“Every night at 3:21 AM a man hangs himself at the foot of my bed. I don’t know who he is or what he is doing in my house, and it's scaring the hell out of me. I can’t sleep and I don’t know how to deal with this problem. No matter what I try the man is always there, every night. I wake up and see him standing on my bedpost, with a noose around his neck. As soon as I scream, he jumps backward and hangs there. Then, at 3:22 AM, his body disappears. I need you to help me, just sleep in my room for one night, I’m positive he won’t appear if I have someone with me.”
I knew my friend and neighbor Louis could not possibly be telling the truth, this was only a fabrication of his own mind. I sent him out of my house with a couple of recommendations for good therapists in our area.
A week later, I was shocked to learn that Louis had committed suicide by means of hanging himself at the foot of his bed. I attended his funeral and paid my respects to his family before leaving with regret… perhaps I should've helped him with his silly task, even if it was ridiculous, it might've stopped him from killing himself.
It took a long while for me to fall asleep that night, and when I did, I was awakened shortly afterward by a noise in my bedroom. I opened my eyes blearily, and the first thing I saw was my digital clock, which read 3:21 AM.
I swiveled my head around, and Louis was standing over me on the bedpost, with a noose around his neck. I let out a scream of terror before he lets himself fall backwards, and he hangs there for a full minute for the first of many times to come.
Have you ever taken acid? I doubt that you have. I’m about to try it out in a moment for the first time in my life.
I honestly think that I’m entitled to it, after the shitty life that I have led. Call me what you will, but this is just the way I feel things have to go.
It all started when my wife, Claudia, divorced me a month and a half ago. She meant the world to me, and the idea that she could even consider leaving me was alien in my mind. Then I found out about the affair she had had. A man who I had always considered a high school buddy of mine suddenly became the worst enemy I had ever known. I actually managed to get in a bar fight with that particular person. But what did that solve? Absolutely nothing and all I got was a bloody nose and a broken arm for my troubles. That wasn’t even the worst of it.
What killed me was when she took the kids. That was the blow that destroyed my very life as I knew it. Both of my precious little children were torn from my loving arms to spend their entire lives with a cold hearted woman that could never love them as I did.
I take the acid quickly, before I can change my mind, and then wash it down with a shot of Scotch.
According to the internet, consuming hydrochloric acid is a very effective form of suicide.
The Final Film
I am the maker of over twenty-three snuff films. I shit you not.
Now I have been robbed of my youth, and I almost feel guilty for all the terrible things I have done. But then I remember just how profitable this business was, and I regret nothing. You’d be surprised at how many people want the tapes that I used to make. All kinds of people too, young and old, fair and ugly, short and tall, male and female, I guess that some people just have an animalistic side that they have to feed.
In many of the movies, I was the man who was committing these dreadful deeds. I had a whole crew to back me up, and most of the time it was somebody else who was slowly cutting off the appendages of a middle aged female we had managed to abduct, or severing the testicles of a little boy who was never seen again. But sometimes I just couldn’t resist getting my hands dirty. The process just looked so… interesting.
All of what I had was spent far too quickly. I lived a briefly amazing life of drugs and prostitution before it all ran out. I was both a sex addict and a heroin addict, and I was desperate to keep engaging in these activities, even as I lost my money. As of today, the only things I possess are this camera and the knife in my jacket pocket, with which I have made so many quality films. I know that now it is my time to make a final motion picture, and once again, I am the star.
Setting up the camcorder doesn’t take long, I just put it down atop one of the many dumpsters in this alleyway, and before I know it I am looking at myself in the viewfinder. I backed up, making sure I am in the shot, before taking the knife out of my pocket.
It really is a beautiful thing. It’s an Italian stiletto style switchblade with a custom buck handle and a bayonet blade. I’ve used it plenty of times before, and today, I will use it for the last time. I push the release button, and five inches of chromed steel slide out with a satisfying click.
I step forward and press the red button for the last time before lowering the blade to my wrists.
I keep having the same dream every night. It’s a reoccurring nightmare that I just can’t seem to push out of my head.
At about four in the morning I always wake up drenched in a cold sweat. Sometimes I am screaming. But as hard as I try, I can never seem to remember exactly what it was I was dreaming about. All I can recall are the smallest details. The emotion of dread, the feeling of a jerk in my stomach, and gripping something in front of me very tightly in the dream before I awaken.
I think it might be some kind of a warning… a premonition of something that is to go terribly wrong, but what? What could it possibly be?
Paranoia has taken over my mind and body. Everywhere I go I live in constant fear that someone or something is hunting me down. This tension reaches a peak one day when I am driving home from work.
I noticed that the car behind me took the same turn as I did. Initially thinking that we must be going in the same direction, I did nothing. Then we made the same turn again, and again. I felt the fear well up from deep within and I began to accelerate. When we made the same turn once more I began to drive ten to twenty miles an hour over the speed limit, constantly looking behind me and at the rearview mirror.
It was too late to see the little kid on the bike as he swerved in front of my car.
When I slammed on the brakes I felt a sudden jerk in my stomach, and my hand grips the steering column tightly as the kid takes a full body hit to my car and makes it partially under the first set of tires.
John didn’t want to buy a new bed. Why should he, when he had a perfectly good one hidden away in his storage room?
The smell of must was almost overwhelming, but that was easily fixed. What really made John so uncomfortable was that fact that his mother had died on this very mattress. He felt a shiver crawl down his spine, but he grinned in spite of himself. His mother was probably turning over in her grave right about now, considering the fact that her last words to him were “Rot in hell you piece of shit.”
The first night he lay down in that bed he felt something against his leg just before he fell asleep. It was a gentle prickling sensation, as if someone were running their fingers against his sleeping form. He shifted slightly before falling into a deep rest.
When John woke up the next morning he felt terribly ill. He hypothesized that he had probably come down with the flu and spent the entire day indoors, feeling miserable for himself.
That next night, the same thing happened as before. He could momentarily feel something touching against his leg. This time when it happened, he started awake. Upon turning the light on he discovered that there was nobody there. He felt a chill pass over him as he pondered the possibility that his mother’s ghost was coming back to haunt him. His head was swimming in his sickness, so he opted for rest rather than investigation, and went back to sleep.
The night after that, his symptoms had only grown worse, and he decided that he would call a doctor tomorrow after one more day of rest. He collapsed onto his bed, weary from his illness, and within minutes, he was snoring.
That’s when thousands of black widow spiders crept out from the hole in the mattress where they had made their home. Their large, black, hairy bodies crawled over John’s. A couple of them slipped into his slightly open mouth, where it was warm and wet. He would be dead soon. They had been biting him in his sleep for days now, and their poison was ever so potent and fast. When he did die, they would have a little feast amongst themselves, and their bodies would grow ever fatter.
A couple days ago I lost my dog, and I’m scared to think of what will happen if I don’t ever see him again.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and I was in the park, training Rocco. He’s always been such a good dog. I don’t care how many people look at me funny when I’m coaching him. When we were almost done for the day he licked my face excitedly and I laughed before sitting down briefly on a bench and taking a few refreshing gulps of ice cold water.
When I looked up again, he was gone.
I have to admit, I lost it. As soon as I realized he was not in my immediate vicinity, I got up quickly, with my heart thudding. I called his name desperately, but got no response. I went up to random people who I didn’t know and asked them if they had seen Rocco. They all just looked at me helplessly and shook their heads, with pity in their eyes.
When I got home I went straight to the printer and started making posters for a lost dog, complete with a recent picture and phone number. Then, I spent the rest of the day tacking them up all over town. Now I can only sit here and wait for the phone to ring. I have gotten three calls since Sunday, but those were business calls from lonely men, and not one of them had anything to do with Rocco.
As I am reading a book in my living room my cell phone rings, I snatch it up and accept the call. An elderly voice from the other end says, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
With trembling fingers I respond, “Yes, I’m right here.”
I can hear a throat being cleared before the man on the other end continues, “Ma’am, I think I’ve found your dog.”
Relief rushes through me and I say, “Oh thank God, please bring him to me now.”
There is a slight pause. “Would you like me to feed him before—?”
“No!” I almost shout, “Just get him to me right now… please.” I told the man my address, and he agreed to meet me in fifteen minutes. When he gets here, a senior citizen of about seventy with graying hair who goes by the name Garraty, I thank him profusely before ushering him out the door. Then I turn to Rocco, my ever so faithful pitbull boxer mix.
I lead him down into the basement and turn on the light. The man tied up on the other end of the room instantly begins to scream through the rag in his mouth. It’ll do no good, the walls are completely soundproofed. That’s what he’ll get for lusting away at women who are far too young for him.
I give Rocco the motion, and he lunges forward and mauls the man, just like I showed him how in my training. As the blood flies and the flesh tears, I turn and begin to mount the stairs, going for the pick and shovel I keep in my kitchen cabinet.
Scream Yourself Awake
Everything is terribly surreal. I couldn’t tell you exactly what was happening if I tried. My head is fuzzy, and probably not working to its full capacity.
I hear the muffled voices of men, but I can’t manage to make out a single word. I open my eyes blearily to inspect my murky surroundings. In front of me two men seem to be discussing something in front of a large white van. I try to call out to them, but my tongue feels like a giant slug in my mouth.
This must be a dream. It has all the strange qualities of one. That was for sure.
The man on the right turns and opens the van before beginning to drag a woman out. She looks around frantically. The man on the left is pulling a black object out of his belt. I’ve decided that I don’t like this dream very much, but hopefully everything will change in a moment, just like all incoherent dreams do. One moment you’re in the middle of an important business meeting and the next thing you know you’re streaking in the middle of a crowded subway.
But nothing does change. The man points the black object towards this woman, and before I know it, she is lying on the ground, with a pool of blood forming around her head.
At this point I’m trying to scream myself awake. I don’t like any of this… it’s far too frightening a dream. It’s more of a horrifying nightmare. The only noise I am able to make, however, is a rasp from the bottom of my throat.
One of these men is coming towards me, and I am trying desperately to scream, with my mind reeling in terror. Scream! Scream now and scream as loud as you fucking can, damn it! Wake up the whole fucking neighborhood if you have to! Just scream!
The man kicks me hard in the stomach and everything becomes clear. Memories come flooding back in a single rush… the kidnapping that occurred, with me as the victim.
It wasn't a dream at all. It was just the effects of the drugs wearing off.
A Special Night
I have always been terrified at even the notion of somebody breaking into my house and potentially threatening my family. It has actually become my biggest fear.
I received the word that my house was going to be targeted for a burglary on this particular special night, and I know that I have to do what I must. I have to protect the people that I love. This is something that I need to face.
I sit in the living room, hidden behind the couch, with a pair of scissors in my hand that were being used only yesterday to curl ribbons, waiting for my attacker to come. Suddenly, the lamp on the opposite side of the room flicks on and I flinch. My heart begins to pound, and I grip the scissors tightly, my moment is coming, I know it. I spring out into the open and sure enough, a man looks at me from not ten feet away.
He almost looked guilty, as if he had been caught doing something bad. He was carrying a large sack in his hand that was bulging noticeably.
With a manic cry of fury I rushed at this man, no, this threat. He shouts in his terror, saying something that is incoherent through his large white beard. The blade of the scissors plunges into his stomach. I wrench them out and blood spews from the wound that I have just created.
As the man drops to the floor his fake beard falls off. I look into the face of a man I know all too well.
Now I understand why my parents were always so insistent that Santa Claus was a good and even holy being, despite my constant and suspicious fear of his being an imposter and burglar.
My own father had been Santa Claus for all this time.
My family and I went stargazing the other night. I have to say, it was an experience unlike anything else. My brother had heard that there was going to be a meteor shower that would be visible in our area, and when he told my father, he was all too happy to drive us out to a good location to observe the sky at night. We even resolved to bring our dog, Max, despite the fact that we were missing his leash.
My dad ended up taking a road that seemed to be abandoned. We all questioned him about this, but he insisted that he had gone up this road all the time as a kid, and he knew the perfect place to see the meteors. When we finally got there, nobody was anything short of amazed. He had led us to an open clearing where the skies were beautifully evident. I got to see exactly thirteen bright, streaking meteors as they flashed brilliantly across the sky.
My dad kept trying to scare us all with his petty ghost stories. I guess he thought the mood was right, given that we were all out in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. While my face was angled upwards towards the sky he told us about an encounter he had with a monster when he was a kid.
“I was only ten years old when it happened,” he hissed in a forced whisper, “When I and my good friend saw the beast that lurks in the shadows of these woods. We were riding our bikes down the road just to our left, when we heard a vicious snarl coming from the depths of the trees. When we looked we could see only a pair of large, bright green eyes.”
We all called him out on it, but he swore up and down that his ridiculous stories were true. Even if I did not really believe him, his tales still gave me the creeps. I have to admit that I jumped once or twice when I felt Max brush against my leg.
Eventually my mother got tired and insisted that we needed to go to bed. There was much huffing and complaining, the rest of us had really liked watching the stars, but in the end, mom’s word was law.
It was only when we were driving home that I realized that my dad had kept Max in the car the whole time.
My daughter and I always used to text each other before we went to bed. One night I got a message that chilled me to the bone.
My phone let out a sharp chirp right before I was about to go to fall asleep, and I picked it up to see the message Audrey had sent me. The text read “Dad, please, you have to help me. I am writing this under the covers with the brightness and volume turned off on my phone. There is someone in my room with me and I am scared to death. He’s sitting in the chair at the end of my bed and looking at me. I think he wants to hurt me.”
I texted with one hand while pushing a shell into the shotgun I kept under my bed with the other. My message read “Don't worry, daddy’s coming.”
I crept out of my bed and into the hall, gun in hand. With my daughter’s door in sight I rushed at it and broke it open with a single kick. There was something sitting in the chair at the end of my daughter’s bed. I could see the outline of a person in the pale moonlight.
I unloaded my single shell onto the person sitting in the chair with a loud blast that reverberated off the walls before flicking on the light to observe the intruder who I had just shot.
But there was no intruder.
There was only my daughter, tied down to the chair with copper wire and a gag in her mouth. Not to mention the visible head wound that my four ten had inflicted. Her phone lay on the sill of her bedroom window, which was wide open.
Written by SnakeTongue237