#mindfuck

Hynensborgs Skogar Det höll på att bli höst i staden Hynensborg, en av årets mörkaste och regnigaste perioder. Det är också den tid då unga människor vill fördriva tiden med något, då folk ofta sätter sig tillsammans runt en eldspruta och berättar mörka historier för varandra. En grupp kemistudenter och vänner – Noah, Freyr och Vidar – bestämde sig för att spendera en av septemberkvällarna under den inledande helgen på precis det sättet... Befriade från vardagens bekymmer och oro bestämde de…

Content warning: child death 1

Having just finished my Master’s in Classical archaeology, I decided to celebrate by trekking my way through Italy. I spent about a week in Rome seeing the usual sites and eventually I made my way south down to Sorrento.  But backpacking through Italy wasn’t just for leisure, it was actual fieldwork — well, sort of.

First, I need to describe my appearance. It's important because if you ever see someone who looks exactly like the person I'm about to describe, that is not me, and it is not human.

He had no idea how he had ended up in these foul depths, but all he knew was that he needed to find a way out before it was too late. The young Dragonnoid had sworn to himself he would never go into the city, so why was he wandering lost in its forsaken bowels?

No one remembers her name. Her real name anyway. She was a girl once- a regular girl, a good girl- who worked as a harlequin for her family's tiny traveling show. She had a white painted face, with a happy painted red smile. Jolly jinglin' shoes, and bright purple-dyed pigtails that bobbed comically as she capered about on the stage of some, now long-fallen kingdom. She made nobles and peasants alike laugh.

Samantha was a young, pretty, active girl with a positive outlook on life. Above all, she was down-to-earth, didn't believe in any ghosts, phantoms, or other such things, and had a very analytical mind. She loved long forest hikes, which relaxed and calmed her down greatly, allowing her to rest and escape from everyday problems. That day, right after finishing her lectures, she decided to head down to the river. She packed her backpack, put on a denim jacket, denim pants, and sturdy, heavy…

July 4th, 2028, the police are at their busiest on a hot Los Angeles summer evening. The station is fully staffed with officers going in and out on calls. All while Gordon sits at the front desk with his eyes going back and forth between his monitor and the front door. He was pretty pissed he had to work a double shift into the morning. Let alone miss the fireworks with his kids.

Part I

Once, was a legend, with rage of a thousand betrayed vikings. Statement begins. —------------------------ 1592, Hungary, Ecsed Castle. There lived a cruel mistress, rather favored by, rumored accurately, blood countess Elizabeth Báthory, and was to carry on her legacy of arcane dirty work, meant only for hellbound souls, willing. Days after barely surviving arduous birth, her mercenary husband unexpectedly passed away due to sudden incurable illness.

I opened the messenger app. I hadn’t done much. It was my day off as I had submitted my assignment on the Duke of Wellington’s strategy at the Battle of Waterloo the day before. I was bored and in a bad mood. John had called me but missed. He had also left a message on my desktop. I read it:

Hands raised above his head, none could bear witness to his holy tunic. Dust filled light peered from the stained glass windows, blocking the view of the not yet holy. I could make out his holiness’s silhouette and his robe’s red shine from the ethereal glow. The floor became wet with the tears of those who stood at the pews, hands raised as did their holiness. Their eyes were a squint, but their teeth would break under the pressure of their smiles. Some reached for it, some hid from it, some…

I still don't know why my father drove away before sunrise. For years, I believed that was the part of the story that would never make sense to me. I was wrong. I was too young to understand it then, and every time I asked my parents about that morning, they either laughed it off or admitted they couldn't remember it at all. Sometimes I wonder if forgetting is easier than remembering.

There was this tiny indie horror movie that basically nobody had seen. I don't even remember how we found it. Maybe TikTok, or maybe someone on Reddit recommended it. It had one of those titles that sounded way cooler after you finished watching it than before, and it looked like it had a budget of maybe twenty dollars. Somehow it still worked. It wasn't really scary in the traditional sense. There weren't any monsters or cheap jump scares. It was just... unsettling.

This is a story about the brave little tractor. Let's call him John. John is a small tractor, but he loves helping out on the farm! John plows across the field with his little plow. It takes a very long time, and afterward, John is very thirsty and hungry. His metal begs for oil, but John loves serving and helping others!

Another bullshit Friday night. That was all it was. I was back home from the college dorms at Georgia Southwestern State University and back home in Albany, Georgia for the summer. The June heat was torture. My thirst further increased by the heat and the constant loneliness. At nineteen, I had no money, no girlfriend, no friends for comfort to go clubbing with, and needless to say, I didn’t have a fake I.D. to buy booze for these most lonely nights.

Stacy was a diligent office worker-meticulous and thorough. It was a typical, sunny summer day, just like any other. She sat at her desk, buried under a pile of documents to sign and a long list of emails to send. Nothing indicated that her peace was about to be shattered. Her colleague, Michelle, walked into the office, announcing that there was an issue with the ventilation system and that the computers were running louder than usual, though no one knew why.

I didn't open the door. On mine and violets life I didn't, but my head was pounding the same way as it did when I went through a door.

My dad Don may as well have been dead this past year. Hell, you could make the argument he may as well have been dead for nearly the past fifty… ever since his brother Tommy passed away from cancer in 1973.

I didn’t really like either of the sons-of-bitches. The only problem was I was married to Ed. At thirty years old, I’d gone from Sharon Wilson to Sharon Wam. I know. Changing to such a silly last name was only an awful beginning to an awful marriage. Unlike me, Ed didn’t like going out much. He much preferred to drink at our little house on East University Street. The married months weren’t kind to us. Ed’s curly golden hair was always a mess, his good-looking face hindered by constant anger.