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Around The Bend

11:37 AM

“Charlie, I’m detective Schultz. Do you know why you’re here today, son?” The detective gestured towards the unkempt sixteen year old boy, dressed in a loose blue sweatshirt adorning several holes and baggy jeans, his shaggy hair covering his forehead. The boy looked as if he hadn’t bathed in at least a week and the odor all but confirmed it. “Do you have any idea why I brought you in today,” the detective asked again.

Charlie slouched in his chair across from his interrogator, his arms folded at his chest. He stared blankly towards the middle of the table between them. “Is that you’re question? Are you asking if I know why I’m here?”

“Yes, Charlie. I’m curious if you know why you’re sitting in this room, talking with me.” The detective lifted a cup of coffee to his mouth and sipped, then sat it back down and gestured towards a second cup that he slid in front of the boy. Charlie continued to stare blankly and the detective concluded the boy would not talk. “Charlie, do you remember the night of the fifth? What you were doing?”

Charlie grabbed the coffee that was offered to him, but instead of drinking from it, he pushed it back towards the detective.…

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.…

Something’s Lurking in the Snow

It was a cold winter night in a very very remote town, out in the middle of nowhere. A debate team from a larger city had driven out that morning and had done very well, not finishing until around midnight. When the bus finally set off, it was around 12:45. As students filed onto the bus to go home, the driver turned on the strobe on top of the bus, so if they got in a wreck or anything they could easily be seen.

One boy in particular decided he wasn’t tired, and just stared out the window as they began their drive home. The sounds of his teammates drifting into sleep surrounded him as he stared out the window, forehead against the icy pane of glass. Flurries of snow drifted in and out of his vision, joining the white mass on the ground. They passed small patches of forest followed by endless fields and even more forest. He noticed that every time the lights flashed, he would see images. Creations of his imagination, like when someone dims the lights, seeing faces in the shadows. These images became increasingly frightening, especially as they entered wooded areas.

After a while, he decided he should probably sleep, and lay his head back against the seat.…

What my Parents Were Hiding in the Basement

Now, when I think back to the excuses my parents used to make, I feel like an idiot. I remember being twelve years old, standing at the top of the staircase and watching all of the people filing into our basement. Some men wore white masks, some women wore bonnets. But they all had small suitcases, as though there was a bus stop beneath our house. And every one of them looked pale, frightened.

My mother would catch me watching from above and send me off to bed. But not before I could ask what was happening.

“We’re just going to talk about grown up things, baby.” Her voice was sweet and high pitched. She always sounded happy, regardless of how concerned she looked. “One day you will join us too. For right now though, you should get some sleep.”

But I didn’t sleep. I never could, with the images of those peoples’ blanched faces in my mind; men and women alike, all terrified. I would lie awake in bed with my ear pressed to the mattress, covering the other side of my head with a pillow.

From inside my shell, the heavy thudding from below was transformed into the sounds of marshmallows bouncing around.…

The Origin of Laughing Jack

It’s Christmas Eve in snowy 1800’s London, England, and in a small house at the edge of town, there lived a lonely, 7-year-old boy named Isaac. Isaac was a sad child with not a friend to his name. While most children were spending time with their families and eagerly looking forward to opening the presents that were placed with care beneath a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, little Isaac spent this most holy of nights alone, in his cold, dusty attic room. Isaac’s parents were very poor, his mother was a strict crow of a woman who stayed at home and schooled Isaac. His father worked long hours down at the London harbour to support his family, although a large portion of his earnings went toward purchasing and consuming copious amounts of alcohol at the end of his shift. Sometimes, he would come home drunk, after being thrown out of every bar in London, and shout at his beloved wife, Isaac’s mother.

Occasionally, it would escalate to violence and he would beat her savagely, then when he was done, he’d force himself upon her in a drunken, sexual rage. As it so happens, this particular night was one of those occasions. Isaac just remained quiet, quivering beneath his soiled bed sheets until the screams and loud bangs subsided.…

Of Death and Plagues

In 1347 the Black Plague had reached it’s peak. Across Europe thousands perished as this vile disease, festered in pestilence, showered the landscape with death. No one rich or poor, nor learned or simple, nor strong or weak were spare from it’s putrid touch. In the inner cities, so many had been wiped out that there wasn’t enough room to bury them all. Mass graves had become common as well as the unfortunate souls who had to collect the corpses. One such a man was Phillipe Deitre and this is his story…

A man of sorrow he was. Calloused and bitter. For there once was a time in his life when he had known better days, but not now. The ravenous plague had stolen from him his one true love and had left him in a state of continuous indifference. Originally a farm hand by trade, he now found himself carting off the numerous bodies left in the plagues’ wake. Ironically, it was a job he volunteered for. Each day was the same to him, as he did not care if he continued living or joined the dead. To each neighboring village he would walk with his death stained cart behind him.…

The Cell Phone Game

Howdy. You can call me “Jack.” It’s not my real name, but that’s what I’ll go by for now. I reckon the time to tell my story has come. Believe it or don’t, but here it is. I suggest you take away the lessons it teaches, even if you dismiss it all as bullshit like 98% of the other stories on the internet.

But there’s more truth in this story than any one of you could know.

Now, I’ve been out of high school for three years, but that’s when this particular event takes place, so I’m going to have to wind my clock back a little here to tell the story.

Originally, for my first two-and-a-half years of high school, I attended a school in the deep Southern part of America, close to the gulf.

We had all kinds of ghost stories growing up and if there was one lesson our super-conservative parents taught us, it was this: Don’t go fooling around in things you don’t understand.

Now, I was really unpopular at my high school in the South. My first two years of high school were a real pain because I was a big dork and everyone made fun of me.…


I never regretted working in that charity shop. It was strictly volunteer stuff, only on weekends and a few solitary evenings. The shop was small and cramped, and we never got many visitors, so my lonely shifts were, more often than not, spent quietly sitting at an abandoned counter.

My stupor was roused one evening, by the sound of the door swinging open. A short man pushed into the shops shaded interior, carrying a small cardboard box. He was well dressed, in a casual shirt and smart looking pants, and a pair of thick glasses sat on his head, underneath a rats nest of curly greasy hair. By the looks of things, in his early thirties, judging by the thick mess of stubble that clung to his chin.

“Good Afternoon.” I greeted the man as cheerily as I could.

He nodded a polite acknowledgement to my greeting them slammed the box on the counter. Before I could say a word, he closed his eyes, uttered something under his breath, and jogged out of the door, hands firmly rooted in his pockets.

As the door slammed close behind him in the late autumn breeze, I wordlessly inspected the box. It was tattily masking taped close, and Chinese characters were scrawled on the side.…

Something Is Wrong

It had been a while since I had visited my cousins. Believe it or not, it had been five years since I saw any of their faces.

The last I time I saw them I was eight years old and had not yet learned that the world had no consequences. I skipped gaily around their two story ramshackle house joyously, singing my favorite songs and playing with the six year old twins. This playtime, however was constantly tainted by my Aunt Clarissa.

My Aunt Clarissa was always that one person with which everything had to be just right, perfect, or as close to perfect as possible.

Whenever I would try to play tag, hide and seek, or anything of the sort really, she would be hovering over us, her dark grey eyes flashing. She would always say, “Now Jared, don’t you ever play too rough with Simon or Eloise. If anything ever were to happen to them, I’d wear you out.”

Aunt Clarissa always used to scare me as a child, with her sharp chin and stormy eyes, she reminded me of a witch. I did not dare do anything she wouldn’t approve of with Simon and Eloise, even when she wasn’t around; because I knew that she would stay true to her word and beat me black and blue if I ever harmed either one of them.…

The Proposition

Yet another grim day started with the alarm clock blaring maddeningly.

Beep, beep, beep!

The day itself wasn’t the issue, or even the morning alarm. More specifically, Cathy dreaded facing her husband, Marty. Their marriage, once brilliant with the colors of life, now dwindled into greys.

Fourteen long years of marriage to this man has been like a stent in purgatory. Marty’s consistency and predictability, once a source of comfort, now pained Cathy. His haircut – the same haircut that he has had since he was sixteen – irked her.

You are a man; get a grownup’s haircut, idiot.

Of course, she never spoke this aloud, but her internal dialogue provided the soundtrack. Every morning was filled with the same tired jokes.

“Is this coffee, or is this mud? It looks like…blah blah blah.” Even his boyish smile, wide and toothy, infuriated her.

What the hell are you so happy about?

She wore a porcelain smile, choking back the urge to strangle him. He never complained or argued. Even when she tried to goad him in to an argument, he kept the same calm demeanor.

Show some emotion, you robot! She screamed in her head.

Marty worked as an accountant. He was smart.…

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