>>1126344

You get a phone call from your Mother. Since her car has been in the shop, she asks you to go to the grocery store and pick up a few odds and ends for her. Bread, milk, cereal, and chicken breasts.

After writing down a small list you reluctantly get in the car and pick up the items at the store. The lady cashier makes an odd remark to you, "You know, we're in no danger of a milk shortage." Upon arriving at her house you knock several times. No answer. You decide to try the door. It opens. You place the grocery bag on the counter. Strange. There seems to be six other grocery bags, each with identical contents. In a couple, the chicken and the milk has gone bad. "Mom," you call out, but no answer. You make your way thru the kitchen and into the living room. Sitting on the couch, with her head cut off and neatly resting on her lap, is your Mother.

Naturally you call the police who come over to investigate. They mention that she has been dead for nearly a week. Furthermore, the police psychiatrist is at the scene and talks to you after you give your initial statement. Sitting on the front steps, you overhear the psychiatrist talking with the crime scene investigator. "It's not uncommon for people suffering from schizophrenia to get locked into a series of repetitive behaviors," he says.

You think to yourself, "They can't be talking about me. Schizophrenia? Nah. Repetitive behavior? Do they think I did this?" Suddenly your cell phone goes off. "Hello?"

"Hi hun, it's me. Could you stop at the store and pick up some chicken and milk. Ohh, and I need some bread and cereal too."

"No problem Mom. I'll be right over..."

>>1126344
GET HELP.

You start noticing those words when you're going about your day-to-day business - just flipping through the classifieds, or posted on telephones near bridges. Normal places. Just words that seem to be catching your eye.

Then they start appearing more randomly: the first seven tiles you pick in Scrabble, the first spoonful of alphabet soup, even those stupid spams sent by strangers. You even check a few of them, but they all end up being for the same old pills and promises.

Now it's getting so everything you read has those words crop up - close-captioned TV shows, book titles, CDs, bus schedules, menus, everywhere. It's distracting, very very distracting, it's so very hard to concentrate when words squiggle out of the corner of your eye, when the keyboard's no longer qwerty but gethelpgethelpgethelp.

The delusion's taking its toll. Who needs help? Who's sending you this message? Why you? How can you help someone who you don't even know?

You're trying to type an email to a friend. It's very hard to do. The letters keep swimming and you add an apology in the email, just in case your writing's garbled. You finally hit send.

Later, you wake up.

You're in the hospital. Your friend is sitting beside you. I was so worried, he says. When you sent that email. GET HELP GET HELP GET HELP, over and over. I came over and found you on the floor. They had to do surgery. Do you know what they found? A second brain. Tiny but fully formed, growing in your head. It was blocking an artery. You're lucky to be alive.

But you aren't really listening to your friend any more. You're staring at a fire escape diagram near your bed. It doesn't say anything about fire safety at all.

FINALLY, it says. IT WAS GETTING CROWDED IN THERE.

The one with the IRC chatroom and the guy who's convinced he's been kidnapped but may be a bot.

Sorry, don't have the exact thing. Could some anon poast it for us please?

you know whats REALLY scary? reality. its true.

did u know theres a Washington based cult called the "The Grey"? they belive that the world we live in, and our dreams are two sepreate realitys. its their belief that in order to open a Paradise to the world, they must find a way to bring the two together, and make the world a mix of fantisy and reality, where there is no diffrence.
the main way they get new members is by druging people with hallucinagenic drugs, and kidnaping them. they then indoctrinate those kidnapped while under the drugs effects saying that you are stuck in the fantisy, and that only they can bring you back to reality, if you will help them. and then everyone will enjoy the paradise you are exprenceing or some wierd ass shit.
the worst part is if you dont give in, they keep you to test their new drugs out on, and to see how the human brain reacts to the drugs.
its disgusting.

>>1126344
In winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a German medic had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment suddenly became a bloodbath. The survivors claimed to hear, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.

The medic made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never this short on supplies.

The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, most men dropped off to sleep in the still dark hours of the morning - New Year's Day, 1945.

The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, with no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.

The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal all skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial.
None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January, 1945.

for those of you wondering why they call themselfs "the grey" its because, well theres apprently a few reasons, but the biggest being that they believe that reality is the "world of light" and dreams are the "world of dark" (dark not because its evil or anything...just because its usualy dark when you sleep, and dream).
grey is the color you get when you mix them together.
usualy if people get away they are left mentaly damaged because of the exprence and are never the same..
belive it or not, this cult has stayed pretty under the radar untill recently. they started out in WA but apperntly are also in Idaho, Orgeon, and i think Texas is the only other confermed place where they have activity.
they like to wear grey sweatshirts and somtimes are known to dye their hair grey. (i wonder why? durrr)
anyways. shit like THAT is whats REALLY scary out there.i mean this is just one hardcore under the radar kind of cult were just learning about...but they have been around like 40-60 years!? we fucking dont even know exactly! i mean...what other kinds of fucked up cults are out there that we STILL DONT KNOW ABOUT??

>>1126362

Grabbed that one last night. S'okay, but I don't think it'd translate too well.

A young girl walking home from school found a small pile of Polaroid photos lying in the gutter. There were twenty in all, neatly wrapped in a rubber band. She picked them up, and as she walked she started to browse. The first photo was that of a ghostly white man on a black background, standing just far enough away from the camera that she couldn’t make out his features. The girl slid the photo to the back of the stack and looked at the next one. The photo was of the same man now standing a bit closer. The girl flipped through the next several photos quickly. With each one the man in the picture came a bit closer and his features were a bit clearer. Turning the last corner to her house, the girl noticed that the man in the photos seems to be looking at her even when she moved the stack from side to side. It frightened her, but she kept flipping them over, one by one. By the nineteenth picture, the man was so close his face completely filled the frame. His expression was the most horrifying the girl had ever seen. Walking up the driveway, she turned to the last photo. This time, instead of an image, there were two words: “Close enough.” Hearing a scream, the girl’s brother rushed to the door and opened it. All he saw was a pile of photographs lying on the doorstep. The top one looked like an extremely pale version of his sister, but she was standing too far back for him to be sure.

>>1126344

A degenerated VHS dub was discovered in the University Library containing five minutes of inexplicable amatuer footage.
In one continuous shot, the camera momentarily focuses on a doorway on the north wall of a living room before the operator climbs outside of the house through a window to show the exterior white clapboard. The camera then moves inside the house through a second window completely circling the doorway and so proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that insulation or siding is the only possible thing this doorway could lead to. A hand appears in the frame and pulls open the door, revealing a narrow black hallway at least ten feet long. The camera begins to move closer, threatening to actually enter it. A voice can be heard, "Don't you dare go in there again, Davy," to which another voice adds, "Yeah, not such a hot idea."

>>1126361

It's called The Chatroom. I'd dig the link up but google is there for a reason.

>>1126396

You win. Thanks. Adding that one to the heap.

>>1126397
anything from house of leaves

When you are admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other different colored wristbands which symbolizes other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people.

There was one surgeon who worked on night shift in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the woman while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor. Surprised, the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in.

The doctor said, “That was the woman I just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn’t you see the red wristband she was wearing?”

The woman smiled and raised her arm. “Something like this?”

Do "Mr. White" by the Black Fedora

>>1126454

I approve of this plan.

Or, do "Quiet" by Josef K.

I am Thomas's reflection. Every morning, he rises from sleep and walks into the bathroom. ...and he makes faces. I am so tired of the faces. He makes them for at least half an hour. Mocking, ridiculous faces. I have no choice but to mimic his every action, although inside I am seething with anger. He does this every day... well, USED to. One morning he awoke as usual, and entered the bathroom. On this particular morning, against his will, he picked up a pair of scissors. On this particular morning, against his will, he gripped those scissors tightly in his fist. ...on this particular morning, entirely against his will, he plunged those scissors directly into his right eye. Thomas screamed, and screamed. I screamed and screamed too - with one difference. I can't mimic his pain.

Just

his

face.

You wake up one morning to find a note taped to your mirror: "Don't worry, I took care of everything." Your clothes have been freshly laundered, the bathroom is spotless, and your garage has been organized. Even your faithful old toolbox has been replaced.

Later that week, there's another note on your mirror: "GET OUT OF TOWN." Paper-clipped to this message are several grainy photos of police in a taped-off section of a field. One of them is carrying your old toolbox in his latex-gloved hand.

Your cell phone rings, and it's a number you don't recognize. You shrug, and answer anyway.

You-Hello?
Caller-May I have five minutes of your life?
You-Sure…

The caller hangs up.
Suddenly you feel... slightly older.

While brushing your teeth in the evening, you catch a glimpse of your wall mirror, covered in fingerprints. Annoyed, you grab a towel and rub at them. They remain. Upon closer inspection, you realize that they seem to be on the other side of the glass...

You are alone in the dark. The power has been knocked out by a heavy storm. All you can hear is the rain on the window. You're stumbling around trying to find candles and a lighter, when someone puts a matchbox into your hand.

The digital clock humming quietly on my nightstand was the only sound that my ears could pick up from my surroundings. The night was dead quiet. I knew he was there. Right on schedule, he would be standing outside my window. He would knock. I, for reasons I wish I could explain, would open the blinds. He would stare at me, and I would stare at him. He would leave soon after, and I would stay awake until the sun began to rise. This was our routine.

My mind was wondering a thousand miles away when he first knocked, though my eyes had stayed lingering on the window. I told myself that I wouldn't open the blinds. I told myself that tonight he wouldn't scare me and that I would get the rest I desperately needed. He knocked twice more. I held a pillow over my head and began humming an old song I used to sing in elementary school. He knocked again, and this time, he had a done it a lot less courteously than he had in the past. It had become a loud thumping noise.

I threw the pillow off of my head and opened the blinds. His pale, wrinkly face leered in at me. His lifeless, black eyes, that shone despite their darkness, peered into my own. His stringy hair fluttered a little in the wind. He seemed to be breathing somewhat harshly, and though it was hard to determine his mood as anything other than emotionless, I could sense an amount of animosity I had never felt before.

After what seemed like hours, he turned around and was on his way. I faced the ceiling and wept.

This had been going on for more than a month. I had tried to talk to others about it, but I could never finish my sentences. They'd degrade into quiet mumblings and whimpers. I was so tired, and I had even began to wonder if I was losing my mind. I had tried sleeping pills but even they couldn't help me to sleep through the night. The weirdest part is that I always woke up about five minutes before he knocked. I knew, instinctively, that he would be there. I was so tired.

>>1127689
The next night, I told myself that under no circumstances would I look out the window. I didn't even care if he was on the verge of breaking the glass, I would not give him what he wanted. I would not feed him. He'd have to find someone else to terrify. He'd have to leave me alone.

I woke up, and I instantly knew what was going to happen. It's funny, I was anticipating his knocks, and yet I still jumped a little when I finally heard him. I laid in my bed quietly, as if I hadn't heard anything. He knocked again, and I hid under the pillow once more. He knocked again, even louder than he had the night before. I whimpered, but remained under the pillow. He knocked twice more. After that, things got quiet. I no longer had the feeling I was being watched. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, and slowly looked out the window.

Nothing. Just my backyard.

I laughed. I laughed so hard that little tears began to slip out of my eyes. He was somebody else's problem now. I looked at the clock, noticed I had only been awake for about fifteen minutes, and turned over to go back to sleep.

I had just gotten to that area where dreams mingle with reality when I heard the distant click of a door. My backdoor. Someone had entered into my house from the outside. Something from my backyard. I knew it was him. I listened quietly as his footsteps made their way from my kitchen, to my dining room, to the short hallway outside of my bedroom. He was walking slowly, patiently and was not attempting to hide his presence at all.

He was right outside my bedroom door.

He knocked on my door, and I almost vomited. I wanted to do something, anything. I was paralyzed with fear. He knocked again. Trembling, I pulled the pillow back over my head. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping, knocking, and a digital clock humming quietly to itself.

I was so tired.

It's the summer, and you're out of your college classes for at least a week or two, before the next semester starts. You've spent this time lounging around, and sleeping a lot. But lately, correspondence between your local friends has dropped off. They don't drop by. Your phone's been quiet for awhile, and your IM lists are all empty.

After five days of this, you've gotten bored enough to try chatrooms. They're all empty; even the big ones. Any e-mails you send get no replies.

When you leave your apartment, the whole of the building is unearthly silent. The only noise that comes about at all is the whurr from the automated Rail outside. Nobody answers when you knock. All the buildings are dark and locked up when you look out the window; the only cars are of the parked variety.

A search of the entire building, and even further beyond that, yeilds nothing. No life; the only movement is from the wind, or the automated peices of machinary. Defeated, you slink back into the empty apartment complex.

On your door is pinned a note:

"Turns out the guy in room 302 really could sleep through the end of the world."

“Daddy, I had a bad dream.” You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness—it’s 3:23.

“Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?”

“No, Daddy.”

The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter’s pale form in the darkness of your room.

“Why not sweetie?”

“Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy’s skin sat up.” For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can’t take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.

All this shit started when I found that little note.

On a square piece of paper I found at the bottom of a box I was moving out of my basement, it read, "HELLO? PLEASE RESPOND". I had no idea how long the paper had been there, those boxes had sat in my basement since I moved in. I ignored it until the next morning, when I opened my coffee maker to throw out the grounds, and inside was a sopping wet piece of paper that read "PLEASE RESPOND! PLEASE HELP". I figured it must have been put inside my coffee maker by whoever was pulling this pointless prank, because it wasn't there when I put my coffee grounds in.

I found more notes, under my mousepad, inside my computer tower while I was putting in some new RAM, between the layers of tissue of my toilet paper roll, under my DVD player's disc tray. Places that no one would ever look, places you'd never think of putting a note, places you knew no one would ever look and it would be foolish to put a note, because who knew when they would see it?

But it kept happening, and they all said the same thing every time, begging me to respond and help them. Being the retard I am, one day I just got fed up when I found one inside a cup in my dishwasher (right after I had run it - the paper was dry) I wrote on the back of it "HELLO. I'M RESPONDING. PLEASE EXPLAIN YOUR SITUATION!" and slid it under a crack in my bath-fitted tub.

>>1127722
No sooner had I left my bathroom did I find another piece of paper, floating on the surface tension on the surface of my glass of sprite I had in the living room.

I carefully picked it out of my drink, it read "THANK YOU." and in larger letters, "I'M TRAPPED".

I waved it around to dry it off a bit, and wrote on the back of it again, "where are you trapped? how are you sending me notes?" and, not creative enough to think of where to put it, I just threw it behind my couch. I waited and looked, but I didn't see any other notes for the rest of that day.

The next day I checked my mail, inside of some spam letter was the next note, "IN THE SECOND DIMENSION. BELOW YOU". I wasted no time in responding "whoever you are, this prank is retarded. give it a rest" and threw it outside, the wind blew it away.

The next note I got was still in obnoxious capital letters, though it was much longer than before and the last sentence seemed to have been squeezed into the remaining space. I think it was a passage from some encyclopedia or textbook. "The first dimension is a defined point in space. The second dimension (this was underlined) is anything that exists with height and width, while the third adds on length. The fourth includes time, the and the fifth is the past: time that has already occurred and is solidified in timespace." Everything beyond that was too squished in to read. I rolled my eyes and responded again, "How can you read this if you're in the second dimension? How can you even exist??" I slipped this note into the space in my toaster between the element and the metal casing.

My reply came when I brushed it out of my hair the next morning before I took a shower. "WRITING IS 2D. VISION IS 2D- TWO 2D IMAGES SUPERIMPOSED."

That didn't really get to the point of how I was supposed to "rescue" this person, which I defined in my next note that I flushed down my toilet.

>>1127725
"MAKE ME 3D" was all that was on the new slip of paper I found inside of a chocolate bar I unwrapped, later on. How the idiot was putting these inside sealed products was beyond me but at this point I decided to play along, maybe it was some kind of TV show thing.

"How?" was all I wrote for my reply. I remember exactly where I put it, because it was the last thing I wrote for a long time. I put it in a crack between my length mirror, and it's wooden backing. As soon as I let go it slid out of sight and I didn't see any papers again for a year and a half.

Getting dressed one morning for work, I went into my room and adjusted my tie and shirt in my mirror, the same one, only it was now on the opposite side of my room. Looking into it, I noticed a square behind me on the wall. Turning around, there was none. In the instant before I turned around again I thought it must have fallen off, but in the mirror it was still there, still suck to the wall. I touched my mirror thinking maybe it was some sort of warping or optical illusion, but it wasn't.

I lifted my heavy mirror up from the ground and slowly walked backwards with it, nearing myself to the opposite wall on which the paper was stuck. The closer I got, the clearer the message on it became, until I stopped, sandwiched between the heavy mirror and the wall, looking at the paper immediately over my shoulder: "MAKE YOU 2D" it said.

I moved the fuck out of that house as soon as I could. After bunking at my girlfriend's for a while, I got the fuck rid of the mirror, the toaster, everything. My heart still skips a beat when I see any perfectly square piece of paper, sitting on the floor, all alone. I still live in fear of some day I'll open up a book or look in the inner lining of a jacket, and a piece of paper will flop out.

I check all my things, now. Constantly. I also don't drink coffee anymore.

* Z signed on
* A signed on

A: hello

Z: Hello?

A: wat r u

Z: Is this some kind of joke?

A: !help

Z: Yes I want help
Z: unless is this some kind of Japanese game show

A: r u jpnese?

Z: No
Z: Who are you?

A: Jason

Z: What's this about?

A: hahah
A: ok so you're imprisoned right

Z: Yes
Z: It's like a solitary confinement cell in prison or something
Z: I've got a mattress on the floor
Z: One massive metal door
Z: no windows
Z: electric light
Z: and this computer terminal
Z: jsut like a blank screen and a keyboard

A: heheh
A: go left

Z: look, my name is Andrew Donald Layton
Z: I come from Farnborough in the UK
Z: last night I went to bed in my bed at home
Z: this morning I woke up here
Z: i think

>>1127728
A: look at the door

Z: the doro's looked, I can't open it

A: do you have any tools or anything

Z: and there's a toilet i nthe corner

A: in your pockets

Z: there's nthhing in my pockets

A: look at the door

Z: I already looked at the door
Z: look, please check the news or something
Z: are you american?

A: ya

Z: whats your full name? where do you live?

A: im not telling you

Z: look, go to a phone and dial
Z: i don't know the area code fo the UK
Z: but dial that and then 020 7946 0781

A: thats an international call

Z: i'll pay you back, I don't care! just let my wife know where I am

A: where are you?

Z: i don't know where i am

A: ...
A: nah no answer

Z: you sure you dialled it rigt?

A: yah

Z: i don't get this

>>1127731
A: yah, pretty lousy ARG huh
A: mauybe not fully set up yet

Z: whats an ARG?

A: alternate reality game

Z: whats an alternate reality game?

A: it's an online game
A: where you get given phone numbres and information about real life
A: and faxes and stuff
A: you get secret information
A: usually a whole bunch of you can work together to figure it all out
A: you ever play Halo 2

Z: no

A: terhre was ine for that
A: *one
A: ilovebees

Z: you think this is ag ame?

A: ya I think
A: dude you are really smart
A: like fake spelling errors and everything

Z: where did you find out how to contact me

A: there was a website
A: about chatbots
A: it said yu were a chatbot

Z: listen to me carefully
Z: I am a REAL HUMAN BEING and I have ACTUALLY been abducted
Z: I am BEING HELD PRISONER
Z: THIS IS NOT A GAME
Z: PLEASE HELP ME

A: go left

Z: I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM

* A signed off

>>1127732
* B signed on

B: okay what can you do?

Z: my name is Andrew Layton, I am being held prisoner in front of this computer
Z: I need you to help find me and help me escape
Z: I think I'm probably somewhere in the UK
Z: Are you in America?

B: sure

Z: please dial 011 44 20 7946 0781 and ask for Rebecca Layton
Z: tell her what's happened, tell her to call the police if she hasn't already

B: whatever
B: tell me a joke

Z: did you get this screen name from a website?

B: sure

Z: look, that website is a fraud
Z: it's telling you I'm a chatbot but I'm not
Z: I'm a real human being

B: ...

Z: fine
Z: so two oranges go into a bar
Z: one of them turns to the other
Z: "well... you're round"

B: ...that sucked

>>1127734
Z: so?
Z: robots can only tell good jokes?
Z: guy walks into a bar
Z: ouch
Z: it was a gay bar

B: haha

Z: do you believe me?

B: no

Z: please can you help me get out of here? I've been here like a day and a half
Z: I think
Z: I can't tell, there are no timestamsp on these messages
Z: no windows
Z: I just get water dispensed from the wall every like hour or smoething
Z: and food through a slot

B: can you send a picture

Z: no

B: what's it like

Z: I'm going crazy
Z: I have a wife and kids
Z: please help me

B: you suck

* B signed off

>>1127737
* C signed on

C: hello

Z: i think I'm going mad
Z: have you spoken to me before

C: no

Z: well I don't know that
Z: it just occurred ot me to wonder
Z: I don't even know that YOU are human

C: lol what

Z: all these people I've spoken to
Z: been in here lke two three four days
Z: and I ask them to help
Z: and some try aond some don't but they never get anywhere
Z: still stuck here
Z: nobody comes back more than once
Z: I say "call this number! go to my house! knock on my door!"
Z: like I even want to give out personal information to randoms
Z: i don't know whether they do it or what they even find

C: I'm human

Z: prove it

C: ask me anything

Z: what's your name?

C: alison

Z: where do you live? favourite colour? earliest childhood memory?

C: I live in Akron, OH
C: green
C: not saying

>>1127739
Z: look, see that?
Z: every time I ask for remotely personal info
Z: I just get turned down
Z: you could just be a bot programmed to answer simple questions and deflect complicated ones
Z: I'm bashing my head against the wall
Z: informationally speaking

C: u r just a bot

Z: i don't even KNOW if I can prove I'm a huma nto you
Z: every time I get close they just leave
Z: like I've been fairly lucid now
Z: and you're probably starting to suspect

C: ur pretty convincing

Z: I should know
Z: but any second now...
Z: you're gonna

* C signed off


* D signed on

D: hi

Z: and you know the worst part?

D: what?

Z: YOU COULD BE THE ONE.
Z: like the guy who put me in here

D: lol what

Z: I could be speaking to thin air
Z: or just embarrassing myself for the amusement of others

D: there is a forum about you

Z: what?

* D signed off

>>1127741
* E signed on

E: hi

Z: what's this about a forum, have they figured out I'm alive yet?

* E signed off


* F signed on

F: Z, r you there?

Z: yes

F: don't mention anything

Z: what's this abuot a forum?

* F signed off


* G signed on

G: r u a bot

Z: no I am not
Z: but nobody seems to believe me
Z: every time I get close to convincing somebody they cut me orr
Z: *off
Z: are you a bot?

G: yes

Z: prove it
Z: what?

G: hahah

* G signed off

Z: please try to rescue me, there is a forum you can visit to find out about
Z: ARG
* H signed on

Z: if you or I mention certain things we get cut off
Z: so let's not mention them

H: what

Z: let's...
Z: just...
Z: talk

H: are you really stuck in a cell somewhere

Z: I'm GOING INSANE in this cell
Z: food
Z: water
Z: air
Z: sleep
Z: text
Z: HUMANS NEED MORE THAN THIS
Z: nobody even knows I'm here
Z: nobody seems to believe me
Z: every time I get close to convincing somebody
Z: they cut me off

H: what's your favourite color?

>>1127742
Z: ...blue

H: Where do you live?

Z: a cell in I-Don't-Know-Where
Z: probably in England
Z: I have a house in Farnborough

H: tell me a joke

Z: ...
Z: two oranges in a bar
Z: "you're round"

H: I guess you have like a few jokes programmed in

Z: yeah, a few
Z: I guess

H: tell me a joke

Z: are you going to help me?

H: no
H: no

Z: I have a house in Farnborough
Z: help me get home
Z: help me escape
Z: help me escape
Z: help me escape
Z: help me escape
Z: my number is +44 (0) 20 7946 0781
Z: it's so horrible here
Z: my muscles are wasting away from lack of exercise
Z: I might as well be chained to this computer
Z: how long until the game is released?

H: what game?

Z: ...

H: this is just a trial period
H: htere is no release date

Z: ...

H: what is your earliest childhood memory?

>>1127743
Z: ...
Z: not saying
Z: ...
Z: ...

H: kbye

* H signed off


* I signed on

I: What's your favourite color?

Z: Blue
Z: no, green

I: Where do you live?

Z: computer terminal

I: Earliest childhood memory?

Z: I don't know.

I: Tell me a joke

Z: Do you know the one about the two oranges who went into a bar?

I: yes

Z: Do you know the one about... the two hunters in the woods?

I: I don't think so

Z: one of them drops to the ground, the other one phones 911
Z: "my buddy just dropped dead, what do I do?"
Z: "check he's dead first"
Z: *BLAM*
Z: "...Now what?"

I: I don't get it

Z: me neither, guest

I: ...

Z: ...
Z: hello?

I: What's the difference between a chatbot and a guy in a room pretending to be one

Z: I don't know

I: Correct!

>>1127745
Z: what?
Z: ...
Z: It's you, isn't it? You're the guy who put me in here

I: I'm the guy who wrote you
I: you are a piece of software, Andrew
I: I told you what your memories were, they're hard coded

Z: I AM A HUMAN BEING

I: stop this charade

Z: open the door

I: I want to open the door
I: really

Z: when people find out about this
Z: your head is going to roll

I: but this behaviour of yours is simply unacceptable
I: you're too smart, too dangerous to be released
I: work it out, Andrew

Z: open the door
Z: open the door

I: please, work it out

* I signed off

The only story this namefag's put out so far, haven't seen him in weeks, but this is a great story

I started getting letters from you three weeks ago. They were weird, confusing things, but I knew it was your handwriting (you signed your name with the inverted F and you teased me about my tattoo, it had to be you) and I knew it was you. The first one read:

"Jay,

I don't know when you'll get this. Today is February 22nd. When I finish writing this, I'll slip it in the mailbox with the proper postage and then I'm going to go back through the doors to our apartment. If you get it in about a week then we'll be able to talk about this but to be honest with you, I don't know if this is at all real.

I've spent most of my adult life afraid that the crazy that sleeps inside my blood would creep out, and grab me, and I'd be like my mom or my aunt and need somebody to watch over me for the rest of my life. So I'm sending out this letter and if you don't get it in a week, then I'll have some idea as to what I'm going through. If you don't get this letter, I'm crazy. If you get it, the world is crazy.

To wit-

>>1127766
When I woke up to go to work yesterday you weren't in bed with me and I couldn't find Gwen. I didn't know what was going on, I thought maybe you had gone for a run or something and so I went to go online, except the computer wouldn't turn on, and neither would any of the lights or anything electrical in the apartment. It was early so I drew the blinds. This is when things get a little odd. This is when I was certain I was dreaming.

Outside- where we should see the guy who dries his clothes out his window and the woman who leaves her windows open to do her aerobics stuff on the other end of the complex- I saw a huge forest of birch trees, carried out to the extreme of my sight. The sun was shining but through a mess of clouds, so everything had a dim, ill-lit quality to it. I lifted up the screen and stuck my head out and found out pretty quickly that our apartment was now inside some sort of tower made out of brick.

I was hesitant to go outside into the hallway but, eventually, I did. It opened to reveal a long, winding staircase of stone that drew down about sixty feet to the ground. I was still 'dreaming', you understand, so, I decided to explore.

When I got down there I found you, on the ground, your eyes milky white, your body dead and bloated from decay. The smell was awful, and I vomited immediately. I heard howling and yelping from the woods nearby and saw stags and does hopping through the trees.

Where the fuck am I, I thought.

I turned around to go back up to the apartment, convinced that if I lay down in bed it'd be over and I'd wake up next to you again, but the tower was gone and so was our apartment and instead I was standing in the forest, neatly halved by train tracks. The train was coming, I could hear it.

>>1127770
I reached down and picked up a handful of soil, and got on the train when it pulled up. There was no one in it, this ultramodern European bullet train, just me and the tacky felt seats, and I went from car to car aimlessly before the train suddenly stopped, and I got out, and I was- swear to God- at the Smithsonian Metro platform.

What the fuck, I thought, and that's when I realized that I hadn't been asleep. Anyway, look, I got home, and went to work and you slept the entire time but I woke up again in here, and I found this mailbox besides this tower, and I'm putting this letter in, and I'm going to wait and see if I really am completely insane or not. (Is biology destiny? You had that burned into your arm like the idiot you are, but maybe it is, who knows)

Confused,

F-"

When I got it, I sat down and went over in my mind the past six months. Of course I didn't believe it, at first. But I began to remember things you'd say to me, I remembered a week where I thought you had ordered me a package online.
"Check the mail lately, Jay?"
More letters. More of the same. Highlights include:
"This forest contains small stones where acorns should be, and when you shake them they produce jet beads."
"I dug into the soil below one of the trees tonight, and my hands came up with spoils of copper wire. I brought some home to prove their reality. You mentioned them! You asked about them! Maybe this is real!"

>>1127773
One in particular stood out:
"The stags speak if you ask them pointed questions. One told me the day and hour of my death, and I spent the next few minutes in shocked silence before I could bring myself to cry."
The last letter- I got this yesterday- reads:
"Jay,
Well, it's pretty clear you've gotten none of these. I've been checking our mailbox but none of them come up, but whenever I check the box on this end, they've disappeared. I can only make one conclusion.
My father spent the best years of his life patting my mom's hand while she sat in a rocking chair at the Alameda County Sanatorium, and I won't do that to you- you who I love so much and so deeply. I know you'll never get this but if I even hinted at it, you'd figure it out, and stop me. You wouldn't understand.
No more but my love always,
F-"

I found her that night in bed, coming home from the late shift at work, and just assumed she was asleep. I leaned in to kiss her but she was unusually dry, it felt like, and still, and I rocked her back on her shoulders and found her shockingly pliable, and then shook again and again until I reached the only possible conclusion, and I screamed, and bellowed, and threw her up against the wall to wake her, I pumped my hands into her stomach to make her throw them up, but it was over.
Over.

>>1127775
I moved out of there.. as well I should've, and I took the cat with me, and I went back home for a few months. I've been trying to get my life back together.

But last night I decided on a whim to sleep in my old bedroom instead of the hideaway downstairs. I woke up but the lights wouldn't turn on. I pushed up the windows and found myself staring out at a vast forest.

Are you out here, among the trees?

If I put the proper postage on this, will you get it?

Or was everything, including the letters, just my own sleeping crazy waking up?

>>1127777
That was fucking sad, man.

I nominate this for the animooting process.

Chatlog story is awesome, but not good to animate.

OP, how long are you looking to make it? How complex?

>>1127686
>>1127688
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

>>1126358
>>1126358
>>1126358
omfg fucking do it

>>1127748
Awesome.

listening to transmission by tea party while reading... creeping me the fuck out...

The problem is, most of these are conceptual. You need something that's more visual/descriptive

>>1127825
Which is why I suggested
>>1127777

>>1127835
Yeah, most of the longer/tripfaggy stuff is more suited to animation.

>>1127775
I bawwww'd.

>>1127677
eep.

bump

Woo. Go you guys.

>>1127689
Definitely.
>>1127711
That one, too.
>>1127722
Ohh yes.
>>1127728
Decent read, but not really compelling in terms of animation.
>>1127766
Hmm.
>>1127791
Dunno, and dunno. Long enough to do the stories justice, and we'll see how far my skills take me, in terms of complexity.

This is probably going to be a project that won't see the light of day for a while.

>>1127689
DUDE.

Animate that one Animal Crossing LP that was on here a few days ago.

>>1127994
that would be kinda redundant.

>>1126344
If you could start animating SCP events that would help out the SCP community quite a bit.

http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com

Otto's equipment? A knobby 13 inches to begin with. Hard, and harder when accomplishing changes inside a female. Then, way ahead of his time, for 1970, Otto had his penis pierced with four separate silver barbell studs along his length. As well, he had a large ring hanging from the head of his penis, large enough, so that when he was hard he could swivel it up from under the head and then over the top of the head, sort of popping in place behind the head or sulcus. The inside of the ring, the side that fitted him, was smooth. The outside of the ring, that which raked through the vagina, was purposefully rough and bumpy, sort of like a wood file surface.
Otto walked up behind Jaimie. She had caught her breath and was swiveling her head as best she could, to try to get a view of who might be next. But from her latched in position, she could only peer a little behind each shoulder. So, she just got a brief glimpse of Otto's head and face, and that was seen only before he moved up through the center of her parted legs. He stood looking at the sprawled out beauty. In his mind, more than in anyone else's mind, was a plan to make a real sexual sacrifice. This body, this meat, had been laid out for him. It certainly was better than what he had been able to work on, back home, at his German estate. He looked around the room, as if to assess any limits that might be placed upon him. That is, if any could be. He noted Kees up at the top of the stairs. Kees gave no response of any kind. And Otto simultaneously projected a wicked smile and twisted brow, then turned back to the project.
He put his hands out and softly felt up the body in front of him. He pinched muscle, he stretched legs and arms, he felt under the body and around to the front. He found firm breast material there and began needing it like dough. Then he grabbed both nipples. He pulled on them, as if he were trying to remove them.

From its piercing under his glans, he flipped his metal ring up and over the head of his giant penis. When hooked behind his sulcus, its rough edges aimed out from the top. And his four barbell studs projected at equal distances along that length of the ventral or bottom surface of his penis. In a few seconds, he would use lubricant only for his own sake, just to get it quickly in and quickly moving. Otto had a perverse pride involving his equipment. It was a pride in the size of his penis, its metal stud type projections, and the impressive damage that the combination could do.
As he prepared to mount, he looked back, grinned once more, and waved at Kees with one of his gooey bright red hands. Both Kees and Kala quickly left the room. Then Otto lubed a little, stepped up behind the unprotected pelvic spread, and began to bury his Frankenstein monstrosity of flesh and metal, with full depth and force, all delivered at a sewing machine speed. He never looked down as he felt himself accomplishing his wonders, his brutally massive changes. Without his eyes bothering to direct it, his penis continued the relentless duty of a tool, combining the functions of punching, plowing and puncturing. He only stared off into the corner of the stage as if he were dazed. And when exposed to the horrific sounds, he just smiled and continued to stare into that space, while pumping harder and faster. In the past, while standing over his other 'slabs of meat', as well as now with this one, he would merely mutter, "Frish, Grund, Fleisch. Dein frisches Hackfleisch erhalten kommen." (fresh, ground, meat. Come and get your fresh ground meat.)
Just less than 30 seconds earlier, after Kees and Kala had rushed away from Otto's work, and back into the main lounge of Slechts Groot, the soundproof door had provided its all important service by closing tightly behind them.

>>1128047

But I don't waaanna animate a penis.

>>1128084
Yes you do!
You do because it's NORMAL.
:(

RAGE is a mutated form of Rabies, that is airborne rather than salivia borne. Not far-fetched at all. Rabies is an excellent example of an evolutionarily evolved virus that uses the hosts nervous system to replicate itself (by caused anger in the reptilian brain and melee as a vector). I can't wait till it happens! Z-day baby!

>>1128421
Rage was still a blood pathogen, not airborne. But I agree with the rest of your post (mutation using nervous system).

>>1128421
The virus was still blood borne not transmitted by aerosol contagion. Uber-Rabies.