in any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls herself "The Holder of the Beginning". A small smile will work its way over the persons mouth, almost seeming to say, "You fool.”

You will be taken down a hallway, seemingly leading out into a place it shouldn't. This place will seem to exist nowhere in the institution, but it will. The hall will be silent, even if you try to make noise. Screams will die before leaving your mouth, footsteps will be muffled. Your guide will simply point to the door.

If you enter, you will find a cozy room, full of a pleasant, though unidentifiable, perfume. There will be a pretty lady sitting, holding nothing. No sounds will be made in this room, no matter how hard you try, except for one question. "Why were they separated?" The lady will then explain, in detail, the reason. It will be every horrific event in history, every beating, every war, and every rape. Everything. Then, all will fall silent. It is up to you to do what you will with this information.

That lady is Object 2 of 538. It is up to you if they should be joined or not.

>>674843
ugh. wasnt funny or creep two weeks ago. isnt now.

>>674846
i just want to find all of them that have been created... i like them for some reason

Does anyone have three? or four? i only have 1, 2 and ...45

>>674852
Please share 45.

bump

Fuck you, Dane Cook.

I was wondering if that was him or not... HAHA

Bump.

Eh, try this. http://theholders.org/

I've got 128 and i'm waiting for you.

the first part fails because what IF a look of childlike fear doesn't come across their face and rather joviality?

>>674860
45 is long...here it comes
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. Storm up to the front desk with a look of rage on your face, and demand to see a person who calls himself "The Holder of Peace" immediately. The attendant will recoil, and ask you to speak softly. Do not comply with his request- if anything; speak louder- for the anger in your voice is all that keeps the chains locked on the door behind the desk. Should you lower your voice, the attendant will duck, and what comes out of that door will dismember you in an instant but leave the pain behind for all eternity.

Keep the anger in your voice- the attendant will duck under his desk and point with a quivering finger down a hall to the right that was not there before. Immediately turn and stomp off down the hall. Do not look over your shoulder, for should the attendant catch you- and he will- he will casually lean back and flip the lock off the door behind him.

Walk until you find a door with a beautiful mother-of-pearl inlay design. Throw it open, but take the rage off your face IMMEDIATELY- the ones inside do not appreciate such anger.

With a peaceful look across your face, enter. You are in a beautiful, open-aired temple, with ivy curling up the marble pillars and beautiful mosaics embroidering the walls. The door will lock behind you. Do not try to open it, for it never will, and the monks in brown robes you see wandering about will do anything to get you to stay- even if it means your death.

Wander around. No matter what language you speak, the monks speak it too. They're friendly, and all of them would love to chat, but politely decline. Tell them you must speak with the Head of the Order.

Eventually you will be directed to a man sitting at a chessboard - the temple's abbot. The figure across from him is hooded and wearing armor. Do not attempt to speak to the hooded figure, or your death will be far worse than any vision of hell that man could conjure up. Instead, turn to the man in the now-familiar brown robes. The game is one move away from checkmate.

Bow, and ask nicely "Why do they gather, Father?"

He will open his mouth as if to speak. But the figure across from him will let out a demonic howl of rage and draw a sword. It is beautifully crafted, but seems somehow stained with an unthinkable evil. With a yell, the figure will kick you down and begin systematically slaughtering the other monks. They will try to fight back, but they have only staves, and the sword the madman wields is so sharp that it slices through the pillars like a knife through butter.

As you are watching this, the abbot will make the final move in the game. The man in armor will swing around, and then run at you with the sword upraised.

If you were rude or did something wrong, you will be rent at the atomic level by the blade of the sword, and the pain will never cease. However, if you were polite, the abbot will step in front of you and jam the black king into the right eye of the warrior.

Pay no heed or sympathy as he falls to the ground, screaming, or the abbot will whirl around and do the same to you with the white king. Instead, focus on the abbot, who has now turned around to face you.

He will tell you why they gather. It is a long tale, so fraught with bloodshed and horror that it may well snap your mind. But if you survive its telling, he will reach under the table with the chessboard and pass you a scabbard richly jeweled and inlaid with gold. Though you have never seen it before, you instinctively know that it matches the sword the warrior was wielding a moment ago. Do not hesitate- take it, walk over, pick up the madman's sword, wipe it, and sheath it. Buckle it on as well- you will have need of it.

Move to leave, but before you do, the good Father will halt you and gesture towards the now-unhooded face of the warrior. He was handsome, but pay no heed to that. The one thing you should be focusing on is the fact that the black king is gone. Look up at the abbot, who will nod and say one word; "Regicide".

A flash of light will blind you, and when your sight returns you will be standing on the curb two blocks down from the asylum. Step back onto the sidewalk- you don't want to have an accident.

The sword you now wield once belonged to the white king, and is object number 45 of 538. The black king is running from the scene of his murder, and the white king's sword longs for vengeance.

>>674871
Thank you...looks like the series is not complete yet

>>674910

No shit. There's supposed to be 538 of the damn things. You think the internet (read: 4chan) has that kind of dedication?

Protip: www.theholders.org my friends.

are they the same as the objects in the lost room, or do i gotta catch 'em all ?

The Holders series is to The Lost Room as Stalker: Shadow of Chernobyl is to Half-Life 2.

>>674962
its an FPS ?

It's going to fun to finish uniting these objects with one another.

The time is nigh, /x/philes. Would you like to join me at the end of the world? I'm sure you'll recognize me when the time comes.

>>674983
No, Since HL 2 is also an FPS you can eliminate that aspect from both sides of the comparison. I'm saying that the Holders series takes a fun, interesting concept and reduces it to a formless, uninspired blob of melodramatic banality. It goes out of its way to ladle on extra horror and a sense of OMGWTFWEREALLGONNADIE, and in doing so becomes rather clumsily over the top.

Some of them aren't too bad, I'll grant you, but too many overdo it and end up as dull "if you do ANYTHING, you will die horribly" stories.

>>675008
i feel the same way, its because the holders are open to amateur composition. Some people take it seriously and create a work of art to be added to the series, while others are spawned from the mind of an emo 15 year old with something to prove.

>>675026
Right on. Holders should take a lesson from its little brother, SCP.

>>675074
What's the background story for SCP, anyways?

>>675082
I believe it's left unstated, which in this case works pretty well. Bits and pieces of the background and the nature of the organization that is cataloguing these items can be pieced together from the individual entries, though.

I live in a halfway house. Or maybe it's a mental institute. I don't know anymore. The walls are soft enough to sleep on and that's good enough for me. Where I am? I don't know. Could be any city, any country. Maybe Mary down the hall is right; I'm on fucking Jupiter. I got this, this knife thing, a scalpel I'm told. Stupid fucking thing, bad enough that I was entrusted with it, it also was shoved into my damned chest. They're looking for me, they call me by what I call myself in my dreams, that name that tortures me, "Holder of Eternity". Fuck them, my name was George. Eternity, that is what I'm here for. The room smells like piss and bile. My back aches. Every few days a chap walks down that hall right outside. Right out-fucking-side. Just waltzes down the hall. But he stops sometimes. He whispers things. I wonder if he's a fucking loon. I feel comfortable here, in my floor of soft pillows. Clouds. Heaven. Fuck this; eternal Hell. Deep down in the bowels of this blasted basement. Or atleast it was a basement.

Down the hall Mary and Richard the Great scream. They scream all the time. You'd think they're fucking every five minutes. Or raping each other. Or both. Can't let me sleep. I want my sleep. But today is different, see. Today I hear the lock on my door groan and click, before hearing the sound of a pair of high heeled shoes running off down the hallway. Am I free? My chains set, I'm set to stay.

Alas, outside I hear the nervous breathing of a chap. A boy, a girl, I don't care, I can't see. Bad enough that I have to live with these blasted memories. This nightmares that haunt me at night. Mary and Richard stop screaming as he opens the door. Silence engulfs the room and I grin my toothy grin. And y'know what he asks me? In his little (yes, it's a he) boyish voice he asks, "Who created them?"

I laugh. I laugh like never before, a cackle reminiscing the very same cackle of that hyena I slaughtered in the desert. Or was it a hooker on Palm Beach? I don't care, I'll tell him something. I'll tell him my dreams, my nightmares. This clean little boy does not know pain, he doesn't know death or wrong or evil. He'll know. He'll know. I'll burrow deep into the well that is his puny little brain and tear his very dreamy world apart. Ha! A virgin brain, ripe for the picking. Oh, how I adore such morsels. But I fail in one vital respect. I tell him of how I obtained this prick, this scalpel in my chest, embedded in such a maniacal way so as to sting me eternally but not kill me, the removal of it, though, would do the trick.

He takes a step towards me. Why'd I tell him all that? Why did I tell him about the scalpel? About ending my agony, my hell?

I look down at the flesh that was only but my casket. I look at him as he holds the object. The third of 538. Will he know what to do with it? It's up to him whether the others are protected or destroyed. I wonder how Mary and Richard are doing.... This whole spirit thing is abso-fucking-lutely fascinating.

dude, bump for freakin' me out.

>>675112
>>675114

If you made those up, congrats. That was well written.

If not, where did you find that?

OMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDDOMGZ I CAN TALK TO TEH GOSTS!!!!11 XDDDDD