#creatures

The following are notes I wrote on my phone during my night shifts in December 2025, mostly on my breaks, sometimes in the toilets, once lying on the floor of a linen cupboard. I've fixed the spelling and nothing else. I'm posting them because the Trust's investigation has closed, and it says what it says, and this says what happened. — Clare

My wife has been buried in the old graveyard at Killevy, under Slieve Gullion, since the 9th of October 2025.

“Hey y’all, it’s Red, White, and Ruin here with a new ghostbox urban exploration for you to watch from the safety of your home. Lucky you! Today, we’re walking through the dead Cherry Hill Mall. Let’s take a look, huh?” I said in my chipper announcer voice. I hit stop on the video I was recording and sighed. Being this perky all the time was exhausting. I sighed, took in my surroundings, and frowned. “Jesus, what a dump.”

Notice: This is 'section 2' of the story Ad Nauseam, I have ran into a unique issue due to the size of Ad Nauseam that I had to make this separate story just to continue until said issue is fixed; if you are new and interested please begin reading here: https://nightscri.be/s/89368/ad-nauseam If you are caught up to Chapter 33 then continue to the next page and enjoy! If you came later during this whole max size debacle, then you can skip some.

Year 157, Near the end of the fall season. I'm not sure what day it is. I am a regular guy who lives in the peaceful village of "Unut." And today, I am helping the village elder by chopping some logs for him. "But he's not going to pay me shit." I said as I swung my axe. I'm only helping him because he's like a father to me. I was a little child when my family abandoned me. Yet he took me in and raised me to this age. "And I am going to do his chores for the rest of his lifetime."

I'm going to die here, or maybe I can't. The only thing I have here is a pen that never seems to run out, and this book that has infinite pages and funnily enough is waterproof. I originally woke up in a strange room with yellow wallpaper, fluorescent lights that hummed, smelling the mold and mildew infesting the walls.

DAY 1

I uncapped the red pen and added another "X" to our calendar. A small one, as not to take up more space than needed. After all, the box already had three others inside just like it. Who knew how many more we would have to add?

It would have been so much easier just to keep telling myself the worst parts of my past were all in my head, and assure myself it wasn’t healthy for me to think too much about it.

In case you’ve been following along with the events at the gas station on my blog, I apologize that my website was taken down so abruptly. For some reason, the city council found my public record of local events to be “troubling”--to the point that they hired a fancy Orwellian legal team to bury me in cease and desists. I tried fighting back, but as of last week, it looks like my entire site has been retroactively erased from existence. Presumably, these are the same guys who’ve been scrubbing…

The following story was originally posted across 8 different installments spanning the months from October to November of 2017. They describe the true events that occurred at a now infamous small town gas station. PART ONE

I have to remind myself. I don’t want to forget. I can’t forget again. For a while now I don’t even remember my own name from time to time, and I forget who my mom was. And my brother. I have to write down everything that happened before I go back there. Back to The Chimes. My name is Sam. My older brother was named Marcus.

L-3 About 10 miles off the shores of Galveston, Texas, lies Grandiosia Isle: 300,000 acres of swamp, mountain, jungle, and thick pine forest. It has endured a lot—a blizzard during the early 1200s, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, and in 1875 a forest fire scorched the entire island, rendering it uninhabitable for some time. As a result, the island was nearly devoid of forest life, except for creatures capable of flight, until 1994 when deer and such were reintroduced onto the island.

I must confess this process hasn't exactly been easy for me. Wading through the memories of what happened feels like digging through the rubble of your home after a tornado. You look for anything worth salvaging. And try to ignore the rest. Those three days feel like an exposed nerve in my mind. The wounds, both physical and mental, are still fresh. But this is a process, and my shrink says the best way to heal is by facing the trauma head on. So I force myself to remember it one more time to…

Part 1: I can hear the screams of men, and gunfire. I can smell their fear. They know something is in the dark, something strange, menacing, and very, very hungry. Oh God-blam-the fuck is that-blamblam- It hurts-blamblamblam-please don’t-blamblamblamblam-Noooooooo- blamblamblamblamblamblam……

"'Tis midnight, let us hit this," He said, after procuring the previously mentioned drugs. Wielding the ever-convenient Ziplock bag, he started to make his way into the room, abruptly falling down without the slightest grace as his already-altered motor skills abandoned his legs. He hit the floor rather loudly.

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?