Upcoming News! 02/15/2021

Hello everyone! I hope y’all had a good valentines day or at least a good half priced candy day today. I have some exciting news! I am going to start publishing articles about fellow writers I’ve had the pleasure to meet. So please read about them and check them out! They are hard working writers that have so much story to tell.

Share With Me- Jaime Villarreal

Another guest writer. Woot Woot!

A word from our writer:

I’m Jaime Villarreal. I’m an aspiring screenwriter and writer of short stories. Some of my stories are featured in Killer Nashville Magazine. I’m currently working on my first novel, a unique tale of horror.
Thank you for this opportunity

Here is my short story titled: SHARE WITH ME

Her name is Clarissa. She never told me. I read it on her name tag. She works at the gas station on the corner. Every time I walk in there to buy gum, she offers me a unique smile. One that has meaning behind it. Maybe there’s something that she wants to share with me. What could it be? No one ever smiles at me like that. It makes me want to know everything about her. Even, if it kills me.

I step through the door of my favorite bookstore. The bell jingles overhead, announcing my entrance.

“Hello,” the clerk says. “Welcome to Crawling’s.”

I come here at least once a week to browse through art books. The clerk acts like she’s never seen me before. Clarissa recognizes me. She doesn’t say anything, but at least, she recognizes me. I should reach over this counter and strangle her until she passes out. Then, she’d recognize me. She’d never forget my face, that’s for sure.

“Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?” asks the clerk.

“Magic,” I reply. “Books on magic.”

“Magic tricks.” She points toward the middle of the store. “Third aisle. On your left. Can’t miss it.”

“No,” I reiterate. “Real magic.”

“Real magic?” The look on her face is one of arrogance, not inquiry.

I’m thirty years old. Why would I want to start learning magic tricks? I want the good stuff. I want to cast spells. Sure, magic tricks might keep a girl intrigued for a minute, but I want magic that will make her open up to me. Share things with me.

“Voodoo,” I say, hoping the bimbo gets the hint. “Curses. That sort of thing.”

“Occult Philosophy,” she says, rolling her eyes. She points toward the back of the store. “Last aisle. Entire section on the right. Knock yourself out.”

Before long, I find exactly what I’m looking for and take the book home. I don’t have all the required materials to make this thing. It’s called an all-seeing poppet, a tiny doll made of black and red yarn with crimson beads for eyes. It’s pathetic when I finish, but it will have to do. I don’t have much time. The spell calls for a full moon and that’s tonight.

I enter the gas station. I’m met with that same unique smile. I pay for my gum and hand the all-seeing poppet to Clarissa.

“What’s this?” she asks, raising a brow.

“A gift,” I reply. “A good luck charm.”

“It’s cute.”

“Glad you think so.”

“Not sure what to say.” She shrugs with her palms turned up. “Thank you.”

“It’s just a little something to remember me by.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” I turn to walk out.

Later that night below a crisp full moon, I completed the spell from the book and hung myself in the backyard. It was a few days before they found my body.

Clarissa has me hanging from her rear view mirror now. I was hoping it’d be a necklace. She still thinks I’m cute. She looks at me with that same beautiful smile and shares with me her dreams.

Old Flame – Rachel Weaver

We have another guest writer!! Yay!

Rachel Weaver is a 23 year old Minnesota resident that has enjoyed the horror genre since the age of 5. When she’s not being seen watching Hereditary for the 100th time or scrolling through her Shudder account, she could be found writing at coffee shops, thinking about theater with her boyfriend or playing with her two cats. She has been an aspiring writer since finding her niche with horror writing at the start of the pandemic. She posts weekly on her Wattpad account when she has time and is thinking about hitting up CreepyPasta at some point. Happy Haunts guys and ghouls 👌

He had not seen her since they had left high school. Yet here she was now. Standing on
the other side of the railroad tracks that acted as borders around Jonathan’s town.
Jonathan stared in awe and confusion at the beautiful woman also known as Jeanette
Peters. She was, as his classmates called her, a knock out. She had a perfectly proportioned face
which came complete with a small nose, perfect sized, plump lips, high cheekbones, and large
icy blue eyes so sharp it can slice a man in two. A man like Jonathan Druthers.

And they had.

Looking at Jeanette didn’t fill Jonathon’s stomach with fluttering monarchs and dandelion
wishes, but rather with pins and needles.

Jeanette was part of the “popular crowd” back in the days when Jonathan had to submit to
an obnoxiously loud bell and carry absurd amounts of reading material wherever he went. But,
Jeanette only added to Jonathon’s pain in high school. She would join in with the others when
they mocked and bullied Jonathan.

When Jonathan tried to confess his love to Jeanette, recounting how close they were
when they were children living on the same block, she shot him with those penetrating eyes and
just walked away with a jock wrapping his buff arm her skinny waist.

One event stuck with out in his mind the most. Like a sore thumb throbbing from a
hammer being dropped upon it. It was the day when he almost died because of Jeanette.
He tried so hard to suppress the memory, to let it past as he so often did with many of his past
teenage antics. But, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
Staring into Jeanette’s icy gaze, the memory flashed through his mind.

He was only 16, desperate for friends, and had an ass wider than the Grand Canyon.
Jon winced. Just thinking about his former size was enough to make him sick with dread.
It was a crisp fall day, and Jon was bombarded by a couple of Jeanette’s henchmen, also known
as a couple of jocks, that asked him where he was going and that they would keep him company
along the way.

There was a lot of things wrong with Jonathan at that time, but being dumb was not one
of them. He knew all too well that this would either end with a bloody nose or some kind of
bruise. He was some kind of walking punching bag to these guys and he just accepted that.
He accepted that he was what everyone said he was.


Everything else was just a blur to Jonathan, but what his mind couldn’t recall, his senses

He tasted the salty, iron sensation of blood in his mouth. He felt the scars on his thighs
and stomach burn intensely than ever before. Even after twenty years, the scars still stung and
throbbed from time to time. Whoever said that scars healed over time was so full of it.
The worst thing to come over him though was the ringing in his ears. His Tinnitus was
acting up though there wasn’t a loud sound anywhere near him.

But now, locking his eyes with Jeanette, he felt everything. It was her. I was all her fault.

“What!?”, he shouted, a little hoarse and wary, “what do you want!?”

Jeanette didn’t move. Her eyes still staring.

Then she grinned. Which unsettled Jonathan. Her grin was enough to make even the most
ferocious creature turn tail and run.

He shook off his trance once more and moved closer to her, parking himself on the other
side of the train tracks.

“I don’t understand.”, he muttered, starting to shake, “you’re not suppose to be here.” For
the first time since he first spotted her, he noticed that Jeanette’s feet were hovering over the
ground, defying the law of gravity.

“I killed you.” He said at last, “I killed you so many years ago. How is this possible.”
Jeanette still said nothing. After a few moments of silence, a laugh started to rise from the depths
of her stomach to finally out of her mouth, making Jonathon fall back on the tracks. He let out a
yell of pain, screaming out for help that would be miles away from where he laid. His ears ringed
louder than ever before, making it impossible to hear anything else but the high pitched rings. He
tried to get up but he couldn’t move a muscle. He was paralyzed to the tracks as if he was tied to
them. He felt constricted to them more as Jeanette floated to him.

Jonathan started to cry. Ugly cry. Hollering and pleading for Jeanette’s forgiveness. Until
she was looking down at him, her gaze figuratively slamming his jaws shut. His smile had grown
wider. Unnaturally wider. So wide that it’d make the Cheshire cat swivel up and hide out of sheer

All Jonathon could still hear was the ringing coming from his own ears. But he felt
something. He felt the train tracks shiver and vibrate, making his scars burn and his heart raced.
He knew… he knew a train was coming.

Jeanette knew, too, as she turn her head to glance at the oncoming monstrosity making
the tracks batter Jonathon’s back more.

She turned her head back to Jonathan sharply. At the same time, Jonathon’s ears stopped
ringing. Now all he heard was the train and his heavy breathing.

He knew he didn’t have much time, so quickly spit out all that he could think to say.

“I’m sorry”, he said, whimpering.

Jeanette’s expression was blank until she finally said, “I’m not.” Then she vanished,
leaving Jonathan as the train rushed in

I’m not dead – Shawn Moreau

Today we have a special guest writer!! I’m so excited. His work is very well done and very interesting.

I am not dead.I used to think of that as a good thing. I remember, whenever I was having a bad day, or if I was just in a bad mood, I used to close my eyes and remind myself that it could be worse. I used to remind myself that I wasn’t dead.Back then I believed that death was the worst thing that could happen to a person. I actually believed that.Now I say the same words, every morning when I wake up. I am not dead. And I weep.Or maybe I don’t. I guess it depends on how you define the word. If weeping is an action of the soul, a deep and bitter howling of the mind, if weeping is an emotional pit, then I weep. If weeping is the actual physical process of crying and wailing, then I don’t.I can’t.

“Good Morning, Mr. Moreau.” It’s the nurse with the freckles, Amelia. She’s my favorite, she talks to me while she works. The only other person who talks to me anymore is an old preacher who comes by about once a month and reads a chapter out of the Bible before moving on to the next room. Amelia opens the curtains letting the morning sun in, then gets to work. She checks me over for any changes, switches out bags here and there, all the while telling me about her date with her boyfriend the night before. I try to focus on her words, immerse myself in the moment. I know what comes next, and the only peace I can give myself is in blocking that knowledge from my mind, pushing it away. Or at least try to. Eventually she picks up my chart and looks at it, shaking her head. “Still with the samples. I swear, Mr. Moreau, as long as we’ve been doing this, the doctor probably has more of you bagged up in his lab than in this room.” It isn’t the first time she’s told that joke, but I’d laugh if I could. It’s probably true. Every morning for the last four years the nurses have been taking samples from me. Hair, saliva, urine, blood, skin. From what Amelia’s told me, and from what I’ve overheard, there are five other patients who have the same treatment as me. All from the same doctor. It’s an odd treatment, according to everyone who works here, but he’s an odd man. A genius, they say, but an odd man. So they follow his instructions. After all, why would a doctor give his patient a treatment he didn’t need? They even say he’s had some success. I don’t know how that can be, but sometimes I dream. . . After she collects the samples, the treatment begins. In my head I’m shouting. Screaming. Jumping off the bed and racing towards the door. In the real world, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling as she rubs an alcohol swab over the inside of my arm, and prepares the first injection. It feels like someone started a fire beneath my skin. The liquid spreads through my body, and I feel every second of it. The world becomes hazy and the pain is so intense that for a while I can’t feel anything else. I can’t see, or hear, or smell, or taste. The entire world is burning, and for a brief moment I believe, as I do every morning, that this time they went to far, and I’m finally dead. It isn’t until the second injection that I know I’m wrong. The second injection feels, for lack of a better word, heavy. My muscles cramp under the strain and my limbs ache, like they’re being dragged down, through the bed, through the floor, down into the sewers. For the first few seconds the experience is only mildly unpleasant, like lying under a pillow while a fat man sits on top. Then the medicine reaches my organs. My heart is the first to be effected. Suddenly I can feel it, beating in my chest. But each beat sends out a tremor, and the blows become more and more painful, like my heart is trying to beat its way down through my back and out of me. I am surprised that I am not bouncing off the bed. Next I feel it in my lungs. Amelia doesn’t seem to notice any change in me, but I feel as though I am being smothered. I know that air is entering my lungs, but I gain no relief from it. The world seems to spin above me. I pray for oblivion, but nobody answers me. Then the drug reaches my stomach and bowels, causing them to cramp uncontrollably. When the pain recedes enough for me to see the world again, Amelia is gone, and I feel a sense of overwhelming relief. Until I realize that I can taste chalk. They put the pills back into my routine. I try to shudder, but am no more capable of that than jumping out the window and flying to safety.

The best definition of success that I ever heard was from a girl I dated back in my school days. She used to say that success was when you made enough money doing what you enjoyed doing, to live the way you enjoyed living. By that definition, I was a success by the time I was twenty. It just happened that the way I enjoyed living only required me to have a running van and enough food to get by on, and what I enjoyed doing amounted to playing the guitar a few hours a day on a street corner for change.  I also bought and sold some weed, when I could afford to, and didn’t end up smoking it all, myself .I told myself I wasn’t going to do that forever, that I’d eventually get a band, start picking up gigs, or maybe find some rich girl to shack up with somewhere. Honestly, though, even then I didn’t think those were likely, I just didn’t see any point to aspiring to the life my parents had lived. Nine to five jobs, thankless bosses, all so I could have kids who I’d never get to see. So I aspired to the unlikely and didn’t care much if it ever happened. Even a blind squirrel occasionally grabs a nut, and one day I did run into a bit of good fortune. A guy I shared some weed with told me about a bar just outside of town that had an open mic night, and let the bands that kept the crowds happy have a few free beers while they were performing. It was a short enough drive that the beers covered the gas, and the girls that came in were mostly from a nearby college, which made them young enough to still be into broke musicians. It was my own, personal nirvana. Until the night of the accident. “Play that ‘July Sunrise’ song.” The bartender, a cute brunette with big boobs pushed another beer across the counter to me. I’d been trying to get into her pants for months, but she was impervious to my charms. Or maybe she was just into girls. She flirted with anyone who hit on her, but I never saw her go home with anyone. As I climbed back onto the stage, it occurred to me to wonder if she really liked my music, or if she was just sending me up so I’d stop hitting on her. Not that it mattered, every time she put me on stage, I had a fresh beer in my hand, and that was all it took to keep me happy. I strummed idly for a few seconds, took a drink of my beer, and started up the song. “Streets waver in the heat, and I’m sweating out the beat, another long and painful day in July. Praying for some wind, or some shade I can hide in, but all I feel is a burning in reply. ”The bar was almost empty. Not counting me and the bartender there were all of three people in a place that usually fit a hundred. It was spring break and most of the kids were gone, but since open mic doesn’t cost management anything but a few drinks, they kept it on the schedule. I didn’t much care about the how and why of it. What little money I’d had that morning was still in my pocket, and my head was buzzing like a mason jar full of flies. I finished up ‘July Sunrise’ and moved into, ‘Ode to a Girl I Barely Remember’ giving the bartender a sly wink. A few lines in, the door opened and two men walked in. They weren’t regulars, and they weren’t college students. As drunk as I was, they still seemed out of place. For starters, they were too old for the bar. At twenty seven, I was usually one of the oldest people in the room. These two were in their forties, at least. Both were bald. Not balding, and not with close cut hair. They were completely bald. They were both dressed in button down shirts, and slacks. But the thing that made them stand out the most was the way they moved. Well, not how they moved, but how they moved together. Sometimes when I’m playing in front of a large enough group, when the music is loud enough, and I’m on my game, sometimes I’ll see people moving in rhythm. It isn’t dancing, exactly, they walk, or they take a drink of their beer, or they talk, but they do it in rhythm with my music, unwittingly they take my music and embrace it, let it guide, not what they do, but how they do it.It was like that with the two men who came in, except that they weren’t moving in my time. It was like they were both listening to something that I couldn’t hear, and every step, every motion, was in time with that beat. I wouldn’t have noticed it if one of them had come in alone, but with both of them in the room, I couldn’t help but see it. They moved slowly towards the front counter, pausing as they approached the other patrons, their noses flaring, then moving on. At the counter the brunette smiled and asked them what they wanted. One of the men answered, the other leaned forward, his nose flaring briefly. The girl’s smile faded, though I wasn’t sure if it was something that was said, or the sniffing that bothered her. After a few seconds she nodded politely and poured each man a beer. I had planned to keep going for a few another song or two, since I still had half of my drink left, but from the girl’s expression I thought she might appreciate a knight in shining armor coming to her rescue. I hopped off the stage, almost twisting my ankle when I landed, and headed for the bar. “Hey, beautiful, don’t suppose I can get this topped off?” I said, ignoring the two bald men as completely as I could manage. They didn’t return the favor. Instead one of them leaned in, inhaling deeply, but instead of leaning back, as he had with everyone else, he leaned closer and sniffed again. I glowered at the man, but he took no notice of my aggravation, instead, turning his attention to his companion, and smiling. The friend turned his attention to me and grinned. “That was a great piece you were just playing. Let me buy you a drink.” I’ve never been the kind to turn down a free drink, no matter where it’s coming from. After that drink, the bald man bought me another. We talked. We talked about where I was from, and how I lived, and how many friends I had. We talked about my family, and my blood type. Every few questions we would pause, just long enough for them to buy me another round, and then there were more questions. The night became a blur. I do remember that the bald men left before I did. And I remember that, try as I might, I couldn’t talk the bartender into letting me spend the night with her. I also know that at some point in the night I decided that I wasn’t too drunk to drive. The exact order of the events and how much time separated them I can only guess at, but there is one memory that stands out, one very distinct image that is ingrained in my mind for all eternity. I remember headlights coming towards me, fast. And behind those headlights, just barely visible, I remember seeing what appeared to be the top of two bald heads inside of whatever was about to hit me. And then I woke up. In the hospital. I was alone. I was paralyzed. Not dead yet. That’s what I told myself I wasn’t dead, and as long as I wasn’t dead, there was hope. As long as I wasn’t dead there were things to look forward to. As long as I wasn’t dead, I could know that things weren’t as bad as they could be. Because I could be dead. Nurses came and went, checking on me. I tried to signal them, tried to get their attention by blinking, or twitching a finger, or sheer force of will. All to no end. Then I met the doctor. He moved oddly, I thought. It was like he was trying too hard. It was like he had only recently gotten his body, like he was thinking about each motion, mimicking what he’d seen, not simply moving, the way people do. And he was bald. Completely bald. Like the men I’d met at the bar. Then he touched me. I hadn’t thought about it when the nurses were taking their samples and measurements, the fact that I could still feel, but I thought about it when he touched me. I thought about it because he felt so wrong. His skin was too stiff, not like skin, but a glove made to look like skin. As he took his measurements his eyes caught mine, and in an instant I knew. I knew that he knew. He wasn’t looking into the eyes of someone he thought was a vegetable, he was looking into the eyes of a human being. He was looking into the eyes of a desperate, miserable man, and he was pleased. He was enjoying my suffering. He hated me. Truly hated me. If I could have moved I would have torn away from his touch, I would have run from the room. But I couldn’t. The next day the injections started. Such pain. I’d never known that kind of pain. I’d been beaten before, I’d been in accidents and come down with diseases that made me pray for death. I’d suffered before that day, or at least I thought I had. The injections were more than I could handle, more than I could think about. I went mad. I know I did. The world twisted around me, the meaning of everything changed. I left my body, or at least convinced myself that I had. Floating through the world, tethered to my body by a thread. The universe compressed into the size of a small hospital room, and my pain became a billion supernovas. My mouth became a black hole, swallowing my screams before they could leave me. I don’t know how long I lay there, curled up in the comfort of madness, it could have been hours, or days. Eventually I returned to myself. Though when the next morning came and another series of injections coursed through my veins, I regretted my sanity. It didn’t take me long to start hating the nurses. I knew they didn’t know what they were doing, but it was hard to care about that when I was suffering such agonies at their hands. But as much as I hated them, I hated the doctor a thousand times more. And I feared him with equal measure. If I’d known what was still in store for me, I would have feared him more.

The chalky taste fades in about an hour, and as soon as it’s gone I try to convince myself that it wasn’t there at all. That I was mistaken. I don’t believe it. I never believe it. I just want to.My first year in the hospital, I passed the time by counting the holes in the tile over my head. I named them. I made up stories about them, lineages and relationships, affairs and wars, treaties and betrayals. I calculated a rough estimate of the number of holes in all of the tiles in my room. I named them. I made up songs about them and sang them over and over again. My second year in the hospital, I decided to relive my life. All the parts I could remember, in as vivid of detail as I could manage. Sadly, I hadn’t paid much attention to my life, and the alcohol and drugs had wiped away a lot, I could only come up with enough memories for eight and a half months. After that, I switched to the Zen approach. I try to live in the moment as completely as I can. I try to focus on each second, each ticking of the clock, and see that instant as an eternity to itself. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s Zen or not; I didn’t learn much about eastern philosophy before I got turned into a vegetable, and I can’t exactly go looking it up now. Anyhow, sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. They wait until night to come. I don’t know if it takes that long for the chalky tasting medicine to take effect, or if the night nurse is the only one who’s in on it, but they always wait until night. Then they come. Two of them. The doctor and his assistant. Both smell odd, and both are bald. They unplug me from my machines and take me down the hall to the elevator. I try to focus on the sounds from the rooms that we pass. Mostly there are snores. Sometimes I hear patients muttering. Sometimes moaning. Then we’re in the elevator, descending. Descending. I swear, it gets hotter as we go, like we’re falling into the bowels of hell. Actually, it isn’t heat, it’s fear. Terror. Eventually we stop, and they pull me out of the elevator and down the hall. The heat disappears as they drag me into the operating room. Actually, it’s the morgue. I know because of the smell. And the cold. And because once, after they pulled the lamp over me, but just before they turned it on, I could see bodies reflected in it. They strip off my clothes and lay me on an icy table. Then they begin. Cutting. They cut into me. Into my stomach. Precise cuts, always in the same place, they slice me open, and I try to scream. Try to throw myself off the cold metal square. I feel the knives slicing into me, cold, hard, invasive things, violating the core of my being. It goes on. And on. And when I think it cannot possibly go on any longer, that they must have sliced every nerve, and severed every part of me an inch at a time, they cut some more. I wish I could pass out from the pain. I wish I could block it out, or meditate my way to some kind of peaceful oblivion. But I can’t. Eventually, though, they do finish, and both men set down their blades. That’s when the assistant disappears from view. I can hear him, still in the room. He walks to something close by, a refrigerator, I think, which he opens. And then he returns. He has a metal container. Stainless steel, and covered in ice, though the assistant holds it with his bare hands, unconcerned with the cold .The doctor removes the top and reaches in, digging through whatever is inside for a few seconds before removing a slimy, squishy ball. He sets it on the table and digs through the container again. He pulls out six of the disgusting, grayish green things before closing the container back up. The assistant returns it to wherever he got it, and then makes his way back over to me. The cutting felt like a violation, like a brutal assault. Somehow, what they do next feels worse. The slimy things that they put into me don’t technically hurt, but they feel wrong. It’s like having your arm twisted, and contorted into an unnatural position, then forced to stay that way, only it’s happening inside my body. Organs shifting, being pushed aside, as a slimy substance slips into my blood. I’m not simply violated, I am corrupted. I am unclean. When the last of the things is placed in me, they sew me back up. They sew those things into me. Back in my room I try to count the holes in the ceiling. I try to pick at memories from my youth. I try to live in the moment. I try everything to distract myself from the things inside of me. The things that grow, with each passing day. The things that move about inside of me. The things that I can feel slowly nibbling at me. I sleep in short, restless bursts, dreaming monsters crawling through my stomach, out of my mouth. Dreaming of animals ripping their way out of me. Sometimes they devour me. Sometimes they just leave, and I lay, helpless in bed, as nurses come and go, checking my pulse, and taking samples, ignoring the gore pouring, endlessly, out of me. Then one of the things inside of me twists, or bites down, and I wake up. The next morning Amelia comes in again. Smiling, chatting, checking up on me, making sure I don’t have any bed sores, telling me about the guy she met last night. I try to listen, but can’t. The corruption inside of me is growing, feeding on me, tainting me. Then she gives me my shots. The things inside of me like the shots. They’re always more active afterwards. Always hungrier. This isn’t the first batch that I’ve had inside of me, and I can’t help but wonder how I’ve survived so many of them feeding on me. Perhaps my paralysis helps. Perhaps my body is better able to handle the internal damage because so little else is happening. Or perhaps that’s what the shots are for. Or the chalky taste. Or maybe this was all a dream, maybe I was really in a coma and everything that was happening to me was a delusion brought about by endless self loathing. No. I didn’t hate myself that much. I didn’t hate anyone that much. It’s easy to lose track of time when you can’t move, can’t communicate, when your days are a blur of routine. But when you have things inside of you, when you have parasites lodged between your organs, slowly devouring you, you start to pay attention to the passage of days. One month. That was how long they left those things in me. Thirty days, exactly. I used the tiles on the ceiling to count down my time. There were four tiles directly over my head. Four tiles, each tile with four corners, that made sixteen. The first sixteen days were one corner of a tile. The tiles made up one large rectangle, a rectangle with four corners. Sixteen plus four made twenty. The rectangle had three vertical bars in it, one on each side, and one on the middle, it also had three horizontal bars in it, one on each side and one in the middle. Twenty plus six made twenty six. Then there were the four tiles. Twenty six plus four made thirty. Thirty days. Every day, after my injections, when the things inside of me were most active, when they were hungriest, I would count off my thirty days. I would count how many had passed, and how many were left. Front to back. Back to front. I calculated the number of hours I had endured this time. I calculated the number of hours I had left. The number of minutes. The number of seconds. I double checked my math. Thirty days. Twenty nine. Twenty eight. Amelia got moved to a different shift, and I got a surly old crone who talked to the equipment more than me, and even then, only to curse at it. Seventeen. Sixteen. An old man down the hall from me died in the middle of the night. His heart gave out, according to the nurses. I envy him. I spend the next several days trying to stress my heart out, trying to make it crash. Eleven. Ten. Nine. The priest who comes by to read to us has gotten to revelations. It’s a very visual book. I can practically see it, as he’s reading. For a few seconds, I can almost forget the things crawling around inside of me. Then one of them takes a bite. Three. Two. One. They come for me again. I know what’s coming, the cutting, the agony, but it’s a price I’ll willingly pay to get these things out of me. Through the hall, down the elevator, into the morgue. I’m eager, this time, looking forward to the pain. They cut me open, and I almost black out. The eggs that were in me have hatched, or molted, or something. The things they pull out of me look more like spiders, but with extra legs. The doctor and his assistant handle them carefully. Lovingly. They move them off of me and into something nearby. One of the dead bodies, I think. I hear a crunching sound as the creatures begin to eat their new host with reckless abandon. I want to throw up. The doctor and his assistant pause, looking down at me. I wish they’d get on with it. The sewing isn’t pleasant, but once it’s over I’m back to plain old ordinary misery again. I look forward to that. “He won’t be able to handle another batch.” The doctor says .I’m surprised. They never talk. “He might be able to handle three.” The assistant argues. “No.” The doctor shakes his head and pokes at something inside of me. “He’s done.” Done? Am I done? Will they finally let me die? The assistant nods and moves out of my view. The doctor leans in, pulling a pen light which he uses to check my eyes. “Time for your miracle cure, Mr. Moreau.” Cure? I stare at him, confused. He can’t cure me. With everything I know, with everything they’ve done to me, he can’t risk me living. He can’t. . .The assistant steps back into view. There’s something on his shoulder. It looks like the things they’ve pulled out of me, but larger. A giant spider with many limbs. But they aren’t limbs, not like a humans. Not even like a spider. They’re tentacles. Long, thin things. The creature slithers down the assistant’s arm and into the gaping hole in me. The corruption I’ve felt before, the tainted feeling at having the young creatures in me is nothing next to this. Even paralyzed I can feel my body reacting, twitching, trying to reject the thing. To no avail. It climbs into me, and its tentacles stretch out, slithering throughout my body, everywhere, out to my limbs, to my head. I feel things cracking inside of me, bones breaking, muscle tearing, as this thing, this creature, makes room for itself. The last tentacle, the slowest of the bunch, slithers along my spine, along the inside. It climbs up, and up. My body spasms as it climbs through my spine, and into my brain. The two men watch, faces expressionless. Finally the doctor reaches down, pulling my skin back into place and begins sewing me back together. As he does, I move. My hand raises up in front of me, and my head turns to look at it. My fingers curl into a fist, then uncurl. But it isn’t me moving them .It isn’t me. I sit up. No. Not me. It sits up, the thing wearing me sits up, and looks around. “Do you know who you are?” The Doctor asks. The thing wearing me opens my mouth, then closes it. I can feel something happening in my brain. Not physically, the brain doesn’t have any nerves, but I can feel. . . something. The thing wearing me opens my mouth again, using me like a puppet, its slimy tentacles manipulating my body from the inside in a way that makes me feel ill. “Moreau.” The thing says.“ Good.” The doctor pats his shoulder. “Lay back down. We need to take you back to your room. Tomorrow night we’ll practice more.” The thing wearing me lies back down and closes its eyes. I scream in my mind. I howl, and grind my teeth, I weep. In my mind. The thing wearing me takes no notice. The thing wearing me. It can’t do this to me. It can’t. It can’t use my body while I’m still in it .I’m not dead! I’m NOT DEAD!

To listen to the story click on this link: https://youtu.be/57W_UWBKTgI

You can follow him on Facebook with this link: https://www.facebook.com/azriel672


The number one phobia is claustrophobia: the fear of small spaces. If you look up the definition of a phobia, it will say that it’s an irrational fear, a fear of something that poses little to no real threat to you. Yet still, people are scared shitless. It can cause people to feel extreme dread or panic and even cause physical ailments like vomiting or passing out. Some people can’t even talk about it without becoming upset. Others let it control their lives like me.

I have nyctophobia: the fear of the dark. I have learned to manage it. I sleep with the lights on; I keep flashlights nearby, and I always have a candle burning in the background, just in case the power goes out. I can’t go on this way, though. 

I have decided to join a research case on phobias. They will probably do tests, and with any luck, they might find a cure. I am very hopeful! 

Day 1

“Ok Mr. Davis, it’s your turn!” A cheerful young scientist says. “Don’t worry, today is just a few questions.” I get up from my chair and walk with her to a small room with two other scientists already present. A man that seems very tall even sitting down and a pretty blonde woman.

“Hello, Mr. Davis,” the man says coldly. “I am Dr. Thomas. This here is Dr. Mayweather,” he says, gesturing to the woman. 

“And of course you know our assistant Dr. Bridges.” The scientist that brought me in waves. I wave back awkwardly. 

“Please be seated,” he commands. I quickly sit down at the table with them. 

“What is your phobia?” Dr. Mayweather asks. 

“Nyctophobia, it should be on my paperwork,” I explain.

“Yes, I know, but it’s part of the process,” she reassures me.

“So you have a simple phobia,” Dr. Thomas interrupts and writes notes. “How does it make you feel? Can you describe it?”

I begin to sweat. “It’s like an immense sense of fear.”

“Go on.”

“I can’t get control of myself and I panic. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get out.”

He says nothing as he writes in his notebook. He finally looks up and glances at me with a disapproving look. “Ok, well we will find more out on that subject tomorrow.”

“When did this start? Was there a traumatic incident that led to your fear?” Dr. Mayweather asks, glancing annoyed at Dr. Thomas. 

“As a child, my parents would lock me in a dark room for hours on end. It was their form of punishment. By the time I was a teenager, I couldn’t stand to be in the dark.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Mayweather says.

A flashback plays in my head: sitting in the dark room for hours, crying for my mother. I couldn’t see anything, it was so dark. I would pound on the door and scream as loud as I could. Then I would feel it. The breath of something, I’m not sure what. It would breathe down my neck and grab my chest tightly, so tightly.

“Tomorrow we are going to put you directly in your phobia to see how you react,” Dr. Thomas’s cruel voice brings me back to the present. 

I begin to breathe heavily. Dr. Mayweather gives me a look of reassurance and pats my hand. “It will be alright. We will watch you the whole time.”

Day 2

“Okay, Mr. Davis. Let’s begin,” Dr. Thomas starts walking away from me, to the door.

“Wait!” I yell in panic. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Dr. Mayweather says. “Dr. Thomas and I are going into the other room where we can watch the feed from the night vision camera. Dr. Bridges will stay in here with you. If it begins to be too much, yell the code word three times.” 

They walk out of the room and I look at Dr. Bridges. She gives me a smile and a nod. 

Please God, give me strength. 

The lights go out and I can’t see anything, it’s so dark. I instantly become anxious. “Bicycle,” I say the safe word. Only two more times till they let me out. I walk around the room, seeing if I can find anything I recognize. As I start to touch objects, my hands go numb. I start breathing heavily, and my stomach turns. My ears start ringing.

“Bicycle,” I say again as I begin to vomit on the floor. My body is heaving as hard as it can. I can barely breathe. I’m choking. Oh God, I’m choking. The ringing is deafening now. Somebody help me. 

Then I feel it. Its icy hands and warm breath on me. It’s got me. The monster from my childhood is here. I can’t take it. I’m going to die here.

No, I won’t die. 

I turn around, barely breathing, my heart racing, to face the monster. I can’t see it but I can feel it.

I take a swing and hit it. I hear it thud to the ground. I bend down over it and start hitting.

I hit it hard and fast. I hit until I feel warm liquid on my hands. 

I feel something grab me. It pulls me and throws me down. I hit the floor so hard it feels like my ribs snapped. The ringing in my ears gets louder, then it gives way to the wet sound of someone choking. Sputtering and gasping for life.

“Somebody call 911!” a voice screams. I know this voice, but I can’t place it. 

I realize my eyes are closed. I open them and the light is back on. It’s so bright all I can see is white. And red? Some much red, everywhere. 

My senses begin to return. The figures in front of me become clear. Dr. Thomas is standing behind Dr. Mayweather, who is hunched over someone. Someone hurt beyond recognition.

A thought crosses my mind. Dr. Bridges will stay in here with you. It’s Dr. Bridges on the floor! She looks awful. I’m still on the floor, but I try to crawl closer to her. 

Dr. Thomas shoves me back. “I just want to help,” I say. What happened? 

“You’ve done enough,” he says through his teeth. My confusion continues for a moment, then I put it together. I lay down my head and weep.

The Quest Of The Wizard D&D PLOTS

The Quest of the Wizard


You have been walking for a while when you come across a small town. You walk into the more business side of town. You see a school with children playing out front, a church, and a tavern with guards out front. Next to the tavern is a group of people chatting. 


  1. Go to the church. 
    1. It’s locked by a magical force. 
    2. Perception check/ investigation: Normal church
  2. Go talk to the children.
    1. They yell “Stranger Danger” and go into the school. 
  3. Go talk to the crowd of people outside the tavern 
    1. They tell you that there is a mysterious wizard in the tavern that has guards with him. He came looking for adventurers.
    2. Perception check: They look intrigued and confused.
  4. Go talk to the guards.
    1. Silence. 
  5. Fight the guards
    1. Roll for intuitive.
    2. Fight the two that are outside, two come from inside. 
    3.   Win against the guards, the wizard comes out.
      1. “You must be true adventures to take my guards! I have a quest that has your name on it.”
    4. Accept quest
      1. There is a cave a few miles away. In this cave is a scroll, I need that scroll. 


You walk in and see a normal-looking tavern. A few guys at the bar, a few barmaids, and a group of people standing around. In the back, you see two more guards and the wizard. 


  1. Talk to a group of people. 
    1. They notice Church as a folk hero and get excited. 
  2. Go up to the wizard.
    1. The wizard greets you and asks if you are adventurous. Says he has a quest that he will reward greatly for. The quest is to get a scroll from a cave a few miles from town. You can keep anything you find just bring me the scroll. 
  3. Order drink
    1. Get drink.
  4. Go up to a guard
    1. silence.


Treasures investigation check (15):

  1. Bag of Holding- 2 feet in diameter, 4 feet deep. Can hold up to 500 pounds. If it is torn, pierced, or overstuffed everything scatters into the astral plane. If turned inside out it doesn’t go to the astral plane. Breathing creatures inside the bag can survive up to several minutes equal to 10 divided by the number of creatures.
  2. Potion of greater healing: regain 4d4+4 hit points. The potion’s red liquid glimmers when agitated. 
  3. Potion of mind reading: detect thoughts spell (save dc 13). The potion’s dense, purple liquid has an ovoid cloud of pink floating in it
  4. Potion of flying: gain a flying speed equal to walking speed for one hour. This potion’s clear liquid floats at the top of its container and has cloudy white impurities drifting in it. 


  1. Potion of storm giant strength: strength score for 1 hour. 29 strength. Transparent liquid has a floating fingernail from a storm giant. 


You get back to town a hear that the wizard is in the church. You go into the church and give him the scroll. The wizard starts reading the scroll and magically Manes and Crawling claws appear. He says it’s the scroll of chaotic magic. He is going to unleash havoc on this quiet little town and all the towns around it.

My Love

So I wrote this story with two ends. I’ve asked a lot of people which one is best and they gave a lot of different answers. Therefore, I am going to post them both! Feel free to comment your favorite ending!!

Ending 1

I loved her. She was everything to me. I can’t live without her. Ever. She is beautiful to me even now. 

I walk to my friend’s house. It’s a short walk, I only live a few houses down. I knock on the door and wait. Nobody answers. I hear her dog barking on the other side. I know she’s home; we are going to the concert tonight. What could she be doing? I let myself in. She gave me a key about a year ago. 

“Shelby, it’s me, Brittany!” I yell. 

Nothing. I walk up the stairs. I still don’t see her.

“Shelby, this isn’t funny!” I get worried. 

Where is she? I walk to her room.

“Shelb! We got to go!” I angrily shout and open the door. I quickly shut it, then open it slowly. Is that real? Am I dreaming? There she is. Dead on the floor. I run to her and go to check for a pulse. My fingers slip inside her warm, gushy throat. She had slit her own throat, the knife barely in her hand. Oh god. I knew she had some problems, but she never said that they were this bad. If only she had talked to me, I would have been there for her. 

Sorrow quickly turns to panic. What am I going to do? Who do I call? She has no one but me. Only me. Nobody knows but me. I calm down and think, “She can finally be mine.”

“There is blood everywhere!” I shout to her body. I go downstairs to get a rag and bucket. “We got to clean this up!” I get back to her. She is still perfect.

I pick her up by her arms and struggle to drag her to the bathroom. “Now to get you in the tub!” I cheerfully giggle. I remove her clothes and throw them aside. It takes a few minutes to get her inside the tub, her deadweight is almost too much for me. I go back to the rag and bucket and start cleaning the blood off the floor. It takes hours and I still need something to get the stain out of the carpet.

I go back to the bathroom, and I turn on the showerhead. I run the water over her body. Blood flows down her chest, It’s kind of chunky because of the coagulation. I rinse her hair, getting the sticky blood out of it. “I’ve always loved your hair,” I said to her. I put shampoo in my hands and rub it into her scalp. 

After her bath, I lay her on the bed. “We’ll get you dressed in a minute,” I assure her. I look at her on the bed. All I see is the giant gash in her neck. “This simply won’t do.” I find some thick yarn and a needle. I sew her neck shut the best I can and feel satisfied with myself. I walk over to her closet and pick out my favorite dress. “I really like this one on you,” I smile and walk back to the bed. It almost feels as though she is smiling back. I remember the first time I saw her in this dress. She was going to dinner with some guy that would never appreciate her as I do. 

I wrestle with her to get it on. “Come on now! You got to help me a little,” I say sitting her up. She falls back over. “Hmm.” I stand there for a minute, I see myself in her full-length mirror. The reality of what is going on sinks in. What am I doing? She’s a corpse. 

Then the fear sets in. Someone is going to find out what I’ve done. It’s only a matter of time. What am I going to do they are going to take me from her! Finally, it comes to me. “I know a way we can be together forever!” I squeal. I run over to the knife. I pick it up and look at the blood dried on it. I forcefully run it across my throat. Blood fills my airway, and I collapse to the floor. 

Ending 2

I loved her. She was everything to me. I can’t live without her. Ever. She is beautiful to me even now. 

I walk to my friend’s house. It’s a short walk, I only live a few houses down. I knock on the door and wait. Nobody answers. I hear her dog barking on the other side. I know she’s home; we are going to the concert tonight. What could she be doing? I let myself in. She gave me a key about a year ago. 

“Shelby, it’s me, Brittany!” I yell. 

Nothing. I walk up the stairs. I still don’t see her.

“Shelby, this isn’t funny!” I get worried. 

Where is she? I walk to her room.

“Shelb! We got to go!” I angrily shout and open the door. I quickly shut it, then open it slowly. Is that real? Am I dreaming? There she is. Dead on the floor. I run to her and go to check for a pulse. My fingers slip inside her warm, gushy throat. She had slit her own throat, the knife barely in her hand. Oh god. I knew she had some problems, but she never said that they were this bad. If only she had talked to me, I would have been there for her. 

Sorrow quickly turns to panic. What am I going to do? Who do I call? She has no one but me. Only me. Nobody knows but me. I calm down and think, “She can finally be mine.”

“There is blood everywhere!” I shout to her body. I go downstairs to get a rag and bucket. “We got to clean this up!” I get back to her. She is still perfect.

I pick her up by her arms and struggle to drag her to the bathroom. “Now to get you in the tub!” I cheerfully giggle. I remove her clothes and throw them aside. It takes a few minutes to get her inside the tub, her deadweight is almost too much for me. I go back to the rag and bucket and start cleaning the blood off the floor. It takes hours and I still need something to get the stain out of the carpet.

I go back to the bathroom, and I turn on the showerhead. I run the water over her body. Blood flows down her chest, It’s kind of chunky because of the coagulation. I rinse her hair, getting the sticky blood out of it. “I’ve always loved your hair,” I said to her. I put shampoo in my hands and rub it into her scalp. 

After her bath, I lay her on the bed. “We’ll get you dressed in a minute,” I assure her. I look at her on the bed. All I see is the giant gash in her neck. “This simply won’t do.” I find some thick yarn and a needle. I sew her neck shut the best I can and feel satisfied with myself. I walk over to her closet and pick out my favorite dress. “I really like this one on you,” I smile and walk back to the bed. It almost feels as though she is smiling back. I remember the first time I saw her in this dress. She was going to dinner with some guy that would never appreciate her as I do. 

I wrestle with her to get it on. “Come on now! You got to help me a little,” I say sitting her up. She falls back over. “Hmm.”

That was fifteen years ago now. I moved into her apartment with her shortly after that. I kept the apartment paid for and called her work to inform them she quit. No one knew she was with me. Dead. The smell, you ask? Well, I looked into the embalming process. I even became a mortician to cover up my purchases. It was all going well until now until I got cancer. Who will take care of my love now? When I’m gone? My only solace is knowing we’ll be together in the afterlife.

The Call

A man and his wife are resting quietly in a living room watching TV. Nothing is being said between them, the Tv filling the silence. The phone rings. 

“Who could be calling at this hour?” the wife grumbles. 

“I’ll go check it out,” the man says as he puts down his newspaper. He walks over to the phone and picks it up. “Hello.” Nothing. “Hello?”

Suddenly a little girl’s voice talks. “Daddy, I want to come home.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I think you have the wrong number,” He replies assuringly.

“I’m not having any fun and no one will play with me,” the voice persists. 

“I’m certain your parents will come to get you.”

“I’ve been here forever!”

“I’m sure it feels that way. Bye-bye now!” he moves to hang up the phone when he hears something weird on the line. Like a scream turned into static. 

“Daddy, please,” the voice sounds a little distorted now. “It’s dark in here and I’m all alone.”

“Where are you?”

“You know where I am.”

“Is this some kind of prank?” he is slightly angry now. The speech sounds more familiar as she speaks.

“I want to come home now Daddy!” 

“This isn’t funny! I lost my daughter fifteen years ago!” The wife rushes into the room and demands to know who he is talking to.

“But Daddy, I never left,” the voice turning normal again. They both hear it.

An icy shiver runs down her spine. “I’m going to call the police,” she insists. 

“Why are you doing this, Daddy? I need you to come to get me. It’s so cold here.”

“No! I watched it happen! I saw her-” he stops and looks at his wife. 

“What did you see?” the voice getting distorted again.

“It was an accident,” she cries. “Please, forgive us. We didn’t mean to-”

A click as the call ends. Then silence. 

The man and wife fall to the floor and weep. 

The Deal

They tie the girl down to a chair. Her wrists are in hot pain from the ropes. Sweat drips from her brow, making her thick eyeliner trickle down her face. “Please,” she weakly pleads. She’s been here for ages, praying and pleading. They won’t take notice.

“Begone foul beast!” A priest shrieks and throws holy water on her face. 

She spits as the water rushes down her face. “I’m not possessed.” She is seeing black spots, she feels the end is coming. “I think I’m dying.”

“It’s the devil talking!” The priest howls as he snatches her by her hair. He roars at her, “I adjure thee, most evil spirit, by Almighty God.” 

She sits there pondering how this could have been prevented. Maybe she could have been nicer to her parents. Maybe she shouldn’t have joked around with those pentagrams. Was this all her negligence? It didn’t matter now, it will be over soon. She exhales her last breath as the father smacks her with a cross. 

“Stop!” A woman calls out, rushing into the room. She crouches down to the girl. “She’s not breathing!” 

The father stops and replies, “We could not recover this spirit.” 

“Someone get a doctor! My baby is dying!” The woman cries. No one moves. “Why are you just standing there?” A man steps in and grabs the woman. “You did this!” She declares, struggling out of his clutch. “You wanted her, exorcised! Are you satisfied now?”

“No,” he responds through his teeth. “But this is God’s will.”

“You’re insane! You’re all insane!” She laughs. 

One year later. 

“All rise.” A man calls out in a monotone voice. A judge walks into the courtroom. He sits at his bench. “Be seated,” the man says. 

“So we are here on the behalf of the Hansen case. You, Elizabeth Hansen, are suing Robert Hansen and the Rockwell church for the unjust death of your daughter, Bailey Hansen,” the judge stated. 

“Yes, your honor,” the woman responded.

“Can you tell me what took place?”

“Yes, my spouse, Robert, found a priest to perform a purification on Bailey,” she starts. 

“Was it just your husband who requested this or you both?” 

“Well, at first both but-“

“Then don’t blame it all on him,” the judge interrupts. “Proceed.”

“The purification went on for five hours until she died,” she whispered, sobbing.

“You didn’t consider ending it before then?” 

“They set up while I was still at work. When I got home, my husband informed me of what was taking place. I instantly rushed upstairs to stop it, but I was too late.”

The judge nods and asked, “Robert Hansen and the Rockwell church, do you have anything to add?”

A lawyer stands up and answers, “Your honor, it’s unfortunate that she died. Although, this is a sacred tradition, and the family knew what they were getting into. We should not hold the church liable for a religious exercise that was asked of them. Robert Hansen was only trying to help his child through his faith.” 

“Playing the religion card, I see.” The judge points out. 

After hours in the courtroom, the judge comes to a decision. “The court rules in the favor of Mr. Robert Hansen and the Rockwell church.” 

“No! You can’t do this!” Elizabeth cries. 

“Court adjourned,” the judge declared, hammering his gavel. 

Days later

Elizabeth is sitting in her apartment. She is still distraught from the court case. How could they side with them? They are the evil ones! 

She had tried everything. Everything in this world, at least. 

“Hello, Elizabeth,” a sultry voice said. She quickly turns around and sees him. The devil. He is relaxing in a chair in the room’s corner.

“Who are you?” She questions, not wanting to believe it.

“Why I am the answer to your problems,” he says, standing up. “I can make them pay. I can make the pain go away.”

“No, you’re evil. I can’t do it.”

“Am I as evil as the men that killed your daughter?” The question jabs straight through her heart. 

She stands there and looks at him.

“No? Yes? Do you want me to be?” he smirks. 

“What would I have to do?” She weakly asks. “Sell my soul?”

“What a small price to pay for making them hurt.”

“But it’s my soul. To be damned to Hell forever.” She faces away.

“Yes, but how many more children will suffer at the hands of that congregation? You could stop it. How many people do you think they have performed exorcisms on, and how many of them were possessed? I know the answer and it’s not good. Why, a trigger-happy church like that needs to be stopped.”

She looks as though she might cry.

“I can punish them the way they hurt her. The way they killed your daughter, your flesh and blood. You raised her from the beginning and they took it all away. They stole her life, all the things she could have accomplished.”

“Ok,” she mumbles.

“What? I didn’t hear you, love,” He said smiling. 

“I’ll do it!” she screams. 

“It has been done,” he remarks and disappears. She can still hear his laughter in the distance. 

The next morning

“A local church burned down last night, everyone inside perished,” a new broadcaster announces. “These are some of the thirty or so victims.” A list of names pops up on the screen. Elizabeth rushes over to the tv and looks at all who have died. The priest, his goons, the lawyer, and her husband are all deceased.

The End

“It’s the end of times! Hell is upon us! Demons will walk the Earth! You are damned to Hell unless you come with us!” I hear a priest yelling over the TV. I change the channel. 

“Flooding in the northern hemisphere due to the ice melting causing an abundance of water,” a news broadcaster says. I turn the TV off. 

You know, I’d expect this to be more exciting.

Hi, I’m Jamie and the world is ending. 

No, for real. Earth is moving towards the sun. The world is getting hotter each day, melting icecaps and making frozen land green. We are all going to die in a few days. Grim, I know. Most people are trying to spend it with their families, others are wreaking havoc. It’s kinda like the movie ‘The Purge’. There is no law when we are all dying anyway. 

Well, there is one law: The Church. The Church is a worldwide cult, as I like to call it. They feed on the weakness of others. They say that we aren’t really moving into the sun, Hell is just coming to earth. They also say that they can stop it, or at least save you. Predictably, they get a lot of scared people joining trying to save themselves. 

How will they stop it, you ask? Well, listen up. A hundred virgins will be sacrificed and out of their blood, a creature will rise. It will have three heads and be eight-foot-tall. The head will be of a lion, an eagle, and a rhino, maybe? Anyways, it will bring them to victory against the Devil. This will send Hell back where it belongs. Of course, they need lots and lots of money to get ready for the battle. 

Why am I telling you this? Because I’ve done something terrible and I need to tell someone. I’m trying to cope with what I’ve done, but I don’t think I can forgive myself. 

Let’s just start from the beginning, ok?

My best friend is named Hazel. Was named Hazel. She was beautiful in all she did. She was short with long black hair that flowed so beautifully in the wind. She had eyes that would steal your thoughts. I loved her more than anything in this world, but she did not feel the same about me. To her, I was her dorky best friend with nothing going for him. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, was the opposite. She had a boyfriend that was big in The Church. You know, the cult. He was willing to do anything for The Church and she would do anything for him. 

I tried to stop her. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. 

She had come over to my house to tell me some news, she was so excited. I immediately knew that something was wrong. When she told me She was going to sacrifice herself as one of the virgins. I know he had convinced her to do it. She said it would bring meaning to her death and it would be alright. 

I was so mad. How could she do this to me? Leave me like this at the end of times?

We argued for what seemed like forever. It was no use, he had brainwashed her. I was going to my room upstairs when she stopped me. I told her to leave, I didn’t want to be a part of her cult. She asked if we could just talk about it. There was nothing to talk about, she was going to sacrifice herself for someone else and she wanted me to be happy about it? When I loved her! I grabbed her and shook her, hard. “Why are you doing this to me?” I shouted at her. She pushed herself away from me and, and, she fell. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. I rushed to her side but it was too late. She was gone. 

She’s still in my house. I took her to my room and laid her on the bed. She looks so cozy there. I often curl up to her and look at her now lifeless eyes. That’s where I’ll be when the Earth hits the sun, with my best friend.