Tag: CreepyTales

A Joke Off the Tongue

“Sticks and stones, she says—that’s what it’ll be. They’ll break every one of them, then use my flesh to boil their soup!”

Kevin reads aloud, then glances across the table at Gregor—the smile he struggles to suppress spreading across his weathered lips.

Gregor snarls, baring his teeth. With a sudden motion, he snatches the papers from Kevin’s hands and springs to his feet.

“Fuck you!” he spits, his voice trembling with venom.

Kevin laughs loudly, throwing his arms wide. “Seriously? I—I—” But he can’t finish, laughter overtaking him in uncontrollable fits, each one more vicious than the last.

Gregor’s face darkens. His fist clenches tight, his knuckles white. With a sharp motion, he scrunches his nose and punches Kevin square in the face.

The room falls silent.

Kevin stares at Gregor with wide, confused eyes. A trickle of blood snakes from his nostrils, vanishing into the thick forest of his bushy moustache.

“I—I—I,” Kevin stammers, his words trembling as they try to find their way out. He grabs his nose, squeezing it tightly as his brow furrows in disbelief. “W-Why?”

Gregor’s lip twitches as tears streak his cheeks. His breath comes in shallow bursts, and a tremor shakes his clenched jaw.

“I’m trying to share something close to me—something I’ve never shared with anyone—and you laugh at me! You mock it! You mock me! That’s why I hit you! That’s why!”

“B-B-But,” Kevin stammers, his lips curling into an ill-controlled smile. “I thought it was meant to be funny!”

Gregor’s response is instant—a second punch, harder than the first, sends Kevin toppling from his seat. He crashes to the floor in a mess of arms and legs, groaning.

But Kevin doesn’t stay down for long. He scrambles back to his feet, blood now trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he hisses, thrusting a finger toward Gregor. “I said I’m sorry! I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be funny, but if you hit me again, I swear I’ll reenact some of those lame-arse moves you wrote into your stupid fucking story—on your face! Capisce?”

Gregor’s eyes flash with something unhinged. His lips curl into a grin too wide, too unnatural.

Without a word, he punches Kevin again, this time aiming low. The blow sinks into Kevin’s gut, forcing the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp. He stumbles, his arms flailing weakly as he mutters incoherent words, his head swaying as though the world is spinning.

Gregor doesn’t stop. Another punch lands clean, and Kevin collapses to the ground with a dull thud.

Kevin groans, dragging himself upright once more, his body trembling. Blood pools at the corner of his mouth, thick and metallic on his tongue. He locks eyes with Gregor, confusion giving way to fury.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Kevin hisses, his voice cracking. “You’re fucking broken and your story is a joke!”

Gregor’s eyes gleam with a terrible light, and his face twists into something monstrous—a grin too wide, a glare too sharp.

“A joke?” Gregor snarls, his voice cracking. “You’re the fucking joke, Kevin! You!”

With a violent motion, Gregor hurls Kevin against the wall. He staggers backward, his chest heaving, before reaching for the shattered remains of a chair.

Kevin gasps, his wide eyes fixed on the jagged piece of wood in Gregor’s trembling hand.

“Let’s see if you’re still laughing without a tongue,” Gregor whispers—his voice soft and calm—as he raises the chair leg high above his head and winks.

In the Woods, Sin Begins

He drags himself up the small hillside, grabbing handfuls of dirt each time. He grimaces, clenching his teeth, gasping desperately for air. His face is bruised, his lips bloody. He narrows his eyes and pulls himself further up the hill. He grunts, fighting back the tears.

His pants twist around his ankles like rope. His bare legs, torn by rocks and shrubs, are bloody and worn. Each movement feels like his skin is being flayed away. His body is broken, violated—but he keeps moving.

Handful after handful, he pulls himself a few feet at a time. He stops to catch his breath, each inhale sharp and desperate. He tries to hold back the tears again, but as before—and the time before that—the sobs force their way out. His bottom lip trembles, and he sucks in shallow, stuttering breaths before dragging himself forward again.

“Found him!” a voice suddenly cries out.

His head jerks around as thunderous footsteps rush toward him. He screams, clawing at the dirt, frantic to move faster, but it’s no use. Another figure steps in front of him, cutting off his escape.

He looks up, terror tightening his chest. Michael stands over him, his grin wide and malicious.

“I thought I lost you, son,” Michael slurs, his voice dripping with menace. Without warning, he drives a boot into the side of the man’s head.

Pain erupts, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Stars explode across his vision as red streaks down the side of his face.

“You ever do that again,” Michael growls, leaning down and grabbing him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet, “you ever think you can just leave without my say so again, and I’ll let the boys have a go at you. Then you’ll know just how gentle a lover I really am. Do you understand?”

The man stares back, his bloodied face twisted in defiance. He spits a wad of blood into Michael’s face. “F-Fuck you!” he stammers.

Michael growls, dragging him upright by his shirt. Then he slams his forehead into the man’s nose, a sickening crunch echoing as blood sprays across both of them.

“You little fucking runt!” Michael hisses, drawing back for another strike. “Time you realis—”

The man lunges forward suddenly, driving Michael’s own knife into his throat.

Michael freezes, his eyes widening in shock. Liquid crimson sprays violently from the wound, thick and fast. He splutters and chokes on his own blood. He lets go of the man, staggering backward, his hands clutching at his throat—but a river of red already washes over him.

“Y-Y-You little f-fuck—” Michael stammers, collapsing to his knees. His eyes glaze over, and his body slumps forward into the dirt.

The others arrive, their footsteps heavy and panicked. They stop, staring down at Michael’s lifeless body.

“Holy shit, he just killed Michael!” one of them shouts.

“You just killed Michael!” another snaps, pointing at the man.

He wavers on his feet, clutching the bloody knife. “A-And I’ll kill you t-t-too, unless—” he stammers, his voice cracking.

“U-U-Unless what?” one of them asks, trembling.

“Unless you get down on your knees and take my seed,” he growls, his lips curling into a bloody grin.

A Metallic Motif of Motion

Cars thunder past in droves, one after another, rushing relentlessly onward. The worlds of each driver are separated by their metallic coffins, the landscapes outside no longer a part of theirs. Every journey becomes a void between A and B. He grimaces, clumsily wiping a sweaty palm across his face as he rubs at an irritating itch near his jawline. He snorts and sniffs, scrunching his nose and curling his lips, each blessed step carrying him closer to his destination.

More cars thunder past—their loud engines drown out the voice on the other end of the phone.

A deep-seated sigh escapes his throat as he pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the screen. He spits a frustrated hiss, shakes his head in disapproval, then shoves it back against his ear.

“I don’t care,” he huffs gruffly.

He falls silent for a few moments, listening intently, his breaths slow and rhythmic, measured with each step. His nose wrinkles again, and his teeth bare like those of a cornered animal. His movements sharpen, his steps pounding against the ground with increasing focus.

“Like I said, I totally understand—I just don’t care. Plain and simple!”

He rolls his eyes and lets out another long-winded, lacklustre sigh, his gaze lifting toward the sky.

“Okay, okay!” he snaps, coming to a sudden stop and throwing his free hand into the air as though holding back something—or someone. “I’m sorry if that process doesn’t fit your schedule, but it’s what’s going to happen.”

“You call me and, for some reason, expect me to drop everything to meet your bizarre request without even batting an eyelid? Well, that’s not gonna work for me. That’s not gonna wo—”

The words catch in his throat, and his brow furrows.

“W-W-W-What?” he stammers, his eyes widening as a fresh wave of sweat cascades down his forehead. “I-I-I—I don’t understand. W-W-What is that supposed to a-achieve?”

A nervous smile wraps itself across his lips. “I-I-I, I can’t be expected to—” His flesh pales, the blood rushing from his cheeks. “T-T-That’s completely unfair! Y-Y-You can’t just pull something this absurd and believe I won’t retaliate. I’m a—”

His words falter, his chin crumbling as his lips tremble. His eyes well up, glistening with tears as he stares out into the emptiness beyond him.

“I-I-I—You can’t. T-T-They did nothing to y-y-you. T-T-They—” He takes another deep breath, his chest heaving as he clenches his eyes shut.

“I-I-I—I understand.”

He nods, his jaw clenching tight as he arches his head back, letting his eyes flutter upward to the empty sky.

“N-N-No, I understand everything you’re saying. They are cattle—a commodity needed to perform a task,” he stammers nervously. “Y-Y-Yes, I get it. I c-can see why you needed to do it, a prime example of my inability to read a room.”

He lets out another long-winded sigh, his lips curling in distaste.

“Of course. This one will be on the house. Yes, I will ensure that in the future, I am much more accommodating.”

“C-Can you put her on, s-s-so I can assure her that I’m making them safe?” he asks nervously, his voice trembling. “I-I-I, I get that. I truly do. B-B-But don’t you want to ensure that the power you claim to have i-is confirmed? Otherwise, h-h-how do I even know they’re alive? Y-Yes, I understand, and I know that I just have to trust you, but if you c—”

He takes another deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he clenches his eyes shut. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, sharper.

“Of course, that is totally understandable,” he seethes.

There’s a long pause before his lips curl into something too tight to be a smile. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand why I have to do this.”

Without waiting for a response, he steps out onto the road.

A car slams into him with a thunderous crack. His body tears like paper, bones snapping as a crimson spray bursts into the air. His head smashes against the windshield, shattering it in an explosion of jagged glass before his mangled body is flung across the pavement like a ragdoll. He lands in a twisted heap, his limbs bent at impossible angles. Blood pools beneath him, painting the asphalt in a grotesque smear.

The phone remains tightly clutched in his hand, its screen flickering faintly against the growing silence.

The Other Side of the Door

The door shudders with each impact as Stewart drives his shoulder into it, slamming hard against the wood. He screams, he cries, he begs.

“Damien! Can you hear me? Damien—let me in!” he shouts, his voice haggard and raw. Damien sits unmoving, empty eyes fixed on the door, huddled on the floor and hugging his legs tight against his chest. His lip trembles, his empty gaze wide and almost pulsing.

“Please, Damien!” Stewart howls, his voice breaking. Every inch of his body throbs with exhaustion and pain, yet he forces himself to keep pounding on the door. Each impact jolts up his arm—skin raw and burning—and still he persists. Shadows swim around him, thickening and seeming almost alive—suffocating him in a haze of panicked desperation.

“Damien! Damien! Let me in! Let me save you like I swore I would!” he cries, pressing his lips to the door. He runs his hands along its edge, searching for a crack to peer through—pressing himself tight and scrambling—until at last he finds a glimmer of light. Then he sees him.

Damien sits, huddled—and to Stewart’s horror, the vile beast that has haunted his dreams is there, its long arms draped over Damien, a wicked grin stretched across its lips. In the dim light, shadows flicker and swell behind them, casting monstrous shapes that writhe against the walls.

“LET HIM GO!” Stewart cries, tears streaming down his face as he throws himself back, kicking the door over and over. Still, it holds—unyielding.

He scrambles back to the crack, squinting through the narrow gap. He recoils—heart hammering—as the creature presses its own eyes to the other side, peering back at him. Its voice oozes through—low and mocking—each word a threat disguised in sweetness.

“Go away, child. He is mine. You had your chance—you had your time, but you let him go. You forgot, but I—I did not. I have been here for him, while you were away, living your life. Go, leave us, and know that you are unworthy. While I—I am his all.”

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Stewart screams. “DAMIEN! DAMIEN!”

The creature laughs, its gaze shifting between Damien’s silent figure and Stewart’s desperate, petrified eyes through the crack.

“It is too late,” it purrs, words dripping with smugness. “He is mine.”

Stewart pounds desperately at the door, his fists raw and red, smearing bloody marks against the wood with each impact. Inside, the creature grins—broad and menacing—as it strides toward Damien. It pauses, turning back to the doorway, and strokes Damien’s hair with long, spindly fingers. The grin stretches wider as Stewart’s pounding and screams grow louder, more frantic, more unhinged.

Damien looks up at the creature, a faint, sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “W-Who’s at the door, Papi?” he whispers.

The creature’s expression softens as it cups Damien’s chin, stroking his face gently. “No one, my little pup,” it purrs, its voice dripping with malice. “No one at all.”

A Bile of Another Name

It convulses, moving back and forth, its lips clamped over the child’s fragile frame, sucking the life dry as though the child were a straw plunged into a slushy. Dale gasps, biting down on his fist to stifle his own pathetic cries.

The child goes limp, and the parasitic leech of a creature straddles the body, beginning to feed in earnest. Then, it freezes. Tentacle-like arms protrude from its mouth, tugging at the flesh suit that had been the small child, stretching the gash in its throat into a gaping hole. It regurgitates a crude, green liquid back into the body, and the reaction is almost immediate.

It latches on and feeds anew, the corrosive liquid breaking down bone and sinew, which it drinks with greedy delight. But as it empties the cup that was the small child, its hunger grows desperate, insatiable. With a frantic shudder, it sinks deeper into the empty, hollowed-out flesh sack, devouring it whole in one grotesque gulp. Dale’s stomach heaves as he watches, his eyes wide with disbelief as it consumes every inch, every morsel of what, just moments earlier, had been a small teenager.

Dale stumbles from his hiding spot, gasping desperately for a breath. A sound behind him—a scuff against the cold stone floor—forces him to spin around in surprise. A tall, shadowed figure stands in the doorway, its gaze locked on him, a million eyes watching, studying. The world spins in every direction, and Dale can’t hold it back any longer. Bile rushes up from his stomach, exploding out in a volatile sea of vomit, splashing across the floor in a grand display. The figure stands, watching, unmoving.

Dale drags an arm across his mouth and sneers. “F-F-Fuck you!” he stammers through trembling lips.

The creature’s head twists a full three hundred and sixty degrees, its focus singularly fixed on Dale, as if scenting his fear. With a sickening cry, it straightens, slowly circling him, strings of green-tinged saliva dripping from its gaping mouth. Dale stumbles backward, a strangled scream clawing its way up his throat as the thing lunges. It moves with horrifying speed, limbs writhing, slick and snake-like, covering the distance between them in an instant. It seizes Dale with precision and skill, the mark of a seasoned predator. His scream is swallowed in the wet crush of its grip, its mouth pressing over his face, suffocating the life from him. With ravenous hunger, it bites down on his throat and begins to feed.

Dale’s mouth opens and closes, like a fish desperate for water, his eyes wide, pleading for mercy. The room spins as darkness draws near, pressing in as the creature drains the life from his withered frame. He feels himself unravel, pulled thread by thread into its endless hunger. Then, suddenly, it lets go, recoiling, screaming, scrambling away from Dale, staring at him in pure terror.

Dale grins through bloodied teeth, forcing his battered frame to his feet as the creature cowers before him.

“T-That fucked you up, d-didn’t it?” he grunts, dropping to his knees again as a growing sea of red spreads beneath him. He slaps a hand against his throat, but nothing will stop the river flowing. He laughs, a strangled, wet sound. “Guess I killed us both,” he mutters.

The creature slithers out from its hiding place, hissing toward him as if trying to communicate. Dale laughs again, weak but defiant. “Y-Yeah, fuck you too!” he quips as the creature raises its head, its mouth stretching wide, rows of jagged teeth glistening, tendrils writhing in the air. Then, with a sickening lurch, it spews a sea of bile that splashes over Dale.

He screams as the acidic liquid begins eating through his flesh and bone, unraveling him from the outside in.

Midnight Ain’t the Time for Walkies

Each step feels like a clumsy misstep, as though each move forward demands some impossible skill he doesn’t possess. A grimace stretches across his dry, cracked lips, pulling tighter with every step. He lets out a stuttering laugh, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow. A gasp, then a cry escapes him as he draws in a sharp breath, yanking the dog’s lead tight as she pulls him forward.

“Jess!” he hisses through taut lips. “Slow down!”

She ignores his call, digging in her paws with each thrusting step and forcing onward, refusing to yield.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he spits, yanking the lead again with all his might. Jess stumbles back, scrambling for footing as she lets out a low, rumbling growl. Her feet plant firmly, hackles raised, every hair standing on end. He takes a step back, his eyes wide with surprise.

“J-J-Jess!” he stammers nervously, holding his hands up in a defensive posture. “C-C-Calm down, girl!”

A sudden silence settles over them. No rustling of leaves, no distant hum of cars from the adjoining street—nothing but an unnatural quiet pressing in around them. Jess’s ears stand straight and tall, her muscles tense, and she lowers herself slightly, ready to strike.

A cold shiver crawls up his spine as his pulse beats like a hammer in his ears.

“J-Jess,” he whispers, barely daring to breathe. “What—what is it, g-girl?”

From somewhere in the shadows, a soft, wet clicking noise breaks the silence. His panicked gaze catches a faint shape—a dark, shifting mass just beyond the reach of the streetlight—but it’s not until its piercing red eyes meet his that he feels warmth spreading down his leg.

His grip tightens on Jess’s lead, and he pulls her firmly toward him.

“C-Come on, girl. L-Let’s just take it nice a-and easy, okay?”

Jess growls louder, her lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth dripping with thick yellow foam, her eyes wild. She barks, and he flinches—just as the thing in the trees leaps toward them. Jess lunges to meet the attack, yanking him forward as she does, but the lead catches tight. Jess is thrust to the ground, and the creature lands, crouched on a fence post, watching them.

Its leathery wings rise high, clawed feet gripping the splintered wood as its mouth stretches wide, rows of razor-sharp teeth chattering with a sick, rhythmic click, glistening with grotesquely thick green saliva.

He takes breath after desperate breath, each one shorter than the last, a sea of sweat pouring down his twitching brow as blood drains from his pale cheeks. Jess launches back to her feet and stands between the creature and her master, her back arched high, teeth bared as a guttural growl escapes her.

The creature hisses, swiping mockingly toward them before dropping low, snarling, and coiling itself like a cat ready to pounce. It launches at Jess, who barks rabidly. He throws himself to his feet, dragging Jess out of its attack range. She barks wildly, pulling and twisting, leaping and turning, trying to break free of the lead.

He yanks her hard, pulling her behind him as the creature launches at him again. It lands on his chest, tearing into his throat viciously, a wall of red splashing over it. They tumble back and crash to the ground. The creature looks up, soaked in blood, as a razor-sharp tirade of teeth closes in on its head.

A Container with a View 

Dale holds the camera away from his face, grips his chin with his other hand, and stares off into the distance. He adjusts his pose several times, mumbling to himself until he’s satisfied with the stance, the angle, and what the camera captures. Then, he hits record. 

For a few silent seconds, he looks out into the distance, stroking the stubble on his chin, before turning his gaze to the camera’s lens and smiling. 

“Hello, my friends. I’m glad you made it,” he says with a nod of his head and a playful wink. “Today, we’re doing something new—something different—and hopefully, if I’ve chosen correctly, something worthwhile. Behind me stands Mertonville Site Storage, one of the largest storage rental companies in Australia. With five thousand sites across Australia and over two million worldwide, they’re clearly good at what they do. But every now and then, someone slips through the cracks, and they end up seizing a storage locker. To cover costs, they auction these off to the highest bidder.” 

He steps back, allowing a storage container to fall into view. “Now, we’re opening the first of three containers,” he says with a broad grin. 

He pulls his hat from his head, scratches his balding scalp, and makes a strained face. “I know there are a lot of guys doing the same thing as this, and I bet you’re thinking, ‘Why should I watch your video instead of all the others?’ If I were honest, I’d say I don’t know. But honesty isn’t really my thing—as you’ll remember from video diary seven hundred and twenty-six and the sixteen that followed. I’m a lying son of a bitch who takes great pleasure in playing with not only people’s emotions but situations as well,” he says with a broad grin. “For the uninitiated, that video was the first in a collection I like to call Cutting Cancerous Tumours from the Soul, aka The Divorce,” he adds with a spiteful cackle. 

Dale’s grin widens, adding a sinister touch to his narrow eyes. “Now, I know I said this was just a lucky find, but I may have bent the truth a little,” he says, choking on a muffled laugh. “See, this container isn’t one of those seized units like everyone else gets on those other shows. This one was a fully paid, certified storage container—still rented to store someone’s precious belongings.” He swings the camera around, revealing a bonfire crackling a few feet away, then returns the camera to himself. “Honestly, it didn’t mean a thing to me. In fact, I think I feel a little better now that it’s burning,” he adds, spitting on the ground and dragging his arm across his mouth, laughing like a horror-movie hillbilly. 

“Now, I guess you’re wondering how I got access to a storage container if it was still in use. Well,” he says with a wicked grin, “the owner just needed a little—persuasion. So to all of you out there hitting walls and giving up on the things you really want, remember: a little persistence can open all sorts of doors.” He steps closer to the container, trailing his fingers over the cold metal as if savoring a secret only he knows. “Enough of the posing and prancing. Let’s open this guy up and see what’s left inside.” 

With a swift yank, Dale pulls the door open, revealing an unsettling sight within. In the centre of the container, bound with rusted barbed wire and chained to the walls, is his ex-wife, her eyes, wide and pleading, peer through layers of grime and dried blood. She’s barely able to move, her skin marred with scratches and bruises, a gag tied cruelly across her mouth. “Ah, sweetheart,” Dale purrs, stepping forward as the camera captures every detail. “They say time heals all wounds, but I prefer the slow, hands-on approach.” He turns back to the camera, his grin widening. “Now, my friends, let’s see just how deep these old scars run.” 

He reaches out to close the container door, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And remember, don’t go anywhere. The fun’s just beginning.” 

A Sack Full of Nightmares

The lights flicker, shifting from stark white to a sickly, mottled cream, punctuated by dark patches. Moths and bugs swarm around each bulb, darting and diving in a rhythmic, unsettling dance. Jeffery looks up from the asphalt—a thick stream of drool spilling from his open mouth, his unblinking eyes vacant and unfocused. His neck tilts slightly—his hands folding together, fingers twitching as if playing an unseen, spectral piano.

Something stirs in the depths of his decaying mind—a pull, a hum he can’t deny. He gags, doubling over as a sack of mucus and bile births itself from his throat and splats onto the ground. His gaze remains steady, unwavering. The sack splits open, releasing a dark plume of bugs that writhes upward, toward the light. A crack and a hiss stab the air—then the bulbs burst, showering Jeffery in a sea of glass and darkness.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, gripping him as though to haul him from the earth itself. He turns, his empty gaze fixed, jaw slack and dislocated, blood oozing from the torn edges of his lips. His hollow eyes meet another’s—another face, dead-eyed and slack. For a breath, they stand in silent communion—then both heads tilt, answering some unseen, inaudible call. Together, they shuffle forward, like phantoms from an old zombie film, melting into the shadows beyond the broken lights.

The path stretches ahead in a flickering line—each bulb straining against the creeping darkness. Beneath each dying light stands another figure—faces lifted, mouths slack and agape, forming a twisted tunnel down to the void of their bellies. Their glazed eyes are locked on the flickering glow above, as though waiting for something unseen to awaken. Like a slow, dark wave, they begin to heave—sickly egg sacs rising up the empty tunnels of their mouths. Each sack falls to the ground, splitting open with a wet slap, birthing a fresh swarm of bugs that coils upward, drifting to join the gathering cloud above. As each bulb reaches its breaking point, it explodes with a sharp pop, showering them in fragments of glass and darkness.

Farther down the line, a woman jerks her head to the side, her neck twisting with sickening snaps as if caught between compulsions she barely understands. Her hand rises, fingers trembling in a frantic, unnatural dance, seized by a force she cannot resist. Her eyes strain, flickering with life—only to dull, leaving them dry and wide. She convulses, a look of horror creeping across her face as she sinks to her knees, a dark river of blood pooling beneath her dress. She pitches forward, her face meeting the earth as bugs crawl from her mouth, ears, nose, and every open pore, spilling from her hollowed shell.

Somewhere in the shadows between the lights, the bugs thicken, spilling over each other, feeding on the slow-moving procession that drags forward. Their buzzing grows into a dark, chant-like rhythm, a pulse that binds them to the shadows. The figures sway in jagged unison—bodies jerking to the twisted music only they can hear. Between each hum, the darkness breathes—pressing closer as bodies are torn apart with brutal precision. Something unseen chooses its victims, separating those meant to follow from those meant to feed.

Beyond the reach of the final bulb, deep within the shadow—a presence waits, ancient and unwavering, its gaze fixed. Silent and patient, it watches as they shuffle forward, drawn to it like lambs to an endless hunger.

Flooding Darkness with a Darker Light

The camera shutter clicks, and the flash bulb floods the area in blinding light, igniting reds with an iridescent glow they hadn’t held before. Seconds stretch, then another shutter click ignites, and the scene is irradiated with that same brilliant glow. Sebastian peers from behind the camera, taking a deep breath as he closes his eyes, his head gently wobbling side to side, drinking in the smells—the aroma of sulfur, the metallic scent of blood. His lips curl into a soft smile as he gazes through the lens once again, pressing the button down. The room is engulfed in white once more.

He rolls his head on his shoulders, stretches up tall, pressing his hands against his back until a crack vibrates through his spine. He gasps, rolling his head again. Taking a few steps to the left, he lunges forward, thrusting the camera out before him. With one eye open, he squints through the lens, leans back slightly, and presses the button again. The room bathes in the flash’s light, red upon red, flesh torn open, meat rotting, eyes wide, mouths screaming.

He rubs his nose roughly, grimacing, then gently sticks a finger a few centimetres into his nostril, rubs it, and drags his knuckle across the other. Scratching his cheek, he mumbles incoherent sentences that mean little to nothing. A drumbeat vibrates in his mind, followed by a guitar solo, and he sways back and forth, closing his eyes, arching his head toward the ceiling. A smile wavers over his lips as he takes another breath, looking down at the mess surrounding him. He holds the camera steady, taking another shot of the only thing he’s ever wanted to capture on film.

The flash’s afterglow lingers in Sebastian’s eyes, strange patterns forming in the darkness, dancing shapes that shift like forgotten thoughts at the edges of his vision. He grips his forehead, kneading his temples, eyes closed, savoring the moment, feeling a hollow thrill shudder through him as his body responds. The world beyond this room feels distant, irrelevant—but here, he is everything and nothing, a god, a devil, an unholy witness. His fingers tremble as he adjusts the camera’s focus, tilting it to capture every grotesque detail of the carnage his wrath has conjured, the simplicity of death itself, preserved for his own twisted purposes. The scene is perfect, yet somehow incomplete. He can almost taste its pulse, feel a rhythm beneath the stillness, as though something lingers in the silence, waiting for him to immortalize it in his lens.

He gasps, his gaze fixed on her gaping mouth, frozen in a scream that will echo only in silence, and perhaps in his mind. A sickly sliver of saliva pools on his lip, and he hisses as he wonders what secrets that mouth holds, what final gasp it released as life ebbed away, what tastes it might have known. He leans closer, entranced, fingers hovering over the button, barely breathing as his thoughts unfurl, dark and consuming. He shoves his fingers into his own mouth, sucking on them, closing his eyes as he savors the taste, then slowly slides his wet fingers into hers. Her mouth is dry, lifeless, and hollow in its stillness. He draws a haggard breath, his free hand moving over himself as he squints, poised for the next shot.

The bulb flares once more, filling the room in a flash of stark white that sears each grotesque detail into his mind. He exhales, a small, shuddering sound, knowing this shot will be the one—the one he’ll return to each night, a testament to the only art he’s ever truly understood. Closing his eyes, he feels the reverberation of the moment, lingering on his lips as he prepares for the next shot.

The Other You on the Side of the Screen

Chris swallows the stale air like it’s a box of razor blades, wincing in pain as it goes down. He gasps, screws up his nose, and closes his eyes tightly, then shakes his head and runs his hand roughly over his bald head.

The laptop lies open before him, its screen frozen on a haggard image of himself. He sucks in another deep breath, looks over to Zoey, who nods and raises her eyebrows in encouragement, then presses the space bar.

The video starts to play once again.

The Chris in the video closes his eyes and leans forward. He grips his head roughly, then looks back up into the camera.

“I’m you. Or, I was you, before you became you — just like the five or six versions of us who came before me,” he says, his chin trembling, as does Chris’s. Zoey eyes them both, twisting her lips like waves breaking on the shore.

“I know it all sounds far-fetched,” the Chris in the video continues. “But from what I’ve pieced together, about four years ago, the original Chris — the one who was actually born — was diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma. He signed up for every drug trial he could. Then, one day, someone from the Newfound Heritage Foundation approached him and offered a chance to take part in a new trial that would ‘revolutionise disease and its effects on the human body.’ Chris signed up, and two weeks later — he died from complications of the cancer. Yet, that same day, two hours before he was supposed to be dead, he visited his parents and told them he was cured.”

Chris and Zoey stare at the screen in silence. The Chris in the video chuckles darkly. “But he wasn’t cured. Not in the way you’d expect. In the labs beneath the lab, they called the project ‘the life mirror’ — an experiment to copy someone’s mind and soul and place it in a meat suit grown in a vat of stem cells. The first copy walked the longest road before he found out he was a copy. They killed him, threw his remains back in the vat, and grew another version — this time with alterations to prevent that Chris from discovering he was a clone. The second one lasted a few weeks, the third even less, and the fourth, fifth, and me — well, I’ve apparently been alive for only two days, which is scary considering how much of my life I remember — and I bet you remember just as much.”

He takes a deep breath, looks off to the side, eyeing something off-camera, then smiles and looks back. “I had a dream last night, and it wasn’t right. The left was off-centre, and the bright sky was dull and grey. I knew my name was wrong, and the sound of my heart beating in my chest was off. It was like I had memories of my face — on someone else’s head.”

The video glitches, the image flickering like a damaged reel. For a moment, Chris swears he sees faces overlaying the video — versions of himself with eyes too wide, mouths twisted, all flickering in and out of focus. A faint, static-like whisper hums in the background, growing louder and louder with every passing second — like something trying to break through from one side to the other.

“Each of us — each version — thinks they’re the only one, and why wouldn’t they?” the Chris on-screen says, his lips trembling. “But I’ve felt them, and I know you have too, because you’re me, just a few days older — or younger — I’m not sure anymore. Still, however you are, I know you can feel them, like shadows at the back of your mind, touching your head.” He sucks in another stuttered breath. “I dream about their deaths — about why they were, and why I’m not anymore. I’m tired, but I wanted you to know, so maybe — the cycle can break.”

Chris stares, frozen, as the version of him in the video leans forward, eyes widening with a kind of fervent desperation. “They said each one of us would be an improvement on the last, but — they lied. We’re weaker. Each generation is drained, our skills diminished, our abilities shaved away. Soon you’ll start feeling the emptiness — the — void where we used to be — and the answer you seek won’t be within reach because —”

Suddenly, the screen goes blank, and a distorted reflection stares back at him. His own face — or something resembling it — begins to shift, fragmenting as dozens of other faces attempt to push through his skin, layer after layer, a nightmarish mosaic of versions that don’t quite fit — but are all him.

It Was All Scrawled in Crayons

The light folds in on itself several times over, wrapping around, twisting and spiralling through each beam, until finally, it extinguishes itself, leaving the warehouse in a darkness only found behind closed eyes. Heather allows a staggered breath to escape as she clutches Sammy’s hand tightly.

“Hold onto mummy no matter what!” she whispers in a hushed tone.

“But I’m over here, mummy,” her daughter’s voice cries from a few feet away. Heather catches her breath, clutching it in her throat as a wave of dread washes over her. She turns her trembling head toward where her hand should be.

“D-Don’t listen to her, mummy. It’s n-not me,” her daughter whispers beside her, the grip on Heather’s hand tightening. Heather gasps again, sweat cascading over her. She presses her lips together, gasping as she tries to catch her breath, the heat in the warehouse pressing down on her.

“Don’t listen to her, mummy. I’m over here, and I’m scared. P-P lease—MUMMY!” her daughter cries.

“I-I,” Heather stammers, closing her eyes and tilting her head in a half-circle. “I-I,” she mumbles again.

“M-MUMMY!” her daughter’s voice cries from a few feet away, the scream carrying a terror that could put any final girl to shame.

Heather darts a narrow gaze to her side. “W-We have to help her,” she hisses. “W-We have to make sure she’s safe!”

“B-But, mummy, I-I am safe. I’m with you. That isn’t me,” her daughter sobs, her voice trembling.

Heather looks into the darkness in front of her, then back to the darkness beside her, both blacker than pitch.

“Remember the pictures you used to draw? The ones with you, me, and the other little girl? She’s that girl. She’s your sister.”

“I-I have a sister?” she stutters, her grip wavering, and Heather tightens hers.

“Yes,” Heather whispers with a guttural wobble in her voice. “Kind of. It’s hard to explain, but—she needs us.”

“MUMMY!” her daughter screams again, this time further away.

Heather takes a step, and the world around her swings and sways. She hears the thudding of feet—things, people—charging toward her. And then, nothing. Her daughter screams, the one out in the darkness and the one beside her. Heather grabs her throbbing head, clenching her teeth, and takes deep breaths.

“Mummy?” her daughter calls.

“Mummy?” she calls again.

Heather sucks in a deep, stuttered breath as she realises both her hands are clutching her head.

“S-S-Sammy?” she stammers.

“M-Mummy, why d-did you let me go?” Sammy cries.

“S-Sammy! T-take my hand, honey,” Heather says through trembling lips as she reaches out blindly. “T-Take my hand, honey!” she calls out again.

“I-I’m scared, mummy,” one voice whispers from beside her.

“P-P-Please, mummy!” the other voice calls from the opposite side.

Heather reaches out with trembling hands, touching only thin air at first, but eventually, as she feels around like a blind woman, something grasps her hand.

Its grasp is cold and rigid, and her breath catches in her chest. She tries to pull back, but the grip only tightens, the icy touch seeping into her skin, freezing her fingers in place.

“M-Mummy,” Sammy’s voice purrs beside her, low and twisted, weaving from one place to the next. “Y-You should’ve let me be n-nothing—for the minds of children hold the k-key to creation, unbridled, untempered. They see what you refuse to see—they give life to that which was taken—”

Heather’s vision blurs, the darkness somehow thickening, pressing against her. She hears Sammy cry from some distant point in the darkness—“M-Mummy, please help me—please—

The crayon drawings flash before her mind’s eye, the scribbles Sammy had scrawled across walls that Heather had scrubbed off over and over. Two figures, her daughters—no, not daughters—Sammy and something else. And then she remembers—those appointments, the doctors’ warnings, the cries she thought would stop. But there she was, her little angel—so still.

“M-Mummy?” the voice whispers.

Baker Baker, Messy Maker

The mixer whirls and swirls, churning the dough around and around in the bowl. Jacque looks on, peering through the cage, sprinkling cupfuls of various powders, milk, and oils. The mixer heaves and groans as it strains against the load. Jacque stumbles back, falling to the ground. He looks up with fevered desperation as the mixer tilts from side to side, swaying on the edge before teetering toward the other. He scrambles to his feet and grips the mixer, trying to force it back down onto the bench. He struggles, but it overpowers him, tossing him violently to the floor. In a flash, he’s back on his feet. He grabs the power cord and yanks it from the wall. It stops suddenly, rocking gently back and forth before it stands silent. He drags a haggard hand across his brow and sighs loudly.

Jacque cringes as he raises his elbow to his face—a sliver of skin hangs from it, red spreading over his elbow and dripping to the floor. He grimaces and groans, letting out a hiss as he gently places the skin back over the gash, only for it to hang loose again. A splattering of red adorns the side of the mixer, and it growls. Jacque takes a surprised step back, grabbing a tea towel and clutching his damaged elbow with it. He stumbles forward, peering at the mixer with curious eyes.

He purses his lips, then draws them back, gasping, sucking in air and gasping again. He takes another step toward it, and then, as before, he could swear it growls. He jumps back as the paddle turns, twisting its way through the dough in several slow rotations before coming to a stop once more. With a nervous step, he leans in and picks up the cord, double-checking that it’s no longer plugged in. As he stares with bewildered eyes, the mixer begins mixing again.

He slams his palm against the large red stop button, but nothing happens. He hits it again and again, screaming, desperately begging it to stop as the mixer picks up pace, spinning and spinning.

Jacque’s frantic pounding only seems to feed the machine’s frenzy, as if it were actually alive. Dough and splatters of blood fly in all directions as the mixer’s motor screeches louder and higher—until, with a thunderous crack, the metal cage shatters, shards slicing across his face. He staggers back, clutching his cheek as blood runs through his fingers like a crimson veil. The mixer surges forward on its own, tipping over the edge of the counter and crashing down onto his foot. Jacque screams, eyes wide, pinned in place by the crushing weight.

Desperate, he tries to pry it off, but his hands slip into the bowl, where the paddles twist back to life, gripping his fingers and yanking him closer. He lets out a strangled gasp as the cord slithers up his leg, winding tighter and tighter, slicing through fabric, then skin, then muscle, as it drags him further in. His hands thrash against the dough, only to be pulled deeper by the relentless paddles, each twist grinding through bone, splattering red into the thickening mix.

Jacque’s face inches toward the spinning blades, his screams filling the room as his cheek presses against the bowl, smearing blood in his wake. The paddles seize his jaw, pulling him into their merciless grip, tearing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. His final scream is lost in the wet, grinding noise as the mixer devours him whole.

Even Apples Bleed

Sally grips herself tightly and lets the cold shiver that encompasses her run its vile course. Her black, engorged lips tremble, her pale jaw stutters, and her eyes ache with a dryness she’s never felt before. She takes a hesitant breath in, but has no desire or ability to let it back out, as if her body has somehow forgotten how to breathe. Her eyes widen as she nervously sucks in several more breaths, then gasps in desperation to release them.

The light from the city beyond the alleyway is disrupted as a heavyset man clumsily makes his way into the alley. He sneers as he staggers past her, grinning with a rotten mouthful of teeth. Propping himself up against the wall, he takes a piss on a junkie sprawled in a pool of their own vomit.

The seconds pass quickly as he slurs many incoherent words, eventually shaking himself off and staggering backwards. He stumbles in an awkward circle, then looks back at her, his smile twisted. “The Rag Doll Man said to say hi,” he mutters with a mocking cackle before stumbling out of the alleyway and into the street.

“W-Who’s t-the r-rag doll m-man?” she calls out through trembling lips. He jerks to a halt, swaying to and fro, before casting a clumsy glance over his shoulder.

“W-Who, w-w-wha…” His words are cut short by the screeching scream of tyres slicing through the night. A car slams into him, and they both disappear out of sight in a violent blur.

Screams fill the night as an army of people rushes past the alleyway toward where the car vanished. But the drunkard stands frozen at the alleyway’s entry, eyes darting over the chaotic scene—somewhat sober now, very scared, and visibly shaken. He looks down at her, his tear-filled eyes wide with terror, and she shakes her head.

“P-P-Please,” he stammers as he rushes toward her, hands outstretched, his lips trembling. “I—I—I think something happened to me, and I d-don’t know what to do!” he sobs.

She purses her lips tightly, closes her eyes, and shakes her head again. “I—I think you’re dead,” she says.

Silence presses in, thick and heavy. Then, faintly, she hears another voice—a sound too distant to understand. A low, wavering note begins to play, something like a harp or a trumpet, but twisted—angelic, yet stained and sour. The sound slithers through the air, drawing her in until she finally opens her eyes.

He stands awkwardly before a glowing doorway, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with wonder. He looks back over to her and smiles.

“T-T-They tell me I got into the good place, and a guy with my kind of gifts will fit in really well!” he says, an odd, hollow cheer in his voice. Then, in an instant, the door shrivels up like a burning fuse, and the ground beneath him cracks open like an egg. He’s gone before he can even scream.

The silence lasts only a moment, as the air around Sally grows thick, filled with a presence that creeps forward. She spins to lock eyes with a half-naked vixen, her furred red hair and skin the colour of rust.

“W-W-Who are you?” she stammers nervously.

The woman bites into a rotten apple, the flesh crunching between sharp teeth. “I don’t think you should be worrying about me right now, darling,” she purrs, taking another bite, her lips bathed in the apple’s sticky red juice. “Not when you’re over there, going through the ABCs of death.”

Sally turns quickly back to the alley, her eyes drawn to the figure slumped against the wall. Her stomach lurches as she recognises the face staring back—her own.

She staggers back, horror flooding her veins, while the woman in red grins. “Don’t worry, darling, you got it—you’re going to the good place!” she teases sarcastically as her laughter slices through the dark and the ground beneath Sally cracks open.

The King and the Larriout 

The breeze cut through him like a knife, sharp and straight to the core. A shiver rides up his spine and smacks him in the back of his skull, like a punch. He grimaces, curling his lip in defiance. Without a second thought, he turns on his heel and faces Cortez, who smiles broadly. 

“You growing some balls now, hombre?” 

“If you break your word, I swear—” 

“My word is my bond. There are many things in this world worth nothing, but the word of a man, when given, must stand for everything!” 

“I don’t want a damn speech, just a yes or no!” 

Cortez laughs, loudly. “I like you! You’re a straight shooter, and faced with the misfortunes that surround you, a normal man would lie through his teeth. I mean,” he cackles, “I’ve seen it! I’ve seen great men, big men, strong men, nasty men. I’ve seen them all, and I’ve seen the lies they tell. But you, hombre—you’re the kind of man I could grow to like!” 

“I’m gonna put it out there now, just to be clear—I’m not sleeping with you. Sweetheart, you’re not my type.” 

Cortez’s lip curls, and his brow furrows. “Don’t mistake my small talk for anything but small talk, puta!” he spits. 

“And don’t mistake my desperation to live as an invitation for sex,” he quips back. 

They stand locked in silence for a few tense moments. Then Cortez laughs hysterically, slapping his knees and clutching his side. “You might just make it out of here in one piece,” Cortez cackles as he waves a hand, and a large wooden door rolls back. He steadies himself, peering into the black void. It doesn’t take long for his waiting to be answered, as a bull-like beast charges out of the darkness toward him, screaming—its body adorned with scars and trinkets from those who faced it before. He swallows a jagged mouthful of air and clenches his teeth tightly together. 

He leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding its first attack, but before he can scramble to his feet, the beast is coming at him again. Its mouth is a frothy mess, its eyes bloodshot and wild. It gores him in the side with its horns, and a sea of red splashes onto the dirt as he stumbles, clutching his wound. The beast quickly turns again and charges. He ducks and slides beneath it, grabbing a fistful of its massive, swinging balls. He pulls hard, bringing the behemoth to a sudden halt. He swings up, straddling the beast’s back. He grabs one of the many blades still lodged in its flesh and drives it into the beast’s skull, piercing the centre of its brain. It crashes to the ground, skidding to an eventual bloody stop. 

He tumbles from the beast’s back, staggering to his feet as the crowd watches in stunned silence. Cortez lets out a booming laugh and claps a heavy hand on one of his henchmen’s shoulders. 

“Didn’t I tell you? He’s a wild one, this one—a REAL fighter.” He growls with savage delight, saliva dripping from his lips as he gestures for the carcass to be dragged away. 

He steps out onto the podium. “Tonight, we eat the kill!” Cortez boasts loudly, and the crowd erupts into a thunderous roar. He looks down at him and smiles. “And you, stranger, what will we call you? A name, something the people can cheer as you slay your next beast?” 

“You can call me King!” he quips back quickly. 

Cortez smiles smugly, his gaze drifting over the roaring crowd before finally settling back on him. “Yes—very well then. Let that be your name,” he says, his voice laced with layers of sarcasm. He raises his arms to the masses. “Let us hear it for the King—may he live far longer than the last!” 

The crowd surges to life, chanting his name over and over, their voices a fevered, mindless echo that chills him to the bone.