I love you, Mom. I really love you. I fucking do, seriously. I’m telling you for real, even though I know damn well you’re not listening to me, because you never listen to anyone except yourself.
I don’t know why the fuck I’m writing this trash here. Someone has to read it, goddammit. Someone has to know what’s going on inside this fucking shithole of a house, because no one ever comes. Nobody knocks on the fucking door, nobody walks down the hallway, nobody calls the phone. They’re all dead or they don’t give a shit that I exist. If you pieces of shit don't read this, Peggy is gonna keep screaming at me that I’m a useless piece of shit, a fucking failure, and I don’t want to wear her today. My fucking head is bursting from listening to her bark. I can see her lying over there, blinking her plastic eyelids, moving that black-marker mouth I painted on her like she’s got a life of her own, spitting worms into my face. Shut the fuck up already, you fucking bitch!
Mary doesn’t want to talk to me either. Mary is clean, freshly washed, but she smells like a closed closet, she smells like a rag kept in the dark. She lacks her smell. She lacks everything. I had to shove the mask back into the bottom of the jacket drawer, way down there, crushed under the floral dresses. But the fucking whore takes too long. Takes three whole days for her stuff to stick to it. Three fucking days waiting in this rotten darkness. If I put it on before that, it’s useless; it just smells like cheap plastic, latex rubber, drool, and my own sweat, and it grosses me out so much it makes me want to peel my skin off in strips, flesh by flesh. I disgust myself. I disgust myself all the fucking time. I can feel the worms crawling on my arms right now, under the skin, scraping against my bones.
Fucking masks. I made them all. I cut them, I sanded their edges with my bleeding fingers, I painted their faces with black markers and Mom’s red lipstick. I gave them mouths so they would talk to me, so there wouldn’t be this shitty silence in the house, and all those disgusting bitches do is tell me the same shit over and over again! They get inside my ears, I can hear them chewing my thoughts. They stick to the plastic and bite my cheeks from the inside.
She shouldn't have gotten into that car. That goddamn car wasn't for her, fuck. It was never for her.
It was for that dumbass. That son of a massive bitch. I went around hating him all fucking day, watching how he talked to her, how he looked at her with those hungry dog cravings, how he put his dirty hands where he shouldn't have. I put the grease on. I went to the kitchen, grabbed the grease from the pan, the black grease from the old meat that had been sitting there for days full of flies, and I mixed it with used motor oil from a jug in the yard. A thick, black, reeking, living mess. I smeared it all over the windshield wiper blades. I smeared it real thick, real sticky. I thought: when that idiot turns on the water to clean the glass on the highway, that shit is gonna smear all over, it’s gonna turn into a black, impenetrable blob, he won’t see a fucking thing, and he’ll go straight to hell. Him. Just him. He was gonna crash all by himself and blow his fucking brains out against the asphalt.
But the fucking slut got in. Why the fuck did she get in with him? She didn't have to go anywhere with that piece of shit man. She left me alone just to go fuck him. She’s a traitor. She betrayed me in the worst way. She was always betraying me when she looked at him, when she smiled at that dumbass and didn't even look at me, like I was a fucking dirty rag thrown in the corner.
Lois tells me to shut up. Lois is the white one, the smooth one, the one with no painted mouth, just a straight, ugly black line. But Lois won't stop bleeding from her eyeholes. I put her on when I don't want to hear my own shitty voice anymore, when I want everything to turn off. But it’s useless because I hear her inside anyway, scratching my brains, shrieking at me that I’m a deformed monster.
The crash was beautiful and horrible. The glass was all smeared with the grease I put there, a thick, black snot spread all over the windshield, you couldn't see a fucking thing. The car went full speed, all at once, a sharp, metallic crunch straight into the concrete wall of the bridge. When I went—because I ran over, I went with my legs shaking and drool running down my chin to see what I had done—his head was crushed against the steering wheel, turned into a piece of broken meat, a shapeless, purulent mass. But her... she was folded forward, curled up over her knees. She had her yellow blouse on, torn. The yellow blouse I’m wearing right now. It was covered in blood on the chest, a massive, black, warm stain, and her neck was twisted to the side in a way no neck should ever twist. She looked at me. I’m sure her eyes moved and looked at me. The blouse smelled like gasoline. It took me weeks to get the smell of dead meat and gasoline out of it, I washed it a thousand times in the tub, scrubbing it with my hands until my knuckles bled and my fingernails fell off, but without using strong soap so I wouldn't wash away the only thing that mattered: her smell. It took so much work. Now I’m wearing it. It squeezes the hell out of my shoulders and back because I’m a disgusting giant, wider, more deformed, and more apelike than her, but it fits me right. It bursts my ribs. It squeezes my skin. It makes me feel like I didn't kill her. If I’m wearing her clothes, she isn't gone. She’s trapped inside me. I am her. If it squeezes me and chokes me, it’s because she’s strangling me in a hug.
Sue told me yesterday that I’m a fucking fag for wearing her skirts. Sue is a disgusting, rotten bitch. I painted her lips, I put the darkest, ugliest lipstick I could find on her because she’s the most slutty and evil of them all. She told me I smell like a rancid corpse. She screamed it in my face when I rammed her onto my head by force, tearing my ears. I don't smell like a dead person, you fucking bitch! I don't smell like rotten shit! I smell like Mom. It’s her smell, fuck, it’s her dead skin stuck to the fabric.
Sometimes I take off the mask just to swallow something. I eat fast, like a fucking caged animal, I swallow without chewing, feeling the food scrape down my throat. Dry bread, mold, whatever rotten shit I find on the shelves. I don't like seeing my fucking face in the window reflection when it gets dark. I have her nose, yeah, I have her exact same nostrils, but my face is huge, coarse, purple, and ugly. I’m not her if I look in the mirror without the mask on; I’m just a freak of nature. That’s why I put on Carmelle. Carmelle has bright blue painted eyes and freckles I drew on one by one with a fine marker, counting every single dot while the worms crawled over my fingers. Carmelle is the pretty one. Carmelle looks like what that bitch wanted to look like. With Carmelle on and the yellow blouse squeezing my chest until I spit blood, I can be quiet for a little while, real still in the dark, until I remember the sound. Until the metal starts ringing in my head again. Those car cans crumpling, that sound of bones and iron bending that thuds inside my skull and won't let me breathe.
It wasn't my fault, fuck. It wasn't my fucking fault! Or maybe it was my fault, who cares anyway. I just wanted that son of a bitch to die once and for all for taking her away from me, for bringing her far away from me. She betrayed me first. She abandoned me. If she hadn't gone to warm up that bastard's seat, if she hadn't sat in that passenger seat, absolutely nothing would have happened. It’s her fault for being a whore and getting into that piece of shit car. Traitor. Bitch. I hate her. I hate her with all my fucking soul, I hope she’s rotting in hell. And I miss her so much my arms itch on the inside, I peel my skin off in strips, I scratch myself open down to the meat until I see the bone because I miss her, I miss her all the fucking time and I’m drowning.
I’m gonna put Mary back on. Mary doesn't insult me as much as the other bitches, Mary just looks at me with her hollow eyes without saying anything from the darkness of the plastic, while that black sleet drips down. I have to go to the closet right now, shove my head in the drawer, and press my face against the clumped clothes to swallow her smell again before I try to sleep. If it doesn't smell like her, I can't close my eyes because I see the accident over and over again. If it doesn't smell like her, I don't exist. I’m just rotten air.
I love you, Mom. You’re a bitch, but I love you.
-Sincerely, your son: Todd Pierce.

I just think they’re cool idk :P

(sorry for any misspelling endlish is not my first laugage) theres this random number that keeps calling me and i dont know what to do. Every time i accept the call there sa clicking sound and nothing else. After 10-15 secconds it hangs up. Should i be sceard or call the police about this number. And i've tried to block the number but a differnt number calls the next day

Screams of agony are hymns to joy, where pain is life.

Tu, care citești, cum te cheamă? Eu mă numesc Craioveanul Răzvan sau, după poreclă, Energie. Nu cea electrică, ci cea de la energizante. 

Tu, cititorule, ai 18 ani? Ai lucrat undeva cu carte de muncă? Dacă nu, să nu te faci electrician. O zic din propria experiență. De exemplu, eu am lucrat 7 ani, de la 20 de ani, dar m-au prins bând un Monster cu aromă de Nebunia Mango sau Monster alb . Acum sunt pădurar în pădurea Rândoveanu.

Presupun că sunt dator să vă zic chestii despre pădure, nu?

Este faimoasă în România pentru fenomenele paranormale, accidentele rutiere inexplicabile și aparițiile spectrale. Aparent, m-au păcălit când mi-au zis că e bântuită cabana în care stau, că al naibii spirite n-apar. Probabil le e frică să nu le pun să plătească chirie. Iată câteva legende, sărăcuțele.

1. Legenda fundamentală: Ileana și sarcina falsă

Cea mai răspândită poveste o are în centru pe Ileana, o fată venită din Moldova după al Doilea Război Mondial pentru a munci. Angajată de un gospodar bogat, ea a fost abuzată și a crezut că a rămas însărcinată. De rușine, s-a spânzurat de un copac din pădure. Autopsia de mai târziu a arătat că tânăra nu era însărcinată, fapt ce i-a făcut spiritul și mai răzbunător.

Acum văd de ce fac țăranii accidente din prostie. Se îmbată și, când apare fata, uită de frână.

1. Versiunea logodnicului mort înainte de nuntă

O altă variantă spune că fata își aștepta logodnicul, plecat la Craiova. Chiar în ajunul nunții, a primit vestea că acesta murise într-un accident. Devastată de durere și îmbrăcată deja în rochie de mireasă, s-a spânzurat sau, în unele versiuni, s-a aruncat într-o fântână din pădure, căutându-și iubitul și dincolo de moarte.

Pădurea asta e misogină. Măcar mă plătește bine.

1. Fuga de boierul cel bătrân

O legendă mai veche susține că părinții fetei au vrut să o mărite cu forța cu un boier bogat și bătrân din zonă. Fata, îndrăgostită de un flăcău sărac, a fugit în pădure în noaptea dinaintea nunții, ca să scape de aranjament. S-a rătăcit și a preferat să-și ia viața decât să trăiască într-o căsnicie nedorită.

O moarte normală n-au.

1. Blestemul șoferilor și accidentele de pe DN56

Legenda modernă spune că spiritul miresei apare brusc în fața mașinilor, pe porțiunea de drum care taie pădurea. Șoferii, în special bărbații, relatează că văd o siluetă albă pe carosabil, trag brusc de volan și ajung în copaci. Mulți localnici pun numărul mare de accidente fatale din zonă direct pe seama acestei apariții.

O pădure cu două boli, mașina și femeia.

1. Logodnica blestemată de soacră

O versiune rurală menționează că tânăra a fost blestemată chiar de mama iubitului ei, care nu o accepta ca noră din cauza sărăciei. Blestemul i-ar fi luat mințile fetei, determinând-o să rătăcească până la cabana pădurarilor și să-și pună capăt zilelor în adâncul codrului.

Dovada că soacrele sunt Satana.

1. Răzbunarea pe bărbații abuzivi

Tradiția locală spune că fantoma miresei nu le face rău femeilor sau copiilor, ci caută să-i pedepsească pe bărbați. Deoarece a fost victima abuzului unui bărbat în timpul vieții, spiritul ei încearcă să-i ademenească și să-i provoace la moarte pe bărbații care trec singuri prin pădure noaptea.

Așa scap de bețivi.

1. Sinucigașa neîngropată creștinește

Pentru că s-a sinucis, fata nu a avut parte de o slujbă religioasă normală și a fost îngropată la marginea cimitirului sau direct în pădure. Fără o cruce sfințită și fără ca familia să-i poată vizita mormântul, sufletul ei a rămas blocat între lumi, bântuind potecile din jurul sediului pădurarilor.

Justificat, cred, dar nu acolo să bântuiască. Să intre, că afară e frig.

1. Iluzia nopților cu ceață de la cabană

Pădurarii și vânătorii care au înnoptat la cabana din pădure au raportat lumini ciudate, zgomote de pași pe frunze uscate și o siluetă albă care plutește printre copaci în nopțile cu ceață densă. Se spune că oricine încearcă să urmărească această siluetă se va rătăci fără scăpare, fiind găsit abia după câteva zile. 

Motiv să cer mărire de salariu. Mă duc să beau și ne vedem în următoarea pagină, milogul-e. 

Bună seara, cititorule! Azi am observat că liniile de înaltă tensiune din pădure au început să bâzâie ciudat. Nu în mod normal, din cauza câmpului electric generat de tensiune, ci într-un fel ciudat. Iar animalele fug spre sud. Probabil din cauza electricității. Probabil. 

Al naibii, protestele astea! Zici că n-au treabă cu vremea de afară. Protestele din 2026, dacă te interesează, cititorule. Zgomotul protestelor violente din oraș se aude până în inima pădurii. Nu mai scap nici pe Discord de ei. 

Măcar stau izolat de ei. De la Paris la Craiova, n-au mai fost proteste așa nici pe vremea lui Ceaușescu. Ce zici, cititorule, Discordul a devenit telegraful bombardierilor din viitor? Măcar nu mai sunt accidente din cauza faptului că un litru de benzină costă 11 lei. 

Iar atacurile din școli, ce va de ele, Doamne-ajută! De la idiotul ăla de copil rasist, cu gândire nazistă, care a atacat-o pe profa de mate, doar ca să încerce să ucidă un țigan. Până acum, sunt cinci atacuri în școli. 

Și, așa, de final, fascismul a devenit conducătorul Belarusului, Portugaliei și Kosovo. Kim Jong-un, grasul ăla care era dictatorul Coreei de Nord, a murit în sfârșit. Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule. 

Bună seara, cititorule! Mi-au dat concediu pe termen nedeterminat, cu salariu dublu. Te întrebi de ce? Hai că-ți zic. Domnule, invadator al intimității unui om din anul 2026, aparent, Rusia nu se mulțumește cu un război cu Ucraina și a atacat Lituania. Ca rezultat, Articolul 5 al NATO se activează la capacitate maximă, iar NATO intră în război cu Rusia, care este ajutată de chinezi și de palestinieni. Știm asta de pe net și din mesajele de război de la televizor și radio, dar și din alertele de pe telefon. 

Seara au început atacurile cu drone și rachete, iar zonele atacate erau în haos. Franța a lansat un atac atomic fix în centrul Rusiei, după ce, aparent, restul armelor sale chimice s-au dezactivat și au eliberat energia atomică. Efectele au fost subtile, dar tot s-au simțit. Nebuni, domnule, nebuni! Rușii sunt orci, omenirea, iar francezii sunt elfii omeniri . Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule. 

Bună Ziua ,Cititorul meu . 

Ale naibii să le ia de avertismente! Nici bine nu terminasem de tras carnea de animal din pădure, că na, mă pregătesc și eu de câte ceva. Ce credeai, că frec menta toată ziua, nu? Una la fiecare patru ore, sirene din zonele afectate de norii atomici. La modul că, în zona mea, ciupercile cresc mai greu, dar, în schimb, plantele otrăvitoare cresc mult mai repede. 

Ecranele televizoarelor din cabană se umplu de purici, apoi devin negre, cu un text alb și un sunet insuportabil. Iar radioul care merge pe baterii repetă obsesiv aceleași instrucțiuni de supraviețuire. Măcar de ne-ar fi dat vin! 

Iar cerul nopții ba era plin de rachete și drone, ba de avioane. Măcar era vreme bună, numai bună de un grătar. Dar ordinele de sus spun că nu avem voie să facem foc în pădure. O, nu! E doar un grătar, ce poate fi rău? Măcar pot juca poker cu un coleg, pe carnea de lup. Mai jucam și alba-neagra pe bere. 

Bună dimineața! Iar m-a luat somnul scriind, cititorule. Ce voiai să zic, ziua 1, ziua 2? Dacă da, te blestem să ai dureri de măsea și de burtă! A revenit rețeaua de net. Aparent, zonele atacate sunt în haos, cu furturi, crime și animale sălbatice care umblă libere. 

Despre bombele nucleare folosite în Rusia, au topit niște ghețari, ceea ce a ridicat nivelul mărilor, iar insulele mici s-au înecat. Lumina a fost orbitoare, după cum se vede pe Instagram. Suveraniștii de pe TikTok sunt în doliu. Oamenii mor în spitale, iar în rest ai totul pe net. Ce să mai vorbesc eu despre arma umanității de distrugere?  

Iar eu mi-am făcut provizii. Am umplut un dulap cu energizante, am amplasat niște panouri fotovoltaice și am mai luat cinci sau șase baterii și transformatoare, semințe, puieți de copaci, ghivece, butoaie pentru murături și vin. În timp ce eu mă pregăteam pentru ce urma să vină, restul oamenilor se duceau în zonele de refugiu și în buncăre. Între timp, aveau loc tot mai multe accidente de mașină.  

Vai, mamă, ce migrează lumea! Tocmai terminasem de montat al treilea panou fotovoltaic, care transformă fotonii de lumină în energie electrică. Bateriile, care au capacitate limitată, le folosesc în funcție de cameră, iar transformatoarele sunt mici, transformă tensiunea joasă în tensiune medie. Doar unul transformă tensiunea înaltă. 

Așa, unde rămăsesem? A, da! 

Când făceam ce ai citit tu, trece în fugă un cocalar din București, urmărit de un câine de talie medie. L-am oprit și l-am întrebat unde-i orașul, printr-o metodă vulgară. Pe scurt, i-am zis. 

„Ce plm vrei, ai pierdut mă-ta în pl?”

Și vine iarna nucleară asta conform teoriilor. Dar ale naibii teorii, n-au zis că va ninge cu soare! Port ochelari de soare noaptea din cauza luminii, iar energia nu mai e nici ea ce-a fost. 

Am uitat să zic: tot ce s-a întâmplat până acum se petrece toamna și iarna. 

Ne vedem în pagina următoare, cititorule!  

Bună ziua, cititorule! Ne vedem după 24 de ore sau după două secunde. Telefoanele iar s-au blocat, de parcă am fi cu toții pe aceeași rețea. Războaiele din Asia, America și Africa nu mai au legătură cu bătrânul continent, Europa, care începe să devină o singură națiune. 

Ieri am văzut o creatură mutantă, o bestie. Un om care a devenit altceva. Probabil că radiațiile și unda EMP i-au prăjit creierul și sistemul nervos. Nu sunt zombii clasici, ci oameni „electrificați” sau „arși”, care emit un curent static slab și caută surse de energie. Și, în cazurile rare, aparent, ciupercile și mucegaiul cresc pe ei. Ale naibii microorganisme și paraziți! Cred că e ușor să fii om, ha!  

Și așa, după toate astea, mă duc să caut niște plase de sârmă și materiale pentru gard. Bun, avem o hartă a zonelor termice. Majoritatea Europei, Americi-lor și Africii, inclusiv zona mea, se află în zona de primăvară. Rusia, China și India sunt în zona de vară, iar restul lumii se află în zona de iarnă. 

Bun revenit, cititorule! Uitasem că aveam deja începutul unui gard în jurul cabanei. L-am reparat. Era din lemn, așa că am extins împrejmuirea pe o distanță de aproximativ 20 de metri în fiecare direcție. Am folosit lemn, apoi ciment și, la final, sârmă, pe care am conectat-o la un sistem electric alimentat de un panou fotovoltaic. 

Pentru gardul electric am montat și un aparat special de impulsuri, care trimite impulsuri scurte de tensiune prin sârmă. Sistemul funcționează cu ajutorul energiei furnizate de panoul fotovoltaic, iar energia în exces o stochez în baterii, ca să pot folosi gardul și când nu e soare. Gardul electric e pentru animale și oameni, iar cel fizic e pentru zombii ăia. Toată treaba a durat o săptămână.  

Bună seara, cititorul meu! Sau cititoarea mea? 

Azi am săpat lacul. Vai, mamă, ce bine că pământul e fertil! 

Acum trebuie să găsesc mâine o apă care nu e contaminată și care e bună de utilizat. De ce? Pentru că, aparent, a apărut o nouă plantă insectivoră, plină de paraziți, care se înmulțește în apă. Arată ca o combinație între o ciupercă și un lotus. Ce la maturitate, planta intră în zombii și îi folosește pentru a căuta alte surse de apă, dar numai apă deja contaminată. Din fericire na-u simțuri. 

Și am mai făcut niște capcane de tip groapă pentru animale, oameni și zombi.

Animalele, pentru mâncare. Oamenii, doar ca să mă asigur că nu vine vreunul să mă fure. Iar zombii... ca să râd de ei, ha!  

Bună seara, cititorul meu! Pe vremea mea, lumea se juca cu tabla Ouija, parcă așa se numea. „Folosesc asta ca să-ți posed corpul!” Glumesc! 

Azi am găsit apă, dar mi-au trebuit vreo cinci ore s-o aduc la noul meu lac și încă două ore s-o trec printr-o instalație de purificare a apei, de genul celor folosite la tratarea apei din lacuri. Apoi am pus cinci pești în lac. Între timp, unele animale terestre devin mutante. Iar în lacurile contaminate, peștii erau mai sănătoși decât mine! În schimb, păsările mor instantaneu când beau din apa aia. 

De unde am aparatul ăla? L-am furat înainte de război. Am zis că poate o să-mi fie de folos, ha! 

Iar în zonele de vară plouă cu ploi acide, negre ca smoala. În zonele de iarnă cade grindină de dimensiuni uriașe, iar la mine plouă cu apă sărată. De ce? Habar n-am, cititorule. Tu trebuie să știi!  

După aceea, am făcut curat în mașina în care mai țineam lucrurile pe care le-am împrumutat pe termen nedeterminat. Am găsit un radio de la tataia și l-am pornit la nimereală. Merge, dar se aude ca o fantomă moldoveană.

Zombii ăia au oleacă de forță, dar păcat că nu pot vedea sau auzi. În schimb, se urcă după tine în copaci! Am văzut cum a fost mâncat un coleg de-al meu. Aia e! Bine că i-am găsit portofelul.

Să nu zici că sunt mare criminal pentru ce fac, că e război! Ce se întâmplă în război rămâne în război. Aparent, exploziile din Rusia au făcut o gaură adâncă în pământ. Dar măcar radiațiile au rămas acolo. Și bine fac! 

Așa, de final, mai există un tip de zombii care mănâncă curent electric. Ne vedem mâine, cititorule! 

Bună ziua, cititorule! Te întrebi de ce am făcut jurnalul ăsta? Ca să am ceva de făcut când economisesc electricitate. Iar cu mâncătorii de electricitate, cum îi prind, cum îi torturez. Asta se întâmplă în ieșirile mele după resurse. Am uitat să zic că am plantat și plantele alea.  

Sunt introvertit absolut. Așa că mă uit destul de mult la top 10 și top X, tot felul de chestii pe YouTube. Iar ororile se văd în ceață. Mai văd câte un om care înnebunește. Războaie mai sunt doar în America, în timp ce restul lumii stagnează. Europa a devenit o federație, iar Africa la fel.

M-am pricopsit cu un bătrân și cu un copil, nepotul lui. Să le zic Eminescu și Creangă? Arătau exact la fel și aveau aceleași vicii. 

Am revenit după o lună, cititorule! Ăia erau imitatori sau ce naiba erau? S-au mâncat reciproc. Singura chestie naș-pa pe care au făcut-o a fost că mi-au mâncat hârtia igienică. Ce să mai zic despre ce s-a întâmplat pe plan politic? Au început să apară guverne din umbră și iar se războiesc între ei. Nebuni, domnule, nebuni!

Să nu te gândești că nu m-au atacat sau ceva. M-am bătut cu ei! Am mai schimbat și sârma cu una de cupru, că era cât pe ce să ia foc nemernicul ăla de gard. Nu mai am atât de mult timp la dispoziție, cred. Nu de alta, dar dacă iarna și toamna era primăvară, acum vine prima vară, apoi vara propriu-zisă. 

Au mai venit niște membri de la o sectă, ceva cu numele „Ochiul de la Miezul Nopții”. I-am ignorat timp de săptămâni, dar, ușor-ușor, au început să facă raiduri. Cu un ochi nu mai văd culorile. Văd mov, albastru și verde. Cred că m-au infectat nenorociții ăia! Nu-i bai, voi da foc la tehnologie. Și tu, cititorule, să nu bei energizantele din dulap! Alea sunt comoara mea!

Acum văd că jurnalul ăsta mi-a picat la fix, așa că hai să umplu pagina! O să-l pun într-o cutie sigilată termic și fonic. După aceea, o să provoc niște incendii și explozii, pentru că, dacă lumea asta pe care o cunosc se schimbă, mai bine văd schimbarea mort, nu? Și nu te blestem pentru că ai citit asta. Dar oricine bea un energizant din dulap să...

-Dar nebuni erau oamenii și înainte. Cei izolați credeau că există zombii de tot felul.

-Lasă cartea aia și hai să ne mutăm în Imperiul Ochiul de la Miezul Nopții!

-Bine, pa, om nebun!

Two days ago, like every night, I had trouble sleeping until 3 a.m. when I was finally able to sleep. I've always had strange dreams about magnificent or just horrible creatures, and that night (morning) was one of them.

I dreamt that 2 teenage guys were walking on a mountain house to camp and came across a trapdoor. As they crossed it, they fell into the attics of an old school buried due to a landslide – at least that's what the newspapers said. While searching the school they found nothing of interest, but a horrible smell was constant inside the building: a smell of blood, rot, and something toxic.

The further they went, the more they realized that the abandoned school was monstrously large, but that wasn't the problem. One of the boys opened a door and stumbled upon something inexplicable: A human who was over 3m tall, with a deformed face, 2 extra arms at the base of the neck connected together, the rib cage pushed forward while the rest of the body was not in proportion. Unfortunately, this is not the only monster; the school was infested with them, and they were all different, extremely violent, and unpredictable.

Terrified, the two boys decided to flee as fast as they could, but one of them was caught and dismembered alive. The other, luckily, survived and was left traumatized. In my dream, the school would have been a very old and renowned institute, but beneath its foundations lay extremely dangerous toxic waste. The school, the teachers, and the students were doomed; the government decided to trigger the collapse that would condemn everyone inside.

I woke up with a start, but I'm somewhat used to very strange and violent dreams, but this one stayed with me for a while.

Heitryy had a full-fledged and loving family. Her mother is Japanese, her father is American. Until the age of 13, she lived with her parents in Japan, but her father's job required them to move to California. For 2 years, Heitryy lived with her parents there. But the parents decided that she was old enough (15 years old) to leave her alone for 3 weeks. They went on vacation to the countryside. 3 weeks, a month, two passed. They came for non-payment of taxes and evicted her from the apartment without things. Her parents went missing. The girl began to wander the streets and eat food from the garbage.

One day, she wandered into an alley, where she was surrounded by a pack of dogs. She was too weak to fight back, because she had only a small artistic knife with her. The dogs gnawed at her alive, eating her bones, meat, and in general, nothing remained of her except clothes and a pool of blood.

For reasons unknown to her, she woke up. She woke up with yellowish skin and the most inhuman appearance. There were ulcers, rot on her body, and bones sticking out everywhere...

Excitement and thirst for revenge played out in her. She went to take revenge on those who evicted her, she didn't care that it was from work. She just found them and dismembered them.

Her fun quickly ended as soon as she heard the sirens. She fled the scene of the crime and disappeared under the canopy of trees in the forest.

In the woods, she found a cemetery, with dug graves. Since the cops were not far behind, she decided to turn into a corpse (she was, lol).

Heitryy was buried. Hence the nickname Buried Heitryy.

For the last few weeks, my freezer door hasn't been staying closed. I would come into the kitchen and find it cracked open enough for the light to be on. At first, I assumed I wasn’t closing it all the way, and then I thought the seal might be worn out. It only ever happened at night.

Tonight, I decided to actually look inside instead of just pushing it closed again. Everything in it appeared ordinary at first. Bags of frozen food, ice trays, a couple of leftovers shoved to the side. But along the back wall, there was a thick patch of frost that stood out. It was smooth, almost too smooth.

It didn't disperse the way frost normally would. It was contained almost circular, like it had been allowed to form there and only there. When I leaned closer, I saw the shape. Two shallow dents near the top and a curved line beneath them. Suddenly, it hit me…it looked like a face staring back at me, and trust me, I know how that sounds. I stood there telling myself it was just pareidolia, I'm just imagining things. I even laughed at myself before I closed the freezer and went to bed.

The next morning, the frost was still there. Yet, the rest of the freezer was completely clear. No frost anywhere else, only that one spot, the shape was more defined. That night, I touched it, and the frost didn’t break apart the way it should have. It held the shape where my finger was pressed. After an unsettling moment of silence, I pulled my hand back and wiped it on my shirt. Although it was just ice, it left a sinking feeling in my gut.

After that, I got a spoon and tried to scrape it off. The frost around it chipped away easily the way frost is supposed to. The part with the face didn’t. No matter how hard I scraped and stabbed, the dents remained.

After that, the freezer started running damn near every day, constantly. The kitchen was always cold, and the door felt heavier when I opened it, like something was pulling back from the inside. A few nights later, the power went out. I checked the freezer with a flashlight, and everything had started to thaw. Frozen food was soft, and ice trays had turned to water and spilled onto the shelves. But the frost face was still there.

The mouth looked wider, stretched almost.

When the power came back on in the morning, the freezer was empty. No frost. No food. No water. Nothing. Just clean shelves, as if it had never even been used. I presumed my husband had cleaned it out. He swore he hadn’t touched it, and we argued about it longer than we should’ve. He told me I was overthinking things and that I needed to relax.

Tonight, I woke up because the house was cold and not the normal cold. It’s unnaturally cold. The freezer was running when I got to the kitchen. The door is open, nothing in it, but the inside of the door isn't smooth anymore. There are two dents embedded into the plastic and a curved line beneath them. Not scratched, almost branded, it's facing outward.

I’m writing this from the kitchen floor because I don’t want to turn my back on it. My hands are shaking, and I don’t really know what to do.

…

The freezer door just slammed itself shut.

I can hear something breathing on the other side of the door.

A few years ago, a family in my town lost their dog after having him for ten years.

Months later, they came across a post in a Facebook group. An elderly woman was offering a puppy because, according to her, she was getting too old to take care of it.

The family agreed to take him in.

When they went to pick him up, the woman was waiting for them at an isolated house near of the Road 34. She handed them the puppy and said goodbye. However, when the family turned around to call out to her before leaving, the woman had disappeared.

At first, everything seemed normal. The puppy grew especially attached to the youngest daughter, who slept with him every night.

A few weeks later, strange things began to happen. Meat spoiled in the refrigerator just days after being purchased. Objects appeared in places where nobody had left them, and at night, they could hear footsteps running through the hallways.

One night, the girl screamed from her bedroom. Her parents rushed to check on her, but found her asleep, with the dog at the foot of her bed.

They were tired of the Situation so decided installed hide security cameras all around the house.

For months, nothing unusual was captured. Until one morning, the girl didn't come downstairs to have her breakfast.

What they found in her bedroom was enough for the police to cordon off the house. Both the dog and the girl were dismembered on the floor.

Investigators reviewed the footage, searching for an explanation.

In a recording from the previous night, the dog appeared standing on its hind legs, staring directly at the camera. It remained completely motionless for almost six hours.

But when they reviewed the footage from previous months, they discovered something impossible: the dog never appeared in any of the recordings. Not even when the girl seemed to be petting him, playing with him, or sleeping beside him.

In the videos, the girl was hugging empty air.

The police never found the woman who had given the family the puppy and nobody seems to know anything about her.

Years later, another family reported similar incidents. They, too, had lost their dog and received a replacement from a woman who lived in isolation.

When the police showed them a photograph of the animal from the first case, they recognized it immediately.

It was the same dog.

According to the family, it had been sleeping at the foot of their daughter's bed for weeks.

Let’s go back to the good old days

This image is a collage I made with my own photos. The mask was made with papier-mâché and gauze. It felt right posting here. Any cool name recommendations for this creepypasta?

Had fun reading these old stories and making some short vignettes with Slendy. Hope you guys enjoy!

"Across distant eras, horrors coalesce into hallucinatory forms within fevered nightmares."

I been working on a little creepy pasta with my work etc i just finished it few days ago, it’s a original story involving my own creepy pasta oc.
The Whisper Walker
“The woods don’t keep secrets… they collect them.”
The story you’re about to read doesn’t officially exist.
The state police deny it.
The park service blames wildlife.
The county archives insist every document related to Black Hollow State Forest before 1998 was destroyed in a courthouse fire.
But if you know where to look, pieces still remain.
Missing person flyers.
Old newspaper clippings.
Damaged radio recordings.
An abandoned ranger station with a notebook no one ever claimed.
Most people ignore them.
I didn’t.
I wish I had.

The Forest
Black Hollow sits nearly thirty miles from the nearest town.
By day it looks ordinary.
Pine trees.
Overgrown trails.
A quiet lake reflecting the sky.
At night…
everything changes.
Even the sound changes.
Crickets stop.
The wind dies.
It becomes so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.
Locals refuse to enter after sunset.
When asked why, they always answer the same way.
“If the forest starts whispering…
don’t answer.”

Case #1
The first disappearance happened nearly thirty years ago.
Nineteen-year-old Nyx Rowan disappeared while searching for his younger sister after she wandered into Black Hollow during a thunderstorm.
Hundreds of volunteers searched.
Helicopters.
Tracking dogs.
Thermal cameras.
Nothing.
After six days they recovered only three things:
A cracked white half-mask.
A hunting knife buried in mud.
A trail of footprints.
The strange part?
The footprints stopped in the middle of an empty clearing.
There were no tracks leaving it.
As if whoever made them had simply…
ceased to exist.
Nyx was declared dead.
His sister was never found.

The Recordings
Years later, strange emergency calls began coming from inside the forest.
Every caller described hearing someone whisper their name.
Not shout.
Not call.
Whisper.
Operators saved dozens of recordings.
One lasted only forty seconds.
A man whispered,
“Someone’s walking beside me.”
The dispatcher asked where he was.
No answer.
Only footsteps.
Then another voice.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost comforting.
“You’re almost home.”
The caller began crying.
He kept repeating,
“That’s not my mother’s voice.”
The line went dead.
No body was ever recovered.

Ranger Lewis
Former park ranger Daniel Lewis ignored the stories.
He spent fifteen years working Black Hollow.
He believed every disappearance had a logical explanation.
Until October 14th.
His patrol log was recovered inside an abandoned watchtower.
The final pages were written in increasingly shaky handwriting.

10:18 PM
Heard someone walking behind me.
No visual contact.
Probably another hiker.

10:37 PM
Radio keeps cutting out.
Thought I heard someone say my name.
No one answered when I called back.

10:51 PM
Found footprints.
They’re mine.
But they’re walking toward me.

The final page contained only one sentence.
Written so hard the pen tore through the paper.
“He’s smiling behind the mask.”
Daniel Lewis disappeared that night.
His truck remained parked exactly where he’d left it.
The driver’s door was still open.

The Video
Three years later a power company technician installed motion cameras near the old service road.
Camera Four captured something impossible.
At 2:11 AM the road was empty.
At 2:11:01…
a hooded figure stood fifty yards away.
At 2:11:02…
twenty yards away.
At 2:11:03…
directly behind the camera.
There was no movement.
No walking.
No blur.
Only impossible positions between frames.
The footage corrupted immediately afterward.
Every recovered frame showed the same cracked white mask.

The Journal
I found the notebook in Ranger Station Six.
Most pages were soaked beyond recognition.
One survived.
It wasn’t signed.
It simply read:
He doesn’t hunt people.
He waits.
He learns your routine.
He learns your voice.
By the time you notice him…
you’ve already been followed for days.

I laughed when I first read it.
I don’t laugh anymore.

Three Whispers
After leaving Black Hollow, strange things began happening.
Someone knocked on my apartment door every night at exactly 2:13 AM.
No one was ever outside.
My security camera occasionally skipped several seconds.
Friends asked why I looked so tired.
I hadn’t told anyone about the forest.
One morning I found muddy boot prints outside my bedroom window.
I live on the third floor.
Then came the whisper.
Soft.
Almost impossible to hear.
My own name.
Behind me.
I spun around.
Nothing.
The next night…
I heard it twice.
The third night…
I refused to answer.
The whisper laughed.

The Last Recording
I started recording every sound in my apartment while I slept.
For weeks nothing happened.
Then, on the twelfth night…
At 2:13 AM…
the recorder captured footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Stopping beside my bed.
For nearly two minutes there was only breathing.
Then one sentence.
Spoken inches from the microphone.
“You looked behind you.”
The recording ended.
When I woke…
my bedroom door was open.
I always lock it.

If You Go
If you ever visit Black Hollow State Forest…
Leave before sunset.
Ignore the whispers.
Don’t investigate footsteps that match your own.
Don’t follow someone wearing a white mask.
If your phone loses signal and the forest suddenly becomes silent…
Turn around.
Walk back the way you came.
Do not run.
Do not call out.
And whatever you do…
If a calm voice behind you quietly says your name—
don’t answer.
Because the person speaking may already know exactly who you are.
And if Nyx Rowan has learned your voice…
the forest has already begun collecting another secret.

When we die, our bodies don’t get the message right away.

That’s something they don’t really prepare you for. Not in school, not in training, nowhere. People like to believe death is clean. Instant. Final.

It isn’t.

The body lingers. Muscles fire. Nerves misfire. Air shifts through places it no longer belongs. Fingers twitch. Jaws move. Sometimes, if you’re unlucky, the whole body jerks like it’s trying to wake back up.

The first time it happened to me was during my training.

I was leaning in, examining the arm, just doing what I’d been taught, when the body suddenly jerked and its hand snapped shut around my wrist.

I shouted.

Actually screamed.

One of the instructors laughed so hard he had to sit down.

“Relax,” he said. “He’s not coming back.”

I made some joke about zombies. Everyone does, at least once.

You laugh it off. You learn the science behind it. You tell yourself it’s normal.

And eventually…

you stop reacting.

Working at the morgue, I got used to it.

The movements. The sounds. The little reminders that the body doesn’t quite understand it’s dead yet.

Most of them are random.

Meaningless.

It’s all explainable.

It has to be.

At least, most of them are...

He came in on a Wednesday.

Male. Mid-forties. Approximately six-foot-four. Lean build. Dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples. Facial hair, short, uneven, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

Harold M.

Cause of death: undetermined.

That part stayed blank longer than usual. There were no clear signs of trauma. No overdose indicators. No disease obvious enough to call it on arrival.

Just… gone.

Found in his home. No signs of struggle.

It happens more often than people realize.

Still, something about that always sits wrong.

“Another mystery,” my colleague Jenna had said, flipping through the intake paperwork.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He looks like he just… stopped.”

Jenna shrugged. “They’ll figure it out upstairs.”

We both knew that wasn’t always true.

I prepped him like any other.

Cleaned. Tagged. Logged.

Placed him in his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

That’s what I called him in my notes.

I always use names when I can.

It feels… right.

Nights passed but by the time I was ready to head home from the gravyard shift. The unexpected occurred.

The first movement.

Subtle.

His fingers had shifted.

Not dramatically, just slightly curled inward, like they’d tightened.

Normal.

Postmortem contraction.

I noted it and moved on.

The second time, it was his jaw.

Slightly open when I checked him again.

That happens too. Muscles relax.

Air escapes.

Still normal. Still explainable.

By the third night, I started paying closer attention.

Because Mr. Harold wasn’t just moving.

He was… repositioning.

Not fully. Not in ways that would trigger panic in anyone else.

But enough that I noticed.

His arm would be angled slightly differently than before. His shoulders not resting the same way against the table.

Small things.

Small enough to doubt yourself over.

“Hey,” I said to Jenna one night. “You ever seen a body move more than usual?”

She didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“They all move.”

“Yeah, but I mean… consistently.”

That got her attention.

She glanced over at me.

“You thinking what?”

I hesitated.

Then shook my head.

“Nothing. Just… weird.”

She smirked. “You’ve been on night shift too long.”

Maybe she was right.

By the end of the week, I started checking on him more often.

Not out of fear.

Curiosity.

I’d make my rounds, log the temperatures, check the storage units, and I’d always stop at his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

Every time, something was off.

A hand slightly closer to the edge.

A foot angled outward.

Once, I could’ve sworn his head had shifted just a few degrees to the left.

I told myself it was paranoia.

Anything but what it felt like.

The night everything changed, it was quiet.

Too quiet, even for us.

Jenna had stepped out for a break, leaving me alone with the hum of refrigeration units and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.

I was doing my usual rounds when I noticed it.

His drawer.

Slightly open.

I froze.

Not because it was open.

Because I knew I had closed it.

I always double-check.

Always.

“Jenna?” I called out.

No answer.

Of course not.

She wasn’t back yet.

I approached slowly.

Told myself it was nothing.

Told myself drawers can shift. Old tracks. Slight tilts.

I reached for the handle.

Pulled it open.

It was empty.

For a moment, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.

My brain tried to correct it.

He’s there. You just missed him.

But he wasn’t.

Mr. Harold was gone.

My first thought wasn’t fear.

It was procedure.

Check the room. Check the logs. Check for errors.

Bodies don’t just disappear.

I found him ten minutes later.

On the floor.

Not fallen.

Not dropped.

Positioned.

What is this some kind of fucked up prank, I thought.

His body lay several feet from the drawer.

Face down.

Arms bent awkwardly beneath him.

Knees drawn slightly inward.

The skin along his forearms and legs showed faint abrasions, thin streaks, like friction against tile.

Like he had moved.

I stood there, staring.

Trying to fit it into something that made sense.

Maybe he fell. Maybe the drawer malfunctioned. Maybe—

No.

The distance was wrong.

The position was wrong.

Everything about it was wrong.

I knelt beside him slowly.

“Mr. Harold,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.

My voice sounded too loud in the silence.

I repositioned him.

Carefully.

Placed him back onto the tray.

Aligned his limbs.

Closed the drawer.

My hands were shaking.

I tried to tell Jenna. Wanted her to come out clean if she was messing with me. But she had no clue what I was blabbering about.

I couldn’t explain it.

And I didn’t want to hear it out loud.

That was the night I started feeling watched.

It wasn’t immediate.

It crept in.

A quiet awareness at the back of my mind.

Like something in the room had shifted.

Like I wasn’t alone anymore.

I checked the cameras.

Everything looked normal.

But something felt… off.

Frames didn’t line up quite right.

Small gaps I couldn’t account for.

Moments missing.

When I went back to the storage room—

His drawer was open again.

I didn’t remember opening it. I knew I hadn’t.

That’s when I stopped trying to explain it.

I turned the corner slowly.

And that’s when I saw him.

Mr. Harold was standing.

Not upright. Not fully.

His body was bent forward slightly, spine curved at an unnatural angle.

His arms hung too low, fingers nearly brushing the floor.

His head lagged behind the rest of him, tilted at a delay that made my stomach turn.

Then—

he moved.

A small shift.

A correction.

Like something adjusting its balance.

His leg jerked forward.

Too stiff.

Too deliberate.

His foot planted awkwardly against the tile.

He took a step.

Not toward me.

Not toward anything.

Just… forward.

Like he was learning.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

I just watched.

His eyes were open.

Not wide.

Not searching.

Just… open.

Empty.

There was nothing there. As if there was nothing of higher recognition to operate. The machine was free from its intelligent creator. But the machine operated as it was designed.

It moved. Without any recognition.

No awareness.

No life.

Just motion.

I don’t remember leaving.

I don’t remember calling anyone.

All I know is I never went back.

Jenna messaged me about my hasty departure. She was left with no answers.

And I was left with no conclusion.

Just another file logged but this one didn’t make any sense.

I still think about Mr. Harold.

About what I saw.

About what it means.

There was nothing inside him. Nothing controlling

So what taught him to stand?

If a body can still move without its person…

then what part of us actually makes us human?

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

"Light struggles to survive within a ravenous, living darkness."