#madness

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Note: This is based on an actual nightmare I had back when Momo was popular. Before we start, I’m not going to make any attempts to call Momo or do the Momo Challenge. I’m not here to do that, as it’s incredibly dangerous, and I’m not trying to get myself or my family hurt. I’m just here to share a nightmare I had a long time ago, back when the legend was popular.

There is a level of great genius one may reach that far surpasses that of burning madness. There is madness, and there is animo. In a frigid, foreboding cave, a hypogeum of petrified stillness, disguised carefully as a luxury property, hidden somewhere within deep glacial valleys of scenic Swiss mountains, you can find a mechanical man, with a mechanical plan.

Heavy rain, shaking thunder. Laser sharp lightning. Muggy gloom. A beautifully Victorian castle lit hazily from within burns bright on the center of nothing, and nowhere. Painted sepia shades descending darker than the darkness of night itself. Our distressed protagonist, drenched, hurriedly scurries up the stone steps to the bronze Baphomet-shaped door knocker. Thud. Thud. The door slowly scrapes open to reveal a rather unfortunate looking young man, around twenty years of age at most.

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,…

Excerpt from a local newspaper: OMINOUS UNKNOWN KILLER IS STILL AT LARGE. After weeks of unexplained murders, the ominous unknown killer is still on the rise. After little evidence has been found, a young boy states that he survived one of the killer’s attacks and bravely tells his story.

Let me start off by saying that Peter Terry was addicted to heroin.

It was Halloween in the year 2015. I remember waking up at 7AM, feeling stoked for Halloween and watching Charlie Brown. I saw people from outside my neighborhood decorating at the last minute because a lot of people like slacking on Halloween.

You know those sounds you hear when no one is home? Those sounds only you hear. When you’re alone. I do. I hear them everyday. The creaking. The noises. The paranoia of my mind playing tricks on me, but is it really?

I don’t know why so many of these things have roots in childhood. It seems like a bad cliché at this point. “When I was a kid”, there was this strange event… that odd creature… or the other thing that made me do something-or-other. Yeah. I don’t know WHY so many start like that. For me, I can’t explain this any other way than starting when I was little. It’s the crux of the entire thing, and I apologize in advance if it seems like I’m just following in the footsteps of others.

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 was staying at a hotel in Chicago Illinois during a business trip and I was going to stay for the whole weekend. It was an older hotel, one that still used small keys rather than keycards to enter the rooms. I didn't mind, it seemed nice to get away from the onslaught of technology.

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare.

I cannot describe to you how I feel right now. What I’m experiencing is so detached from the normal, I’m almost convinced I’ve finally gone insane. Almost. My wife, Bea, died during childbirth. She was gorgeous, funny, intelligent – stubborn. A woman whose laugh was so loud, eating in restaurants was a challenge. A woman whose stare was so intense, it made my hands shake. I lost her as she gave birth to our daughter. Sam.

The black light in my hand told me things I should have never known, word by word over a month’s grim fascination.

It's hard to imagine strange things like those you could hear on the road from chance fellow travelers. The muffled clatter of iron footsteps bringing a soothing rhythm to the capricious flow of life. Fragrant steam rising above an almost cozy little table infecting the soul with a sense of weightlessness. And memories out loud free from the etiquette of dependence.

“Bobby! Pay attention!” he heard his teacher say. He snapped out of his reverie and looked up to see her glaring at him. “Did you hear anything I’ve been saying?” she continued. Bobby shrugged his shoulders. Prior to being disrupted, he was daydreaming that he could freeze time, and before that he was imagining himself navigating the classroom if he was only 5 inches tall. The teacher continued to rant at him, just as they all did, then she placed him on detention Friday night after school.

“So goodbye yellow brick road Where the dogs of society howl You can’t plant me in your penthouse I’m going back to my plough Back to the howling old owl in the woods Hunting the horny back toad Oh I’ve finally decided my future lies Beyond the yellow brick road” – Elton John, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” Kansas In 1985, the Disney film ’Return to Oz’ was released in cinemas, and a few years later made its way onto home VHS.

My life has been average at most. I lived in a family of two girls and one boy. There was my older sister, Jenny, me, and my younger brother, Alex. We had a typical childhood, I guess. Jenny was popular, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and skinny frame. Alex, early on, showed a penchant for sports and became the star athlete of the family. But myself, just like the rest of my life, was very… average.

"What are you gazing at...? What's there outside the window...?" "Outside the window...? Nothing." "Nothing? Looking at nothing?" "It's her... my... my ghostly girl." Beloved women... They, like a sudden downpour, come, turn you into themselves, and vanish… leaving you… leaving you alone with your own shadow called sorrow.