Well that Fedora guy posted some great stories a few days ago. Supposedly they got archived, but I can't find them there.

>>859205

Hmm. They're not coming up in the archive for me, either. Fuck. I was looking forward to reading them again.

As for you, OP, go look on Google. It's really not that hard.

Google SCP-137
Follow the wikia link
Put on creepy music
Read the hundreds of entries

I saved the one about the farm, if this is what we ar talking about.
Hold, and I shall post.

sage

Having spent my life in a buzzing metropolis, driving through the Midwest states was a hypnotic and sobering experience. Anyone who has seen the breadbasket of America will know what I’m talking about. Fields. Billions of acres of crops covering the land in waves of undulating leaves; the tamed wilderness organized into rows, blocks, and circles, continuing on for hours and hours and days and days.
That’s one of the strangest things about driving through the Midwest. The endless ocean of cornfields, birthed by man’s labors seem to go on without end, but with no signs of those who created it. A car here, a small house there, a windmill, a rotting barn; it’s as if some great civilization built it eons ago and then died out, leaving the living remains of their creations for you to drive past and wonder at.
That’s how I found myself on the evening of the last day in July, driving my red sedan along a veritable tunnel of a road cut across the cornfields. No broad highway for me; rather, I had chosen a graveled detour which I had been promised led back to the interstate. The last few exhausting days had seen me driving non-stop across the country, but today, as the sun peaked in the sky and began its free fall back into the earth, the end of my trip drew near. Rest, relaxation, and who the fuck knows maybe even fun lay at my feet; the only thing separating me from my goal was a mile more of gravel road and a few insignificant minutes on the freeway

Unfortunately, my car was having a little trouble navigating the tiny country road. The assholes at the gas station had promised a worn but perfectly passable route, but a few miles in it became increasingly evident that neither description fit this sorry excuse for a road. Still, the anxiety didn’t really sink in until the gravel path degenerated into a dusty path and then into mere ruts on the ground. As the weeds growing between the tire tracks began to hit the underside of my car, I briefly grappled with the idea of turning around and taking the more traditional, albeit longer, paved route. But soon, that bitch, stubbornness, got her way and I plowed on forwards against the rising weeds and deepening dark…

As the sun kissed its lower lip to the crust of the earth I stopped the car. My journey had come to an abrupt halt. The road, barely discernible among the vegetation and barely wide enough for the car, had ended. Stopped. Right in the middle of a field of corn. Apparently, this was the literal road to nowhere.
I cursed the hicks back at the ‘Pump and Save’ who had given me these shit directions and considered my options. Option, actually. The only action now was to return down the path I had so painfully traveled and then take the long paved road all the way around. Holding my breath, I tried to stifle a headache and several curse words running through my brain. And that’s when I heard that sweet sound. “PRBPRBPRBPRUBBBBB” the unmistakable mating cry of a Harley tearing down a highway at full speed. Evidently the interstate was straight ahead and only a few hundred yards away. I felt some guilt for what I was planning, but stubborness’ sisters, adventure and lethargy, convinced me that mowing down several hundred feet of some farmer’s corn harvest was worth not spending hours more on the road…

... fuck it. I'm done.

wait, what? Finish the damn story you bastard!

I wasn’t sure if a sedan could hold up to such punishment, but my car handled it like a pro, crushing and pulverizing the green stalks as they bent away and under the bumper. A couple minutes and bam! I was through, back out into the dim evening light. I laughed and flipped the wipers to clean all the green shrapnel covering my windshield. I stopped mid-laugh. This was a road, but definitely not the highway. A two lane, paved, black road ran in a perfectly straight line off into the distances, disappearing into the evening light. I cursed the assholes at the gas station again and prepared to bash my way back to the dirt path. But turning around, the beautiful hole I punched through the field was gone…

A wall of corn, not row to row, but stalk to stalk stood in front of me, and I realized with a sinking heart that there was no way I could find the dirt path again in that solid block of green. Once again I weighed my options. Just two options now: left or right. I headed what I figured was due south and hoped this road linked up to the highway I so desperately strove.
Miles and miles I traveled. No change in scenery. Miles and miles of cornfields, pressing in on the car, enveloping me in the gloom of early night. No other cars. No other sounds. No radio reception. I stopped a few times, at first listening for the signs of a busy highway, and later just listening for anything at all; anything beyond my own breathing. Nothing. Nothing but the crickets, gently chirping to each other across the ocean of waving stalks. More driving. The crickets faded away and only the occasional shrill whine of a cicada cried out into the night.
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More driving. Low on Gas. More driving. The moon peers over the tufts of corn and lifts itself into the sky, transforming the land into monochrome; draining away color. More Driving. Very fucking low on gas. More driving. Nothing but corn corn corn fucking everywhere. More Driving.
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A barn?...

A barn. Aglow from the light of the moon it appears like a ship in the sea, a dark but welcome shape rising above the monotonous and oppressive landscape. With a mixture of relief and apprehension I continue down the road. One turn, a short driveway, and I’m there; parking at the bottom of the sloping hill that leads up to its moonlight roof. It’s built in an old wooden style, high gabled with heavy oak doors. It looks old. Like, not just normal “oh look, it’s an old barn kids” old, but reaaalllyy old, like it hasn’t been looked upon, much less opened, in hundreds of years. Still, its presence offers hope and companionship, shelter and safety. Getting out of the car I walk up the path to the front doors. Interestingly, the grass all around the barn, a meadow extending about fifty yards, is clearly meticulously cut and groomed. Also, the path up to the barn has been worn smooth, like some large machine has routinely pounded up and down, polishing and flattening the path. Striding up to the door I knock. And knock again. I give it several minutes, but apparently no one is living inside. I open the doors and walk in. I was right…

The stench hit me first. Powerful, like a left hook right on the nose. Seedy and cloying and sour, it was like being dunked head first into a porta-potty. I retch, struggling to force fresh air down into my lungs. But as my eyes adjust, and the stench escapes into the cool night breeze, the horror begins.
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The barn is full of corpses. Dead bodies lie on tables, hang from walls, and sit piled in great heaps into the corners. Green with rot, their open mouths are grinning; their decayed eyes staring emptily about the barn. The world starts to spin around, my knees buckle and my breath escapes once again. Hundreds of bodies. Some are still fresh; crumpled spread-eagled in the corners of the barn, huge red-ringed gashes covering their bodies, wounds that look like splashes of lipstick applied to their pale, naked forms. Older, rotten corpses, lain out flat onto slabs of stone and wooden tables and hung from the walls; cut open and divided in a grotesquely methodical pattern: Their heart placed carefully near the head, tongue cut out, various organs lying discarded and piled onto the floor below, and their intestines bunched up and knotted like a nightmarish bouquet of flowers. Further into the barn lay the bits and pieces, brown dried hunks of what used to be heads, arms and torsos. And crates. Giant wooden boxes piled neatly along the back wall of the barn, almost innocuous but horrible; dark stains seeping from under the lid and running down.
.
But nothing compares to what hangs from the ceiling…

A fraying rope stretches down from the rafters. Hanging from the rope, gently swinging in the night air over the bloody tables is bound a horrible absurdity of something that was once alive. It resembles a victim of some terrible holocaust, its skin shriveled tight against its chest and belly, the arms unnaturally long and thin, hog-tied behind its back. Its hands and feet are enormous, ending in gnarled fingers a foot long, a jagged yellow nail at the tip of each one. Its head. A burlap sack has been tied around its neck, completely covering the corpses’ features. A gash runs the length of its neck, the dried remains of some purple ichor running down from the wound and staining the bag over its head.
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Swinging there.
.
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Dead in the moonlight…

I rise above the waves of fear and stumble out of the barn, slamming the door shut behind me. Outside the moon still rises, the wind still blows, and the crickets chirp, the horrors inside the barn having no effect on the simple sanctity of nature. Leave. Run. Drive. The only thoughts that permeate my numbed mind. I turn away from the wooden monstrosity before me and run to my car. But the car isn’t there.
.
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There is nothing around but cornfields. As I run around the barn, the rows of waving stalks dance before my eyes. Trapped. Trapped in an ocean on a ship of the dead. No. I cannot stay here. I break for the fields of corn, the terrors behind chasing me heedlessly into the unknown ahead. As I hit the edge of the cornstalks my courage fails me. I cannot go ahead and I cannot go back. I stand there, shrouded by the complete silence…

A light breeze tousles my hair as I stand motionless and forlorn. Gently, the field of corn sways in place as the wind picks up. Then the wind really begins to pick up. The corn stalks begin to march back and forth in what is quickly becoming a maelstrom. The wind whips my face and tears across my arms. It reaches down my throat, pulling my scream out and mixing it with the surrounding chaos. Rain! It’s suddenly raining, a torrent, a solid sheet of water falling from the heavens, knocking me off my feet, churning the solid ground into liquid. Lightning! Thunder! Arcs of electricity fly before my face, striking and torching the ground at my feet. I run back to the only shelter there is, all my fear forgotten in the struggle to survive this onslaught from above…

I have barricaded myself in the barn. I’m shrouded in perfect darkness except for the pulses of lightning that glint off the outlines of the dead. This is past fear. I’m petrified, crouching against the bolted oak doors, the rain hammering a machine gun fire behind me, trying to bash its way in. Behind me lies certain death, in front of me lay the dead. The pulsing lightning seems to animate them. They dance and shiver and grin and laugh. They have nothing to fear. They laugh at me and my fear, they laugh at my blood, they laugh at my heartbeat. To this cacophony of laughter I sit frozen, watching over those that cannot move, move.

Lightning bolts across the sky. Flash. Dark.
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Flash. The wind has been blowing the corpse tied to the ceiling; it’s rocking back and forth in long arcs above my head. Dark.
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Flash. It’s hands are swinging back and forth beneath it. Dark. I thought the hands were tied behind the back.
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Flash. The rope is swinging back and forth. The monstrosity is gone. Dark.
.
Flash…

Suddenly I see it crouching on the floor, its bagged head hung low beneath its shoulders. The cadaver’s limbs flail about, sliding it across the bloody wooden planks. Towards me. In the flashes of light I see its sickening twitching movement as it sways back in forth, its head bobbing around with no control. I hear it.

Bubbling, murmuring, babbling. It sounds like a drowning man trying to talk. It howls and gurgles and sputters and screams. Unintelligible. No pattern, no sense. It twitches, screaming, across the floor as I lie frozen against the wall, watching its movement in the throbbing light.
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Flash. Dark.

Dark. I hear its blithering in my ear.
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Dark. I feel its ragged breathing.
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Dark. Burlap brushes my face.
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.
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Flash. I run…

Out the door and across the churning mud. The rain throws me down into the muck again and again. A guttural snarl and it’s after me; on all fours it leaps and twitches and gurgles and screams as it chases me. Into the corn. Knocking aside the stalks I stagger into the pitch blackness. I run and run. Unseen things tear at me – is it the leaves or has the beast caught up? I run and run. I run and trip. I tripped on a root - or did it grab me by the ankles? I run and run and run oblivious to the darkness, to my fear, to my aching lungs. And then it catches me.

Long nails - no, talons - gangrenous and yellow, tear into my shoulder and hold me back. I stumble and fall. I’m going to die; I can feel its breath on my face again. I can taste the death on its hidden lips…

I Will Not Die!
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With a yell I rise up and grab its sallow arm, tearing its claws out of my back with a sharp flash of pain and blood. The monstrosity gibbers and yelps. And I run. And I run. And I run. And I trip again.

Falling, falling down into darkness, skidding across mud and stones, almost drowning in the muck I tumble down and down. Then it all comes to a stop…

I look up from the bottom of a ditch and realize I’m out of the cornfield. I’m at the road. The rain has gone away. The wind has died. Best of all, my car is parked by the edge of the road.
I waste no time in jumping in, locking the door, and starting the engine. Miraculously, I have half a tank of gas. With a yell I stomp the gas pedal, hoping to charge forward forever and ever out of the blackness and into the light of day.
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But the mud churns beneath me. My tires spin helplessly then sink into the muck. Ahead of me, the cornstalks part, and the dead thing crawls out into the beam of my headlights. With growls and burbles it slowly slips through the mire in front of me, taking its time, savoring the web of dread it has trapped me in…

Last chance.
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I stomp the gas again and fly forward. The creature leaps. My windshield cracks. With a “Thunk” and a splash of purple blood, it collides against the car then goes flying across the road. “FUCK YOU!” I cry as I stomp the gas and steer towards its crumpled form. ten feet – five feet – three feet. It gets up. I miss. But as I go swerving by it doesn’t give chase. I can see it in the rearview mirror, struggling to stand up. I shift to reverse and rev the engine.
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Then a shape appears above the cornstalks. Blotting out the moon; a shadow climbs out of the field and walks down to the road. The light of night shines off shoulders that stretch meters across; forty feet above the ground the outline of a head eclipses the stars. It bends down to the monstrosity sitting in a pool of vile blood. The shadow picks it up, caresses it. Then it turns towards me. A low moan fills the air, rattling the car and sending the cornstalks into another mad dance. With its free hand, the monstrous shadow reaches down to its waist then lifts something high into the air. Something big and sharp that reflects the light of the moon across the darkened fields...

I slam back into gear and fly forward. The moan continues, the steering wheel coming loose in my hands. The cornfield is in a mad frenzy, stalks bend and sway with so much force they uproot and toss into the air, covering the road in shadows and leaves. “Thud thud thud thud thud” ground shaking footsteps coming for me, coming closer. A shriek of metal and something cleaves the roof of my car in two; light spilling into the car like air into a wound. The sounds of twisting metal deafen me as the wheels began to lift off the ground…

And then it’s over. I drop back to the road and accelerate, the shadow’s footsteps fading away into its hellish moan. I tear down the road without abandon, the dark shape and its unearthly call fading behind me.
.
.
I get it now.

The horrible, blubbering shape was merely a pet, a dog, a guardian of whatever nightmarish creature lives and works in the barn. IT is the true master of that slaughterhouse. Although it’s far behind now - that dark shadow - it looks enormous. It turns, a flash of silver bursting from its hand, as it disappears back into the swaying cornfields…

Pedal to the metal. 130 mph. The engine roaring, the tires squealing. I fly down the road, impervious to my surroundings, to the blood flowing down my back. Minutes pass like lifetimes. Trees and shadows loom like a thousand unnamable horrors down upon my head. Then, a light. More lights. A town. Not just a town, THE town, the fucking place I was trying to reach so long ago, earlier today in an earlier life. I stumble into a diner, the screaming of the waitress lulling me into dark unconsciousness…

Sleepwalking, the doctors say. Here take these pills, they say. A hundred doctors, maybe more, and they all agree that I’m a headcase. The cuts on my face and arms? Scratches from the sharp corn leaves. My shattered windshield? I drove into a ditch. They throw a rainbow of pills in my face to cut down on my dreams, to avoid panic attacks, to bury my sorrows in a field of manufactured happiness. I guess doctors know best?
.
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Still, there are some things they’ve never been able to explain. I had some tests done on the purple liquid spattering my car. Inconclusive, all of them; apparently it’s blood, but contains things that are not blood(?). There isn’t much to say about the straight, clean cut that runs the length of my roof either, nobody has been able to tell me what will cleave steel like butter. Then there are the four jagged wounds across my back that ooze, puss, and bleed, but refuse to heal…

I stay in the city now. The chalky smell of concrete, the sharp smell of steel, even the bitter aroma of living humans keeps me sane. My apartment has no plants in it. I eat meat and bread. The sight of a cob of corn, or even a kernel, makes me throw up, sometimes faint. For the most part, I can interact normally (except for the vomiting thing) and pretend like the last day in July never happened.
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I feel perfectly safe in the daytime…

But each night when I sleep, I’m forced back.
.
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Back to the moonlit fields, where the cornstalks bend and sway with the howling wind.
.
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Back to the hall of corpses, where the hooded monstrosity shrieks and gibbers and twitches.
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Back to the haunting ground of the unseen butcher, whose long knives flash into the darkness.

fin

I also have Black Fedora's other two stories, if anybody wants me to post them...

>>859937
please do

noise.

My neighbor, Mr. White, is usually a quiet old man, spending his days in a rocking chair on his porch, watching the city and his life pass by. However, to say that he’s odd would be an understatement. He dresses from head to toe in solid black clothes, the few times I’ve talked to him he’s seemed like a nice guy ( a little standoffish perhaps), nothing to indicate why he dresses in all the flamboyant colors of a chimney sweep.

It was the first day in August when the screaming began. 1:00 am sharp in the morning a horrible scream pierces the thin wall between our flats. As suddenly as it started, it stops, leaving my heart hammering and my mind awake. This continues for the rest of the week, but each time I make up my mind to confront him about it, the screaming stops and I lose the nerve to knock on his door. The next day he’s out on the front porch again, dressed in his usual black attire, from black shoes, up to black socks, pants, jacket, shirt, glasses, and finally hat. “Good morning.” he mumbles as I pass. I almost stop and ask him about the past few nights, but the way he rocks back and forth on his chair, his head pointed straight ahead of him, I’m still too weirded out to talk to him about it.

I get back that evening to see him take off in an airport shuttle. Now, I haven’t seen Mr. White leave his house in the two years I’ve lived next to him, but I figure his sudden departure simply means it’ll be that much easier for me to get some sleep. Unfortunately, as soon as I get settled down into bed, I hear a new noise, a noise I hadn’t noticed earlier. My bed lies against our adjoining wall, so I can hear water running in the pipes whenever he has the faucet on. As I lie there, I can hear water rushing. Two hours and no sleep later, I realize that the noise from the pipes is even more disruptive than the screaming. I figure I’ll do us both a service and shut the running faucet off. So I dress, grab a few supplies, and head over to his door. I’ve lost my keys enough times to figure out how to jimmy a lock, so I shove a couple paper clips into the doorknob and wiggle ‘em around a bit. Soon enough I hear that soft ‘click’ and enter his flat.

The place is in shambles. Like somebody had been running around knocking everything over. Books and magazines litter the floor and half the furniture has been knocked over and shoved against a wall. I head toward the sound of running water and enter Mr. White’s bathroom. Blood Everywhere. The walls are covered in blood, the bathtub has blood running down into it, and the edges of the sink have bits of bloody hair and flesh around the edges.

I turn off the faucet and then turn myself to get the fuck out of there. And that’s when the fucking lights go out. “Pop” goes the bulbs in the bathroom. I flip out and bolt out of there. That’s when I make the mistake of looking behind me. From the gloom of the bathroom I see that there’s something watching me, its eyes reflecting some unknown light.

I don’t really remember the next minute, but the next thing I know I’m standing in my own bathroom, in my own apartment, with my pants heavy with my own piss. Shit. Some fucking shiny thing in the bathroom looks like eyeballs and I piss myself. I take a shower and go back to my bedroom to grab some new pants. But as I’m putting them on I look out the window. It’s fucking watching me, its eyes a glow in the darkness outside. I scream and almost ruin my second pair. But a moment later they’re gone. I call myself a dumbass for falling victim to my own imagination and go to the living room. Sleep’s out of the question, but maybe I can kill my fear with some horrible late-night television.

Everything’s cool for the first hour and half, then a commercial comes on where the background is black. You know how you can see your reflection in the TV when the screen is dark? Well I see me. I also see the fucking eyes glowing at me from the darkness behind my couch.

Frozen to my chair I watch them watch me. Never moving, never blinking, the beast in the shadows has me steady in its gaze. I snap out of it suddenly, doing a half-flip half-barrel roll away from the couch and onto the floor. Of course, when I look again, they’re gone. This shit’s too crazy for me, my last bastion of defense lies in my copious alcohol collection. Practically sprinting to the kitchen, I grab a bottle of something strong and fill the glass. Glug glug glug, raising the glass over my lips and above my head until it’s empty. But there’s something else in the bottom of the glass, I see those fucking eyes again. I slam the glass down and catch a glimmer of light as the beast takes off down my dark hallway. Shit. Shitshitshitshit.

Five minutes later, all the lights in the house are on and I’m decked out in a flashlight and a kitchen knife. Well, I should say all the lights are on but one. The hallway light died as I flipped it on, giving a soft ‘pufft’ of bulby death. At the end of the dark hallway lie two doors, a closet and the door out of my apartment. It’s time to get there or die trying. I creep down into the increasingly dark corridor, my flashlight and knife a foot in front of me. The goddamn closet door is open.

I think I see the beast’s eyes again as I near the closet, but it’s just the latch on the door. I reach the closet door. Breathless, I pull the knife back and get ready to strike.

“Haaahhhh!!!” is my battle-cry as I turn the corner. Nothing. No beast and no beasty eyes. I close the closet and continue to the front door, resolute in my escape. That’s when I notice another thing wrong; the outside light usually seeps in through the crack under my door. Fuck! So close and more shit happens. Playing it safe I edge up to the door and peer out the eyepiece. Two glowing eyes look back at me. I scream for the third time that night and go running back up the hallway to the light of the living room, leaving the knife and my only flashlight lying by the front door.

There’s no escape. I get ready to barricade myself in a corner. I grab the TV cabinet and began to push it toward the center of the room. It’s watching me. The space between the wall and the cabinet. Three fucking inches wide. The beast’s eyes glare at me. Its gaze is neither malevolent or friendly. Just two, perfectly round, shining orbs.

That’s it, I’m done. I collapse backwards onto the floor and back away to the wall, watching the eyes. Watching the eyes watching me. Watching the eyes watching me watching it. I sit there, staring. They don’t move. Nor do I. the night creeps by second after second, me caught in this horribly twisted staring contest. I just wish I knew what they wanted. If the beast attacked me, if it revealed itself, I could know what I’m up against. I might even figure out how I’ll die before it kills me. No. It stays in the crack between my wall and my TV and watches with infinite patience.

The darkness outside dissolves into a gray morning, and the eyes begin to lose their glimmer. As the sun lights my living room, the beast retreats, gone into the shadow it came from. To where I have no fucking idea.

I pack my things. I’m going away, fuck knows where, but I’m getting at least a thousand miles between me and here before night falls again. Two shots of bourbon wish me on my way as I grab my suitcase and set off for the front door.

“Knock, knock” someone get there first. I jump, dropping my stuff and getting ready to bolt back to the nearest corner, “knock, knock”. But reason grabs me by the heels, whispering in my ear that the fucking night monster wouldn’t be courteous enough to knock before killing me. Slowly I open it. Mr. White is standing there, resplendent in his black hat, sunglasses, shirt, jacket, pants, socks, and shoes. “Good morning, Steven.” says he.

“Hi.” says I.

“Say Steven, did anyone go into my apartment while I was gone? There are footprints leading from my bathroom to my door. Notice he neglects to mention what the footprints are formed of. “Uh, no Mr. White, I’ve been in my apartment all night and I didn’t hear anything.” (If you think I’m about to admit to a man that has blood all over his bathroom and a monster living in his house that I broke into his house, then you are very mistaken).
“That’s good Steven, I have many fragile belongings that could easily be destroyed or stolen by a malicious soul. You have a good day.”

“You too, man.”

He turns to leave and then turns back to me smiling, “Oh and Steven,” he says, “I couldn’t help but notice bloody footprints leading from my door to yours.” His smile gets even wider. He leans in, bringing our face right next to each other. He removes his sunglasses.
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Revealing two empty pits in his face.
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.
.
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“I’ll be keeping my eyes on you.”

fin

anyone still up for the last one?

>>859975
indeed

The 29th Dragon
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Atop the salt encrusted docks and piers of Seattle squats an ugly clapboard shack; its windows smeared with grime and the walls draped in fishing nets.
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The Oil Slick – an aptly named bar riddled with age and barnacles but a sanctuary to the swarm of deckhands and sailors that spend their days scurrying across the rotting hulls of ships and their nights slipping into a drunken stupor…

It’s a rough bar, where a careless comment will earn you a punch to the face and a long fall into the grimy waters below.
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On any given night one can find an aged Chinese sailor curled up against the bar; a broad shouldered old salt with a bulging gut and an empty stare pasted across his wide face. His name is Hao Ming, but to the regular flotsam of the pub he’s known as “the man of the 28 dragons”. 28 Scaly tattooed reptiles twine sinuously across his arms and legs and twist menacingly across the bunched muscles on his back…

Hao claims each dragon represents a crucial part of his life, stories transformed into ink. Buy him a drink and he’ll be happy to share the thrilling tales behind each one, carefully describing how the dragon’s colors represent his joy, terror, love, loss, and death.
Visit him 28 nights and buy him 28 drinks and the powerful stories of his life will weave and merge before your eyes until they resolve into the aging man drinking next to you.
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And then, satisfied you have exhausted his treasury of adventures, you’ll excuse yourself and float out into the night, the light and noise of the Oil Slick bobbing away across the dark waves. And the man of the 28 dragons will finish his drink and clutch his faded shirt to his chest; his last secret, his hidden dragon safe. He swore long ago to never reveal the tattoo or the story to any living soul. And he never has. Except once.
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Once, on a stormy night, when the rain spattered like ink across the grimy windows and the wind howled through the cracked wood, when he told the story to me…

It began as an entertaining night as I leaned on the counter sipping my poison and watching Ming pummel the face of some quartermaster who had drunkenly slurred a remark pertaining to “damn slant-eyes” from across the bar. Stumbling backwards, the sailor grabbed at Ming’s shirt, tearing the front and momentarily revealing Ming’s chest. With a roar, Ming caught him under the chin and the drunkard slumped to the floor. Game over. Ming pulled his shirt back across his shoulders and walked back to his drink. The noise in the bar returned to normal, everyone laughing and continuing their private banter. I was the only one who noticed it - the black serpent scrawled over his heart. A Chinese dragon, its broad tail curling in loops behind it; long whiskers sprouting from its face like tangles of wet hair…

Arming myself with the twin barrels of guile and alcohol, I took the seat next to him and offered him several slugs of amber liquid. He recognized me as one of the regulars and knowingly accepted my offer “Okay friend,” he winked, holding out his arms, “What story you want hear tonight?” I pointed my finger at his chest, indicating the hidden serpent curled around his heart.
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His smile vanished in a flash. With an inscrutable gaze, he stared into my eyes, his heavy lips curled down into a frown, almost a grimace. “No good story,” he grunted, “forget you seen it, okay?”…

I was tempted to give up but noticed he was rocking slightly in his chair. Seizing my chance, I clapped him on the shoulder, telling him not to worry about it and ordering him several more drinks in “the spirit of good will.” Two hours and a dozen drinks later he broke. He began to sob quietly into his cup, telling me he was sorry, that he wanted to tell me but swore he wouldn’t. With the precision of a surgeon I knifed across his slurred words and stabbed into his psyche, prodding and poking until he dissolved completely.
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Closing his eyes, he began the story of the black dragon.
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I share it with you here:

The old clipper threaded its way across the currents of the South China Sea. With a hull filled with rice she was bound on a three week trip to Sydney. Ming, the lines of age not yet etched so deeply into his face, was a simple deckhand on the rusted, peeling bucket. The days rolled into nights as Ming performed his duties, his mind locked on their destination. The poor condition of the ship meant it needed a long overhaul in dry-dock when it reached port; granting the crew a long shore leave. The men joked every night around the dim steel cabin about the things they would drink, the places they would go, the women they would meet.
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.
But on the tenth day of the voyage, fate rose its middle finger against the ship - and Ming’s life…

As the morning wore on, a steady breeze from the North quickly built into a Typhoon. Waves pounded against and over the ship as the stinging wind tore across the bow. For the next thirty hours Ming and the crew struggled against the howling chaos; shifting ballast and pumping the holds. Each man put every ounce of strength into saving the clipper, and ultimately, his own life. Two of the crew were torn from the deck and swallowed by the storm. And at long last there was nothing left to do but sit in the dark cabin and beg Poseidon for mercy…

The crew awoke to a cloudless sunrise, the sea once again tranquil and flat. Walking outside, they surveyed the damage. The rudder had been torn free and the engine blocks destroyed – the ship was adrift. The cargo hold had been flooded, the cargo lost. Even worse, the crashing waves had reached over the boat and sheared off the communication tower. Without radio or navigation, low on food and fresh water, the crippled ship drifted helplessly across the blue expanse…

Ming lay prostrated on the metal deck, feeling the sun beat savagely against his body. Three nights ago the food supplies had run out and the water was put on ration. A deckhand had died of an infected wound. Another injured man had escaped slow, lingering death by hanging himself. Morale was nil - even the captain had begun to eye the end of his own pistol.
.
.
The next night, a light appeared on the horizon…

“Rescue!” cried the men to one another. They quickly built and lit a signal fire on deck and waved flashlights into the dark, yelling and screaming out to their saviors. Their efforts were successful, the bright light was moving closer.
.
At this point in his story Ming dropped his voice into a low whisper…

The crew’s elation only rose as the ship drew near. Soon, a second light could be discerned under the first. The glow from the ship lit up the dark outlines of the men on the deck; they laughed and shouted “Helllooooo!” across the water. But not Ming…

Backing away from the light, Ming stumbled down the deck until he reached the cabin. Peering out of a metal porthole, he watched the men slowly realize what he had noticed first. There weren’t two lights. There was one light, reflecting off the undisturbed surface of the water.
.
.
.
Above, floating high over the waves, the “ship” glided into view. A dull silver dome, hundreds of meters across, eclipsed the stars as it bore down upon the boat, its underside blazing with the inferno of the sun. A fire of light climbed up the sides of the hull and spilled across the deck, enveloping the crew…

Heart hammering, Ming collapsed below the porthole. Outside he hears the surprised cries of the men rising above the crackling of the luminous air. A pistol shot rings out. And another.
.
.
Ming flees across the cabin - spotting a metal locker he ducks inside, pulling the door shut. More shots. Then the cries of the men morph into screams and shrieks. Crouched over, Ming peers through a gap along the floor of the locker. Suddenly, the screams stop in mid-breath…

A spear of light smashes into the boat, the steel hull groaning and twisting. The inferno spreads across the length of the boat, penetrating into the cabin. The light pounces from the gap into Ming’s eyes - with a yelp he falls back. The blaze vanishes. Silence shrouds the ship…

Ears ringing and eyes burning, Ming’s head reels. He crouches down to peer through the crack again. Nothing. Minutes pass. With short breaths he slowly
reaches up to the latch.
.
But as vision swims back into his clouded eyes and the ringing in his head subsides, he freezes. A soft noise brushes against the cloud of silence, “pit………”
.
“pat………”

Half - deafened by the hammering of his heart, Ming listens to the stillness outside.
.
pit…….pat……pit…….pat……pit……pat….
.
He leans back down to the slit and peers across the cabin, blinking the darkness out of his eyes.
.
Pit……Pat……Pit……Pat….. the gentle disturbance growing louder.
.
.
.
pit…….pat……pit…….pat……pit……pat….

Struggling to see what lies beyond the upper edge of his vision, he lays his head flat against the metal floor.
.
A long, black tendril drips down from the darkness above. pat. Ming nearly cries out, but swallows before it escapes his lips. pit. Wide-eyed, he gazes as the thin legs of some unknown creature gently slap against the floor. pat. Cylindrical, an inch wide, the legs end in a knobby stub that flattens as it hits the metal. pit. The legs stalk back and forth in front of the locker with the gentle rustling of disturbed leaves. pat….

pit. pat. pit. pat. pit. pat. pit. pat. pit. pat.
The feet patter as the creature slowly walks the length of the cabin.
.
Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat. Pit-
.
.
The tendrils pause in front of the locker. Frozen in fear, Ming watches as they delicately lumber closer.
.
Silence…

With a softer sound than before, like the brushing aside of a curtain, unseen arms explore the door of the locker, prodding, searching. A sharp screech of metal and the latch begins to rattle.
.
As the bolt slides open, Ming clamps his eyes shut…

A sudden brilliance of light flows in from the gap. A sudden pitter and the latch falls down, soft footsteps retreating from the cabin. The light disappears. Once again, Ming is left in the blackness.
.
.
The next morning he slowly exits the locker and wanders onto the deck. The boat is devoid of life. The deck and cabin are seared glossy black; a wide hole melted through the steel yawns down into the hull below. Quickly, Ming grabs the remaining fresh water and stores them onto the ship’s lifeboat – along with a scorched pistol he finds near the railing. With starvation a certainty, he casts away from the clipper, rowing endlessly until its dark shape disappears over the horizon…

The next day he’s discovered and rescued by an Australian freighter. He rages deliriously of floating lights, thin tendrils of legs that slap, and soft rustling in the night. A week later, he explains to an official inquiry that the ship’s fuel tanks exploded and sunk with all hands but himself. The clipper is never found and the public’s interest fades. Ming moves on with his life...

As he finishes his story he opens his eyes. I’m astonished, not to mention doubtful, at his vivid account. Still, I can’t figure out why he has kept such an incredible tale silent for so long. I ask.
.
He turns towards me, tears rolling down from the wrinkled corners of his eyes…

“I shouldn’t have told you story,” he mumbles, “I no tell story, and people stay happy.” Annoyed, I grab my hat and rise to leave. Suddenly, he grabs my coat in both hands and pulls me towards his face…

“The sounds!” he cries, “I hear them before! I hear them after! My whole life I hear them, but not see them! Now I know! I know what stalks in the night outside my window!”
.
He waves a finger in front of my face
.
“You hear them too, but you not know what they are! I know!”
“They following you too! Pit pat pit pat pit pat pit pat, behind you in the shadows!”
.
Anguished, he screams, spit and tears flying off his face.
.
.
“Always! Always, they watching! Watching you from the darkness!”

fin

>>859995
thank you kind sir

>>859996

you're welcome

Famed neurosurgeon Dr. Theodore Brown Rasmussen, though remembered as a warm, modest soul by his family
and colleagues, is most widely known for his brilliant research in the treatment of severe epilepsy and
degenerating neurological diseases. His area of expertise was the "hemispherectomy", in which crippling,
diffuse epileptic disturbance on one side ('hemisphere') of the brain is treated by simply removing nearly all
of the afflicted hemisphere. In infants and young children, whose brains are "plastic" and not yet developed,
the remaining portion develops to assume the removed portions' functions, and patients usually grow to average
or greater intelligence and lead normal, functional lives.

However, such an invasive surgery usually resulted in massive complications (such as fluids filling the cavity
and putting pressure on the remaining hemisphere), which in the '70s lead Dr. Rasmussen to develop what would
come to be known as the Rasmussen "functional hemispherectomy", in which most of the damaged hemisphere is left
alive and in place, but with specific nerve bundles snipped to isolate it, rendering it both useless and harmless.

In 1974 Samantha N. Williams was one of the first patients to beneft from this new operation. At age 3, she could
not walk, talk, sit upright, or eat solid food. She suffered at least 60-70 crippling seizures a day, making
any sort of meaningful developmental progress impossible.

As expected, she suffered from moderate hemiplegia (paralysis of the left arm and leg, and most of the left portion
of the face), deafness in her right ear, and blindness in the right hemisphere of both eyes (inner right eye and
outer left eye). But, though wheelchair-ridden and suffereing from predictable social difficulties, she largely
lead a normal life. She attended public school, was a member of the math and debate teams, and maintained a perky,
upbeat demeanor that endeared her to friends and family. In early adulthood, she began to frequently suffer
intense but incoherent nightmares, which left her virtually sleepless. This was dismissed as the result of stress,
her childhood operation still regarded as a complete success, and she graduated with high marks at the age of 21.

It was shortly after, in the summer of '82, that her night terrors began to grow intense enough to cause alarm.
Her distraught moans and hollow, throaty howls were reportedly loud enough to disturb her next-door neighbors.
She thrashed terribly, and most remarkably her two paralized limbs appeard to be active at such times: her left arm
and leg kicking and thrashing even more violently than their counterparts. On one occassion her left hand was seen
fumbling for and then grabbing a glass of water at her bedside, hurling it acrss the room. However, when she awoke
(often unnerved from her dreams) her paralized limbs would again be inert.

Samantha's parents were both practicing Roman Catholics, and though they had long abstained from blaming any of
their daughter's troubles on anything save biology, these recent developments deeply troubled them. They consulted
their local priest; who, in this instance, did the right thing and told them to consult a doctor.

Rebecca Williams brought her daughter to a local hospital on July 16. Samantha spoke vaguely of her nightmares,
describing them as "mad and feverish" (though her temperature was normal). Her mother also described her full-body
thrashing and 'possessed' hand, which the family doctor, while not and expert, explained to be some variant on
"alien hand syndrom"; a bizare condition occuring only in "split brains", in which the secondary hand or limb
automatically performs very simple tasks without any conscious effort. Rare, but documented. That wasn't what
bothered him.

The nerves connecting her spine to the right side of her brain (which controlled the left side of her body) had been
severed. In early development her healthy left hemisphere had assumed a great deal of the damaged (and effectively
'amputated') right hemisphere's work, including most movement and feeling in the neck and trunk, but complete
recovery of both limbs so late in life was unheard of. He knew that the potential ramifications of a hemipolegic
regaining any sort of function in such circumstances must be massive. He was also worried because 'alien hand'
requires an at least semi-functional second hemsphere, which Samantha obviously didn't have.

An appointment was made with a brain and spine specialist from out-of-state only three days later; in the meantime,
an RNA was dispatched to help keep an eye on Samantha as well as take detailed notes on her behavior.

On the night of the 16th, her nightmares grew magnitudes more severe. Reportedly, the activity in her hand grew
increasingly frantic. At one point it found a ballpoint pen on her nightstand: it was seen to 'pause for once, then
remove the cap and clasp it with a white knuckled grip'. Her spastic thrashing died down at that point but her
sleep remained uneasy. When describing her dreams the next morning she spoke of a "voice", but if asked to
elaborate would become confused and visibly more distraught.

Her left hand continued to clasp the ballpoint pen even after she had awoke. When someone or something touched the
pen, it was observed as clasping it more tightly and shying away from the contact. When her mother attempted to
take it away it clenched and jerked back protectively.

Seeing the 'alien hand' at work for the first time, Samantha responded with understandable horror. Periodically
throughout the day she would notice it and stare transfixed, repeating over and over "That's not me, I'm not doing
that, it isn't me." Perhaps delirious from stress and lack of sleep, she also appeared to suffer from auditory
hallucinations throughout the day, frequently asking "Did you hear that?" After several negative responses, she
stopped asking or making any note of the phantom sounds, but was still seen at random to perk up and look around
or appear startled by something.

Samantha spent most of this last day reading and listening to relaxing music, attempting to calm her nerves.
Fearing her dreams, she stayed up late into the night.

Around 2 a.m., having nearly nodded off in her chair, Sam was startled awake as the hand clutching the ballpoint
pen began to write in the margins of her book. Meaningless scribbles at first, followed by crude attempts at
circles and triangles, with intelligable numbers and mathematical signs strewn throughout; all while the woman
simply watched with increasing panic. When the pen was wrestled from her the hand fumbled and clawed frantically
to take it back. Her nails drew blood from her father's arm.

Her parents called for a priest, who assured them that he would be there in fifteen minutes but whose car
unfortunately broke down on the way. Valiantly he continued on foot but would not arrive until dawn.

Delirious, Samantha spent the next half hour sobbing and telling her parents she was scared, though was unable to
articulate exactly why. Her statements grew less and less coherent by the minute and eventually she simply stopped
speaking and stared into space, hugging her knees; she still responded to outside stimuly (taking and drinking from
a glass of warm milk that was offered to her) but refused to talk or make eye contact. Eventually, her sleeplessness
caught up with her.

Her "nightmares" commenced almost immediately. Her parents were unable to wake her, and her body twitched and
convulsed, most characteristic of the severe seizures of her infancy than any of her recent "nightmares". Her
screams and moans were broken and innane, at times sounding more like gibbering or fumbling attempts at speech.

The RNA called an ambulance. Her parents attempted to move her to a bed, but due to her thrashing never made it
farther than the livingroom floor. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She wept and howled at once, lips
moving frantically as if attempting to speak over herself, which warped the resulting screams horrifically.

Her left arm tore her shirt off. With deep, bleeding furrows, the letters "l e t m e o u t" were etched in
lopsided letters on her chest.

Samantha Williams swallowed her own tongue and died on July 18th, 1982, shortly before the paramedics arrived at
3:07 a.m. An autopsy was performed for scientific purposes but its results have never been disclosed to the public;
records of the autopsy remain the property of the Montreal Neurological Institute. Rumors (reports from doctors
and nurses who overheard conversations but didn't see anything for themselves) claim that Sam's right hemisphere,
which should have been rendered virtually vegitative by years of isolated electric activity, in fact appeared to be
healthier than the left.

end

>>860012
You are God among men dear sir.
I thank you.

‘What is it? What do you want me to see? Do you have a vision for me?’.

The old lady laughed again. Her reply chilled me to the bone.

‘No. No more visions. I warned you he was coming back.’

Like every vision before, the mess in the pantry just seemed to evaporate. I took a moment to collect my thoughts. ‘No more visions? So it’s over. They must want me to report what happened to the police to open a new investigation. But when did the murderer come back?’

Then as quietly, but as surely as the whispers earlier in the night, the front door clicked open.

end

So ur with ur honey and yur making out wen the phone rigns. U anser it n the vioce is "wut r u doing wit my daughter?" U tell ur girl n she say "my dad is ded". THEN WHO WAS PHONE?

>>860103

GET THE FUCK OUT NAO

>>860103
well, that's it. way to go faggot

/thread

No my friends, we can fight this. we can rescue this thread from the clutches of newfaggotry that attempt to asphixiate it. It is worth to have another end and we can do it.

If you return to that orphanage, you will see it still continues to run. The orphans live in good care, health, and education. However, there is one room, that you sill see is boarded up, and far from enterable. If you ask what is behind it, you will be removed forcefully from the orphanage.
However, when no one's looking, if you place you're ear to the door, you will hear a low ominous growling sound, and if you listen for a bit, you will hear....

".....One.....more...."

fin

I once was seized by a fit of choking while brushing my teeth. I looked up, bleary-eyed to see my reflection was not in the mirror: at the same time, I felt an irresistible pull into it. I spread my arms as I was lifted off the floor and slammed into it (destroying the mirror in the process). I managed to grab the walls beside the mirror, but for one brief instant, I saw my reflection lying on the other side, twitching in the throes of death.

This is only the most violent of the many things that have occurred to me near mirrors.

On watch in Great Lakes RTC, I watched in the reflection on the glass in front of me as a sailor in the uniform of the 1940's walked up beside me to the watch station, looked at me, shrugged, and stood beside me. I said, "I have the watch tonight, shipmate, get some sleep", and he looked at me, surprised, then turned and walked up the stairs. Of course, I don't have to mention that when I turned to address him, I couldn't see him, do I?

I have seen a mouthless woman beckoning to me, figures behind me, hands clawing desperately at the frames of the mirror. I have looked up and seen myself: sometimes without a beard, sometimes with contacts, and a few times my left eye seems to have been lost to what appears to be a knife slash.

Awesome thread.

Hi there! I'm glad you are reading this. I really needed someone to know what really happened that day.

At the beginning it felt like sinking in an ocean of pure redness. Sticky, thick redness that clang to my skin and crushed the breath out of my chest. I fought with all my strenght, but the redness just slithered around my raving punches and kicks, mocking me as it oozed free from the grasp of my clutching hands. Staring on me malevolently with ever-shifting orbs of a darker red... blood red... blood.

I woke up with a start, panting and covered in sweat, sticky, thick sweat. No, I said to myself, it's over, it was just a dream. I chuckled with a relief that bordered in madness and wiped the sweaty hair off my forehead with my fingers. That's when I saw it, the blood in my fingers. Rather, in my hands. Hell, there was blood all the way up to the elbow. I stared at my blood covered arms in disbelief as a new horror dawned on me. “Oh God, please no”, I screamed in my mind as I slowly turned my head to my right. But yes, she was there, my lovely Joanna, or what was left of her, not lovely anymore. I stared in silence for what felt like hours, then silently I got up and stepped out to the balcony, looking down. 9 stories. It should be more than enough. “I’m sorry Joanna”, I thought as I fell, my clothes flapping in the cold air of the night as if in slow motion. “But now we'll be together. And whatever took hold of me won't hurt you or anyone ever again”. But, as my body crashes against the ground and the life leaves my body, I understand...I should've known better...

Anyway! By now you surely are wondering how I could’ve written this if I died. Well, my friend, the fact is that I didn't really write it and you are not really reading it. Maybe you'd like to wake up now. I apologize, that was a poor choice of words. You are definitely not gonna like it when you wake up, hehe. Farewell.

Hey OP, here's some hand-written scarypasta.

High-resolution picture is here: http://www.rumdesign.com/wrong/

You stand solemnly in the small dining room of your new house

It's been sixteen years since you've last moved. Of course, you would be reluctant to just pack up your bags and leave, but it couldn't be helped. So you're homesick. Big deal. But something puts you off about this house. Something you only noticed this very moment. It didn't appear discomforting when you were first saw it, but now it does. Oh yes, you don't like this house one bit.

The room is whitewashed; furnished with the fine antiques of your old house. There are two windows in the back right and back left corners, with an odd painting sitting between them. In the middle of this room lay the antique dining table, with seating for four, adorned with tablewear moved over from your last house. An elegant display-- nothing suspicious about it at all. To the left of the table sits a drawer. This drawer is very special to you...it was given to you as a present from your mother the week before she died. Atop that very drawer sits a small bonsai plant, some candles, and a collection of pictures of your mother. In the far right corner of the room is a cheap white radiator and your dog's watering dish. Odd then, that you wouldn't find your dog anywhere in this room...

...he stands behind you, quivering in fear.

He directs his gaze at the windows, then at the radiator, and then at the dresser, and finally at the table. He turns to run, but can't. He is too fiercely enthralled by the horror of this room. He then directs his attention to the painting between the windows. It is a simple painting of a long, winding street smack in the middle of an old, snowy town. But there's something wrong here. Just on the right-hand side of the road sits an odd reflection of light...

You hold your dog for a minute and follow his gaze about the room. Can you find what's wrong with this picture?

>>861541
>>861542
>>861545
>>861547
awesome

>>861907

Thank you, Black Fedora. It was in my stash and I thought it would be appropriate to use.

>>861888
lol

>>861547
creepy? that's hilarious

>>861888
>>High-resolution picture is here: http://www.rumdesign.com/wrong/

Fuck I hate those things. Whoever invented that shit should be buried with the ass hole that invented pop-ups.

>>861547
???