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BEN Drowned

Post #1 (Sept. 7, 2010)

Okay, /x/, I need your help with this. This is not copypasta, this is a long read, but I feel like my safety or well-being could very well depend on this. This is video game related, specifically Majora’s Mask, and this is the creepiest shit that has ever happened to me in my entire life.

Having said that, I recently moved into my dorm room starting as a Sophomore in college and a friend of mine gave me his old Nintendo 64 to play. I was stoked, to say the least, I could finally play all of those old games of my youth that I hadn’t touched in at least a decade. His Nintendo 64 came with one yellow controller and a rather shoddy copy of Super Smash Brothers, and while beggars can’t be choosers, needless to say it didn’t take long until I became bored of beating up LVL 9 CPUs.

That weekend I decided to drive around a few neighborhoods about twenty minutes or so off campus, hitting up the local garage sales, hoping to score on some good deals from ignorant parents). I ended up picking up a copy of Pokemon Stadium, Goldeneye (fuck yeah), F-Zero, and two other controllers for two dollars.…

Why Sarah Never Sleeps

There were too many doors in the upstairs hall. Sarah told her parents, but they couldn’t see it. They told her not to worry. They told her there was nothing there. But there was an extra door, at the end of the upstairs hall. An extra yellow door, and it didn’t belong.

It was the color of disease, jaundiced and infected, with spidery black veins across its face. One perfect silver knob gleamed in its center above a shadowy keyhole, and it didn’t look right. The doorknob shone with a mirror’s finish, and caught the light from any angle, begging for Sarah to look its way. Sarah did her best to ignore it, but the door knew her name, and it whispered it when she drew near.

“Saraaaahh . . . ” the door would rasp with a voice like dried leaves as tiny claws scraped against the other side. Tears would well in Sarah’s eyes as she’d hurry past, her arms laden with everything she’d need to get ready for the day.

“Saraaaahh . . .” it would call again before she’d shuffled out of range and closed the bathroom door, cutting off its paper-thin wails. When she’d creep from the bathroom to head downstairs, the door’s voice would follow her with a furious flurry of scraping claws and tormented howls.…

And Then There’s Martha…

I live in the middle of nowhere, far away from the rest of my friends. I have to wake up very early in the morning to catch my bus and I usually eat my breakfast as it’s bringing me to school. I don’t have any brothers or sisters; There’s just me, the Ziggy the cat, and my Dad.
And then there’s Martha, the chronically pissed-off woman who insists that I call her my Mother. But lately I don’t feel so inclined to do so. She’s hardly ever around because it seems like she works every day of the goddamn week, as soon as she comes home the first thing she does is find a reason to start yelling at me or cry about something. No rational human being hates their job THAT MUCH, and no one is forcing her to continue working there. There’s the paycheck, I guess, but no amount of pay seems worth sacrificing the respect of your family. Whenever she’s not home, it’s quiet and peaceful. Whenever she’s home, she’s a mess. When she’s not screaming at me over some menial task that I didn’t do, or didn’t do RIGHT, she’s crying about it. Any other person might feel bad about this, but it’s such a frequent thing that I’ve become almost completely desensitized to it.…

Vae Victis

The following are transcripted entries from the journal of a Soldier that didn’t survive the trip home from a deployment in Iraq. Content was provided via the victim’s relatives. This might be disturbing for some people to see.

Proceed with caution.


– 17-MAY-2008 Fort Huachuca, Arizona –

Just as the marching cadence goes, “Same old shit again” indeed. And now here I am marching my own Soldiers off to one of several pre-deployment briefings being held today. Most of it’s just the usual mandatory stuff, most of it involves what to do in combat situations we might not actually get to see, thank God. Our unit is comprised of mostly Signal geeks and I.T guys, at least a third of them are fresh out of A.I.T themselves and they’re pretty easy to pick out of the crowd: They all have this terrified look on their face like they think they’re about to die as soon as they get off the plane, and I have to laugh because that’s exactly how I felt right before my first deployment to Iraq. I feel bad for most of them, T.R.A.D.O.C fills their heads with all kinds of bullshit about kicking down doors and pretty much duct-taping their buddies back together while they’re screaming for Mommy.…


NOTE: This story involves the racism encountered by African Americans in the rural United States, particularly during the 19th and early 20th centuries. As such, this story may be offensive to some. Please proceed with discretion.


My family could be pretty racist. I grew up in more modern times, and always considered everyone an equal. However, it was an attitude that I had to hide from my parents. I could never bring friends home who weren’t white. Through my childhood, this attitude gave way to a lot of stories about where my parents came from; Rural, isolated Southern Ohio in the 1950’s. I was born there, in a small town outside of St. Clairsville, but was quickly moved to Cleveland when my dad got a decent job offer. They always regretted leaving their small town roots, but I was happy. I could have ended up like them.

Eventually, my dad softened his views, and started to see that good people could be good people, no matter what their skin was or where they came from. One night, we sat by our wood burning stove in the basement of our nice house in a suburb outside of Cleveland. He poured each of us a shot of bourbon.…

Don’t Wake Up

I wake up feeling a small pain on my upper back. It’s tiny, but noticeable. I know what to expect now. It’s going to be yet another small scratch that seemingly came out of nowhere. My logical mind tells me that it was only me scratching my back while asleep, or my skin just being too sensitive for the sheets and getting cut. I believe my mind, but I still have an eerie feeling about these small scratches. I get up, hobbling over to my bathroom door, sliding it open, hopping up on the counter, and pulling down my sleeve to see what this scratch looked like. As I’d expected, it was long, thin, and not deep. Just like every other one I’d gotten. As always, once I saw the scratch, I heard the soft, scratchy voice that whispered in every dream I’d had for a year. Every night, without fail, I’d hear a voice hiss in my ear; “Don’t wake up…”

At first, it really freaked me out, but by now, I’m used to it. I wake up every morning and live my life like a normal teenager does: Wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, go online, eat, sleep, repeat.…

Wolfsbane and Roses

Your Majesty, I do not mean to interrupt.

I do know that today is a day of celebration. That this feast you have thrown has been in my honor. But I bid you give me the floor.

For there is no cause for celebration. You celebrate today for the death of a beast, and yet I aim to make amends.

For you see, the beast lives on.

I can see by the look on your face that you are confused…and perhaps you feel you are owed an explanation. If it pleases Your Majesty, I will give you just that.

It all starts with her.

She was always a quiet one. Withdrawn, I guess you could call her. She spent her days in the archives; the old stone library on the edge of her village. Her charming little nose buried in some book or another.

She was different – not quite like the other women I had come across in my travels. They were all so preoccupied with finding husbands, starting families. She loved research – Guidobaldo del Monte, Leonardo da Vinci, Michel de Montaigne…these were only a few of the endless trends in her studies.

The world is changing, she had told me once.…


The story I am about to share with you has only recently come to an end. It has haunted me for twelve years of my life and tainted every moment of my younger years. Maybe now I can become a normal person, but I will never forget what happened.

When I was 12 years old, my parents finally decided to split me and my younger brother up and give us our own rooms. I was a couple of years older than Alex so I got the bigger space, while he stayed in the box-room. My dad wasn’t too happy about having to move all of his junk down into the garage, but times change and I needed my own room.

The four of us lived in a bungalow on a quiet suburban street – a rather reclusive area. Me and Alex would get bored sometimes as there wasn’t much to do, but for the most part, all we needed was each other. Being two young brothers with no one else to play with and a huge neighbourhood to explore, we were as close as brothers could get.

One day after school, we arrived home to find that all of my belongings had been moved into the the room next to Alex’s.…


You take the pills to keep them away.

That’s what we were told when we were first brought down here–down through the sterile white halls with their flickering fluorescent lights, and our small, Spartan cells. Down into the nightmare.

Why would we agree to this?

I was tired of being homeless. I was tired of smelling like urine. I was tired of the looks that people gave me, like they knew I was there, but if they could just avoid eye contact maybe I wouldn’t talk to them, wouldn’t show up later, in their dreams, tugging at their consciences. I was tired of sleeping on cold concrete every night.

I was tired of being so fucking hungry all the time.

The man in the suit had come with his pretty white teeth and his expensive sunglasses, asking for volunteers. Medical trials, he said. I know, a scary movie waiting to happen, right? But when he promised full meals and warm beds, how could we pass that up?

Being homeless, your life is a scary movie. You sleep in the alleys normal people refuse to walk down, hurrying by in case whatever is lurking in there reaches out and grabs them. You wait until the gangbangers and the prostitutes and the pimps and the junkies all pack it in for the day before you dare shut your eyes, and even then you aren’t sure you’ll ever open them again.…

The Hell That We Created

In 2005 when I graduated high school, I did so without much concern for what kind of person I was upon leaving, or how that person might affect my future. In fact, I don’t think anyone I was in a social circle with did that much thinking. My parents made the mistake of giving me $200 in graduation money that was added to another $150 from various proud relatives. I could have donated a portion of it or put it in a savings account. But I didn’t. I got crocked with some of my other delinquent friends. It’s a little difficult and way more expensive to do that at seventeen. There’s the cost of the drinks plus the extra money you have to slide the bartender to serve you since he knows you’re definitely not 21.

I didn’t quite know it at the time, but I was preparing for a future as a weekend rock star. I ended up the lead singer of Kill Cecilia, a punk rock outfit from Statesboro, Georgia lovingly named after me. Haven’t heard of us? You have something in common with most of the southeast. In our two years as a band, we haven’t played many shows, but we’ve still managed to pick up a small and very passionate fanbase along the way.…

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