In France, a young ambient musician by the name of Charles undertook an interesting new project. He was going to record the sound of himself sleeping, and release it under the name “La Nuit” (The Night). Charles lived alone in a rural area, which would remove things like car alarms, traffic, and such from being recorded. He planned his project for many months, acquiring the sensitive equipment to capture all outside noises as well as his own during sleep.

Finally, on the 27th of September, he decided to execute his plan. He set up all his equipment, and fell at sleep at midnight.

The next day Charles reviewed the recording. For the first hour, the recording played his own tossings and turnings as well as some distant dog barks and a few car alarms (So much for his plan to distance himself from cars). These continued throughout the 2nd hour as well, until Charles heard something that horrified him.

For at exactly 3 hours and 24 minutes in, the recording played the sound of his bedroom door opening.

While honeymooning in Maine, my wife and I stopped in the picturesque town of Boothbay on a particularly dreary and rainy day. Since our planned picnic was out of the question, we sought shelter in a dilapidated little antique store near the harbour. While my wife inspected the large chests and side tables near the door, I eagerly examined the antique tools and seafaring equipment inside the glbum sales counter at the back. Being a collector of optics and mariner’s instruments, I hoped to find a sextant, or perhaps an old leather-bound telescope.

A particularly interesting piece caught my eye. It appeared to be a heavy brbum flashlight, bearing a worn brown patina but remarkably modern in design. I asked the shopkeeper, but he could only tell me it was found in the same old sailor’s chest as several of the compbumes and the sextant also on display. He inquired as to whether I would like to purchase it for five dollars, or perhaps have it for free. “It’s worthless to me, nobody wants it.” When I remarked about the price, he sighed wearily, and then reached into the cabinet and retrieved it for me.

“Here, see for yerself, feller.”

The craftsmanship was wonderful, quite durable and apparently hand-made, perhaps somewhere in Europe. Worn lettering indicated it might be German, or perhaps Austrian in origin. I twisted the bulb housing and a weak red beam swept out. Poking it into a dark corner of the shop, I was greeted with fantastic monotone swirls, moving and entwining with each other like a pit of eels. As I stared further into this unusual projector-kaleidescope, my fanciful mind invented ghoulish faces and sinuous, gnarled tendrils. Shutting the device off, I turned excitedly to the shopkeeper.

“Fantastic!” I said. “It must have an oil filter of sorts in front of the lens! I have two Victorian kalediscopes, but none that are illuminated like this”

“You don’t get it, do you? Nobody gets it. They all come back to return it after a while.” The shopkeeper leaned on the counter and I could see that he was breathing heavily and perspiring. “They all think it’s some sort of trick… till they start seeing it when the light’s off.”

“That ain’t no projection, mister. That… damned thing, that light… it ain’t makin’ up those creatures. It’s just lettin’ your eyes see what’s already there.”

There are beings not of this world. They call themselves “The Sumi”. Now that you know – they also know of you.

During WW2, Nazi medium Maria Orsitsch made the first (recorded) successful telepathic contact with them. After years of communication at the behest of her SS superiors she was abruptly taken in 1945 and never seen or heard from since. It has become clear that they view us as little more than lab rats to be studied from afar through means unknown to us, possibly powerful psychic abilities or technology unheard of to date. Anyone who knows about them is now considered a threat to their “tests” and someone or something will be sent after you.

In less than a day, you’ll start experiencing the sensation of not being alone anymore, anywhere. As it gradually homes in on your location through time and space you’ll start to catch its reflection or see its blurred outline becoming gradually clearer over the course of a week. After that it’ll start making physical entry into our reality and in less than a month it’ll grab you and you’ll never be heard from or seen again.

I write this so that someone might find a way to stop them, if only as a last desperate act. God help us all!

You don’t know it, but someone has been removed from your life. They haven’t died, they haven’t moved, they have simply ceased to be from present future and history. However you still know they were there, you faintly recall broken memories of someone else there, someone who should have been there but you think you’re crazy. You go to do something, but you can’t remember what …

It was them, they wanted to talk to you.

allright this stuff is meme factory at best.

An unpopular young med. student had been particularly annoying one day and some of her clbummates decided to play a trick on her. They snuck into her room after she’d gone to bed and placed an amputated arm into bed with her. The next morning they anxiously awaited her reaction but got none. Eventually they went up to check on her and found her sitting on the bed, moaning and gurgling as she gnawed on the arm.

Every individual will make 16 choices in their lifetime that will forever alter the course of humanity. No more than 16, no less than 16. These choices will be small, and at the time of decision, will mean nothing. They won’t have to be choices which result in action, they could be choices that result in inaction. But months, years along the way, when the full impact of your decisions and the chain reaction of events they have caused are felt… you may have been the one who caused the end of the world. And you will never know.

Waiters and waitresses, I bring you fresh pasta, an hour old appetizer but a minute old meal.

I was driving to a man’s house (although he was just a college kid I’d met a few weeks back at a party) because he and I were going to go and shoot some pool and he needed a ride. Although I live in FL and have never seen the snow I imagine this took place in South Carolina (scenery + light snow). He lived in a wooded area and when I pulled up to his driveway I was surprised to see that he lived in what looked like an old grain silo that had been furbished (like Bam Margera’s house). The sun was setting and as I walked up to his front door I noticed that the gravel in his driveway was made out of coal.

Anyways, the guy opens the door and he’s of Vietnamese decent and he’s like “Oh hey thar [my name here] why don’t you come in while I get ready?” and “I’m like sure thing!” and as soon as I walk in I notice that there aren’t any lights on and that the place smells like garbage.

So the guy (I think his name was Tommy) tells me to go ahead and sit on the couch and that he’s gonna make some popcorn real quick because there is a movie that he wants me to see. His couch is one of them old cracked black leather ones and he’s got a small television set sitting on top of a VCR on the coffee table in front of it, so I shrug and pick up an old looking video tape that was on top of the tube and I pop it in.

At first it looks like home movies, the camera is focusing on the face of a very, very pretty blonde girl.

Well the blonde girl starts talking and while I don’t remember what she was saying I remember realizing pretty quickly that she was mentally very special, talkin’ about her big brother and stuff. The camera zooms in to the point of blurriness and then cuts off. When it cuts back in the same girl is there but she looks like she hasn’t showered in a while, she’s still talking like a retard, but she doesn’t look as happy as before.

“I’mmm nott sm-smart l-like Tommy s-s-s-so he’s gonna m-make me better” was one of the few lines I remember clearly. The camera goes up and down as though it were nodding and then cuts out again.

When it cuts back in the same girl is sitting on a bed (the entire sequence is in a bedroom) but the curtains are drawn. While it’s hard to make out any distinguishing features I could tell that the girl was starting to look really sick.

“Tommy, I don’t feel good” she said, and I remember thinking it was odd because she was losing her retard-accent. The camera was kind of shaking like the guy holding it was excited.

The camera guy flips the lights on or something because suddenly, well, the lights turn on and the girl throws her hands up in front of her eyes with a muffled yell. The camera guy steps up and pulls her hands away and zooms in on the girls eyes, I only saw them momentarily before it cut out but they looked like the whites were a pale yellow, like she had liver failure.

At this point it dawns on me that the timestamp in the corner of the film puts this at about three months ago, and that the curtains were the same curtains I had seen in the guest room coming in.

The film cuts back in and this time the girl is crying on the end of the bed while pulling out fistfuls of her pretty hair. With a heart-wrenching sob she looks at the camera and cries “Why are you doing this to me, Tommy?” and her mental retardation seems almost completely non-existent in her speech. A small hole has opened up in her left cheek and I think that I briefly saw her teeth through it. The girl goes back to pulling out bloodied clumps of her hair and the camera guy zooms in on the top of her head (she’s crouched over). the film cuts out.

At this point I’m starting to feel really nervous, but I’m afraid to move because I don’t hear him in the kitchen anymore but I know that if I turn around and leave hell be right behind me and at this point I am terrified of him.

The footage cuts back in and the girl has lost most of her hair, the wound on the side of her face has gotten to be about the size of an orange, and she’s laying in the bed under the sheet, but I can see where blood and a blackish-blue fluid are causing said sheet to stick to her still voluptuous figure. Her words are labored now, but she’s talking about growing up she always wished she could make her older brother Tommy proud of her. One eye flicks to the camera while the other eye stays staring straight at the ceiling,

“Tommy, please let me go, I won’t tell anybody, please.”

When there is no reply that eye slowly drifts back to stare at the ceiling with the other one. The timestamp in the corner reads about a week from the last entry (these are playing like video diaries). The next clips click on and I have to throw my hands up over my mouth to muffle my screams. Laying in the bed (which is disgusting looking now) is the most horrific mbum of flesh, teeth, hair, and appendages that long-since lost definition. The timestamp has it being about a week and a half from today. The camera guy speaks for the first time and in Tommy’s voice I hear “Cheryl, tell me how you feel.”

Somewhere in that horrific mess of Lovecraftian terror a mouth opens and a very clear and seductive female voice whispers “I feel beautiful”.

WTH Master Torll. THat was genuinely creepy Log in to see images!

This might be a little longer than most, but here goes. All of this is original, and written by yours truly.

“Yerunth Dominus Heteion Zynthum…” The coarse, burning words of a deceased tongue, a language of the purest, most perfect hatred and malice, poured from the putrefying, scabrous lips of the Gate Priest. The speech that would have seared a mortal’s mouth raw merely from its utterance continued to spew forth like the pus from a lanced boil.

“Retryx Xylontinaeitum De Helkitlytre Jul…” A new sound rang out, startlingly hale and healthy over the diseased, vile chant, which still perpetually underscored the new noises.

“Agghhh!! Let me GO! Ple-ple-pleeeaseee!” the new voice cried, before dissolving once again into pathetically helpless, panicked sobs. The second of the four putrescent Gate Priests dragged the astoundingly beautiful woman into the center of the chamber, her vibrantly blonde locks stained a malignant blood red from the guttering torches on the wall. She appeared all for the world as a brilliantly blooming bluebell in the midst of a stagnant mire, an outstandingly pure peonie in the center of a disgusting bog.

She had long since been stripped of her clothing, as well as her dignity and very nearly her sanity. The speech of the first Gate Priest was boring into her mind as a weevil bores into a nut. Within a matter of a few dozen seconds, crimson blood began dripping from her ears, turned ever more scarlet by the dim, flickering light from the sconces and braziers.

“Fedrikhens* Wevevrum! Ki Le Zaros A Lyentudrediut…” The wicked sin of language rose in pitch at the arrival of the Blessed One, the very last rite in the decades-long preparation for the ritual of rebirth and renewal that the Gate Priests had been spending the majority of their un-lives doing. The magnificently carved and bejeweled altar in the center of the circular room was long-since permanently blackened with the remnants of the earlier rites’ victims.

Though covered with brilliantly blue sapphires, verdant green emeralds, and diamonds of crystal clarity, every single gem adorning the altar looked as the ruby.

Struggling both with all her might and completely in futility, the unclothed maiden was forced onto the altar by the third of the Gate Priests, her purely translucent, pale white body cruelly chained to the stained, corrupted altar of sin. The fourth Gate Priest slowly drew a tattered and torn cloth off of yet another, smaller, altar, this one, however, even more filthy and stained than the larger.

The struggling maiden gasped as she quickly glanced at the table through her struggles. The altar, however, wasn’t the frightening part. The seven objects under the cloth were the cause of fright.

The first object was a simple, unadorned wooden mallet, scarred and cracked from obvious use. The second, third, fourth and fifth objects were all the same, and all clearly used. They were a series of six-inch long stakes, cruelly barbed and made of rusted iron.

The sixth and seventh objects were knives.

The first knife was small, almost a paring knife, without any adornment apart from the stains she fervently hoped were rust. The second knife, however, was different.

Even in the dark red light, it shone with a malevolent illumination, a glow seemingly without source. It veritably pulsed with loathing and malice. A gleam of red from seemingly no source ran up the half-foot long blade, carved with mysterious runes and symbols with no meaning she could decipher.

“Treyinde Kulken Zaros Rexenmator! Julre…” The chant gradually lost its solemnity, becoming more akin to the fevered rantings of a madman, the lunacy of possession. The harsh grating sound of the Gate Priest’s un-dead voice was like the noise of a dry bone being crushed to dust.

As two of the gate Priests began fastening shackles ‘round her wrists and ankles, the woman gasped, eyes widening in pain. Her sanguine lifeblood began a small rivulet down her arms and legs, brought forth by the four, inch long spikes fastened to the inside of each shackle, designed to prevent struggle. The rivulet coursed down until it met with the small trickle from her now-deafened ears, the evil speech long since having broken her ear drums.

As her resistance began to be quelled by the pain, the two Gate priests that had shackled her suddenly grabbed her shoulders and forced her down hard, suprisingly powerful rotting sinew locking her to the wood-and-stone altar. The Gate Priest who wasn’t chanting grabbed the small knife, the wooden mallet and the stakes, setting them beside the immobile girl.

Though she couldn’t hear, her vocal cords were still very functional, and she began yelling, a cry for help and a plea for survival coming from the most primal of instincts: the need for self-preservation.

The only Priest not holding her down grabbed the smaller knife with a seemingly practiced motion, one rotting digit stretched down the blunt of the blade for control. Beginning at her navel, he began cutting into the silky smooth, perfectly flawless skin, seemingly entranced by the small yet rapidly widening gap left behind the blade in its travel up her stomach.

Her cry for help quickly turned into a screeching, throat-rending wail of unimaginable pain, echoing upon itself off of the stone walls, stemmed from the pain of being dissected while conscious. Her cry then grew softer, not from lack of pain, but from the rapidity with which she was tearing her vocal cords.

The rivulet of crimson from her wrists and legs soon became overwhelmed by the trail of scarlet the blade of the Priest left behind.

The Priest reached his destination at the apex of her collarbone, then made quick incisions sideways below the collarbone, and then across left and right from her navel. Using his gangrenous hands, he pulled the pale skin now stained with her own blood down to the altar, an audible ripping sound from the tearing of her connective tissue drowned out by her screams. Using the mallet, the Priest rapidly hammered the spikes into the now-open flaps of skin, anchoring them down to prevent them impeding his work.

Using the mallet, he made a swift stroke onto her exposed sternum, cracking it deftly down the middle. Though mindless and inhuman, the Priest knew the final rite would not be complete unless this was done swiftly.

The rebirth of their Lord called for a LIVING heart.

“MUERTEMIUM MORTE EN ZAROS PACE DE BALLEREREN!!” The chanting grew to the point it was a scream, the hoarse cry of a condemned soul.

The crack of her breastbone marked a sudden ceasing of her screams. Her mouth was still open, her bloodshot eyes rolled back into her head but open as well, no sound issuing from her ruined throat. Merely a hoarse whisper, a mockery of a scream from torn vocal cords. Grabbing the heavily ornamented, evilly enchanted blade, the Priest made four quick incisions in the shape of a square slightly to the right of her cracked open sternum. Reaching down deftly, the Priest pulled free the living cadaver’s still-beating heart, sanguine life streaming in crimson rivers from the torn arteries.

Nearly running, the Priest placed the heart from the now-forgotten body upon yet another altar, which then burst into virulent, black-soot belching flames.

“ZAROS EDE MORTE!”

The flames vanished. The heart was gone. The chanting abruptly halted. None of the priests noticed the glazed eyes of the once-pure vessel.

A small tremor shook the room. The priests quickly fell to the ground, kneeling. The altar with the corpse of the maiden began to shake, followed by the rest of the room. Dust from the ancient stones began to fall, and one of the coal braziers fell, scattering showers of sparks everywhere. Suddenly, everything stopped, and a cold silence fell upon the room and the still-kneeling priests.

The body twitched, and one arm jerked.

The room began to quake violently, much harder than before, and a keening inhuman wail began issuing from the ruined mouth of the once-angel. The body began to convulse, violently, spikes driven deep through her flesh and into the wooden altar thrown out. One spike was driven through the hood of a priest’s robes, and the kneel turned into a slump.

The body began frothing at the mouth, red foam dripping down from the still-wailing corpse. The cadaver then lifted into the air, and her mouth began opening. Wider. And wider. And still wider. The crack of her now-broken jaws was lost in the harsh cry still issuing from the grotesque figure. Her gaping maw turned into the wet pinkness of her larnyx, followed down to her esophagus, and continued, farther down and farther, until the whole body was inside-out, bloody entrails hanging like some form of macabre confetti.

As suddenly as the body turned inside-out, the room snapped. The world ceased to exist and then was re-made just as instantaneously, except no girl could be seen. No corpse. No blood.

The room was clean once more, except it was not.

A figure floated, hovering malevolence. Raven-black hair darker than the jet of a tomb flowed serpent-like down past the crimson-spiked shoulders of a god. As the priests cowered in the first fear they’d felt in their not-lives, the hovering figure gently touched down onto the unstained, bejeweled altar. From the tip of his black steel and spiked leather boots to the emblem of hatred and sin emblazoned in stained blood upon his purple and red ankle-long overcoat, nothing but purest evil emanated from his body.

As his palely-skinned eyelids opened and his vermilion eyes shone, a single phrase burned from his mouth, twisting into a cruel sneer.

“I…have…returned.”