.m. Central, 6 p.m. Mountain, and 5 p.m. Pacific. You can watch a trailer for the film and watch horror hosts and schlocky B-movies any time, day or night, on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com. 1950's Quick Sand, starring Mickey Rooney and Peter Laurie. Friday, February 9th, on the Weirdo Watch Party page. Hey Weirdos, be sure to click the like button and subscribe to this channel, and click the notification bell so you don't miss future videos. I post videos seven days a week, and while you're at it, spread the darkness by sharing this video with someone you know who loves all things strange and macabre. If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com.