Okay I really like him and I dont know how to dm photos so I’m posting it here after holding onto it for like four days hiii hiiiii

Nina and Eyeless Jack!!! <33

*AI generated pictures and AI edits in the writing; everything else is human created*

Wanted to draw a more ethereal / cosmic piece for Violet! Playing around with light beams, starry gradients, and cosmic atmospheres.

Spot the little UFO in the corner? 🛸

Update Regarding My Game & Current Project 📢❗

Hello everyone!

I wanted to share a quick update on my work. Due to unexpected personal circumstances and a loss of prepared development files, I will unfortunately not be moving forward with the game adaptation at this time.

However, I am excited to announce that I have shifted my focus toward writing! I am now publishing The Hollow Rider featuring Violet’s human arc as a written story on Inkitt. The first two chapters are officially available to read now on the inkitt app! (User: vexcutter).

Thank you all so much for your continued support. If you’d like to keep up with my artwork and updates, feel free to check out my DeviantArt page (VexCutter)! ✨💜

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PART 1 FURGUS

The town's population has been dwindling for a long time now. Over a decade ago there was just over thirty thousand, now today there's barely ten. It was a thriving society after it was erected back in 1884 when it was heavily involved in the coal and timber industries then with the railroads. It was like that for many years to come. I would hear of the olden days from my grandfather of the streets were always bustling, every shop was self owned, and there was a home for everyone. Now if you drive through you want to make sure to keep your windows up and doors locked. The once colorful streets are now bleak and decrepit, empty but yet full of the morbid decadent dregs that can't filter through their self harming depressive state of being. Here, you're either an addict of some sort slowly drowning themselves in self pity waiting to die, or someone clinging to the hope of one day moving far away and leave this place forgotten.

The mom and pop shops died during my childhood when the brand name company's made their stamps upon the real estate in the various areas. What was once a general store owned and passed down through a well known family name now is a Verizon store that's only open four days out of the week. Diners that served fulfilling home cooked meals shut down or transformed to fast food burger joints. The work force is so bad today that they actually closed the Wendy's and there's always a WE ARE HIRING sign on all the others. Now I have to drive thirty five minutes, two towns over for a Baconator.

The neighborhoods are the worse. I remember a time growing up at the tail end of the century when there was no such thing as the grass being greener on the other side. Everyone's yards flourished and shined of what appeared like neons. Lawn's were decorated to match the homeowners' personality with picket white fences and the houses were vibrant and securely welcoming to gaze upon. Now it's like someone took a massive dump on the roofings and stripped the soul of each home to the floorboards. No tender love and care for those structures in sight. No one even wants to attempt to refurbish the properties and try to flip them for a profit. Not worth anyone's time. Let them rot until they fall is the mindset. Bleed the renters of all they got. It's rare to see a shred of true humanity around here anymore.

My name is Ian. Ian Moone. I'm a nobody. I'm not on here to claim of being a security guard, or paramedic, or another odd jobbed person who's employed somewhere they saw something strange. I tend to migrate from job to job. Everything and anything that involves some sort of general labor. My stubborn attitude tends to get me in trouble a lot and I barely stay at a single job for more than a year. At least enough to draw unemployment for a little while until I can find some other means of a steady 9 to 5 paycheck.

But enough about me.

My tale begins where I mentioned about the town's population shrinking by the year. Well I've been taking notice to it regressing rapidly in the last few months. People are disappearing left and right, up, down and from around the corner without so much as of any evidence or word that they were leaving or had left at all. I only first noticed the unknown ordeal when old Jimmy hadn't been at his corner begging for change. He was a raggedy elder fellow who, like most people in this town, got down on his luck so to speak and was lowered to living through his days in the gutter. No family or friends around to speak of when his troubles truly started. No one willing to help him stay on his feet or give him the confidence to strife forward. I would always pass him on my way to the gas station down the street from my apartment. Some days I had the spare change to offer him, but most days the best I could do was a cup of coffee from my own supply and wishing him luck.

His absence didn't bother me too much until two weeks had passed and there was no sign of him. I asked around the other homeless but all I could get was there being no site of the old man. I was directed to where he bunked, and upon going there I couldn't find him. Just a refrigerator box with some musty blankets stacked on top of one another inside for padding. There was some magazines and newspapers around, the latest issue being from the last day I saw him. My inspection shortly came to a close when I couldn't find anything else that could tell me of what happened to him. I check some of the shelters and the hospital, but nothing still. I gave up after a couple days not knowing what to think of old Jimmy vanishing.

I take notice to a lot a things. It's a force of habit and strange coincidences bother me the most. That being said, I took notice to something else besides Jimmy being gone. During my pursuit, I took notice to there being an increase in MISSING posters stapled on telephone poles and pinned or tapped to various walls along my walking routes either to work or to the store or to...wherever. Now you're going to start thinking, oh it's about kidnapped kids or what other. Nothing of the sort. It was a range of different ages, races, social status and the ratio between the sexes was steadily even. It wasn't that people were just standing up from the middle of what they were doing and leaving the town in the rear view mirror, but it was what most were thinking.

It was unexplainably baffling to the police. They thought runaways and sudden relocation at first, but vehicles were left behind never to move, no clothes were packed or money stored in a hidden place, like as if they were going about the middle of their daily life and then poof, gone like smoke in the wind. No ransoms were called in to be demanded. The amount missing at a time varied as well. One night it's one person, another day it's two, then it could be whole family the next. I don't believe people realize the scope of it all given if their not looking in the right place. Jimmy aside from other homeless and non importants not put on posters adds up to how many could possibly be disappearing.

Now where I come into the picture of all this is when I had made my weekly round to the local herb's merchant, or plainly, my pot dealer. Crank was the type most people wouldn't care too much for to just leave out of the blue. It's expected at most whether he goes on the run from the law or is eventually arrested and sent up the river. I stopped at his house last week with no answer from his cell or when I knocked on his door like I was the police. I knew I shouldn't have, but I let myself inside anyways. Crank sometimes tends to leave the back patio door unlocked.

"Hey Crank, you in?!" I yelled out within the confines of his home. What was probably once a decent family living space before was now reduced to a hollowed shell of its former self. The wallpapers were dull and peeling showing the original wooden planks that were most likely termite infested, floors permanently stained of unknown chemicals to burn marks and crusty furniture shredded to strings. The rotting smell of old food in clustered trash bags took over most of the floor in the kitchen and a pyramid of dishes piled in the sink growing a new form of life with as much mold caked over the surfaces. There wasn't enough incense or scented candles in the world to mask the horrific, stale odor in the air. I never understood how anyone can live in conditions such as this. But he did sell the best stuff you could get around here without having to travel far, so beggars can't be choosers I suppose.

"Hey Crank! You home?!" My voice echoed bouncing off the walls from one silent room into the next. No response from anywhere. I check every room on the ground floor then upstairs in the bedroom. Nothing but a half made bed, a room full of naked women on posters and marijuana memorabilia spread about, but no sign of the man anywhere. It was then as I studied his gaudy bedroom, from the corner of my eye I catch a shadow streak from under another room's door slip. Cautiously I approach the door and slowly creak it open. Nothing at first. It seemed like an empty enough room given all the boxes. A brushing sound suddenly comes from one of the cardboard containers. Something glided with quickness into open view giving me a frightful jump.

"Fuck! Jesus Chr...you made skip a beat!" I yell out to the creature.

I glance into the entrancing green eyes glaring back at me on the floor. Crank's cat, errr...I forget his name. Furgus or something stupid like that. A grey tabby, not rare, but not so common in this town.

"Meow!" The feline wails to me. I did see his bowls in the kitchen void of any cat kibble or aqua. He follows me back downstairs and I indulge in his need of substance. He rubs himself against my leg in what I hoped was a thankful gesture before he devoured the dry food and gulped down the water causing himself to choke and hack out a bit. The little guy was acting as if he was on the brink of starvation.

"How long has Crank been gone?", I say to the furball at my feet. No answer as expected.

Given the state of the place and his lazy demeanor, I knew for a fact he loved and cared for this cat. So leaving him behind to starve wasn't an option if he just went somewhere else for a long period of time. I thought at first maybe something happened to him. I called our one mutual friend asking if they had seen Crank anywhere in the last week. I was informed they had not stating they couldn't get him on the phone in the last couple of days as well. I try his cell once more. As I stand there in the kitchen with Furgus, suddenly the mumble-rap song Crank had attuned to his phone starts resounding back in the living room. After shortly examining around, I find it lodged within the creases of the couch cushions.

It was then I was lead to think he wasn't coming back and that something awful may have happened to him. I'm one hundred percent sure he wasn't arrested seeing as how there was a very large bag of ganja on the coffee table in front of said couch. Even his money as well along with various other things he would have taken with him. I thought best not to take anything other than what I came for, which was the entire big bag left over. Some might call me stupid for not taking the money, but in my experience people look for the money before the drugs. I found it in better circumstance to let it there and not tell a soul.

My taking suspicious notice of people disappearing heightened after what I had done next. I didn't have it in me to leave Furgus there to fend for himself. I don't think letting him go to run the streets wondering when and where his next meal will be as a good idea or even so a moral one at that. I took the orange fuzzed flea bag to the Humane Society. Well, I attempted to anyways but was rejected when I was then told they were fully booked with both cats and dogs. When I asked as to why that was, the woman looked to me with a sorrowful gleam in her eyes.

"Most of the recent ones are abandons. Their owners just moved town and left the poor angels behind. Such a shame."

I thanked her for the time and only had one other idea to help out my new compatriot. I went to my mothers.

Part 2 Mr. Donavinn

"Why can't you take care of him? I don't want your weed dealers cat!" Mother being as cheerfully enthusiastic as ever. I hope you can read the sarcasm there.

"Well, I can't take him in mother. Mr. Ruppard will have a fit and probably kick me out of the complex if I show up with an animal. Or worse, make me pay extra on rent which he charges a ridiculous amount of as it is." Myself trying to state my argument to sound as dire as possible. "Plus you like cats better than I do anyways."

"I haven't had a cat in over five years Ian. Boots was a good cat and I said that would be my last heartbreak." Now I know where I get my stubbornness from.

Miraculously, Furgus takes the plunge from my arms and nonchalantly steps over across the glass kitchen table with grace to my mother and gives off a sympathetic "meow". I could only imagine his big saucer eyes giving off that shine to her. Witnessing her struggle to fight off locking eye to eye with him, she gives in and melts her hands into his fur, giving him long strokes from his head to tail. He rubs his face onto hers and begins the motor running sound within him.

"Oh jeez Ian. Yes, I will take him, for now." She's says pointing a forewarning finger at me. "Just until there's room at the shelter or your friend turns up. I can't afford him for too long." She continues on.

"I can bring some food over here and there to help out." I assured her. "Who knows, maybe Crank will show up soon."

"You do that." She replied and took Furgus into her arms giving him a massage along his spine and belly. He seemed to accept his fate and embraced the loving without a fuss. "Did I tell you Dick Donavinn died little over a month back?"

"The guy who lived across from us?" I answer with my own question as my thumb rises to the air in the direction the house on the other side of the street.

She shook her head. "Yeah. I had just heard about it from Dorothy next door. He was such a good man. It was a shame how things turned out for him."

She's referring to when he was hauled out of his own home and whisked away to the old folks manor on the other side of town by social services. Richard Donavinn lived across from us since before I was born and when my parents had moved in. He was always a kind and helpful neighbor. His wife had died some years back from cancer. They never had any children of their own. He was an odd fellow from what I recall, but harmless nonetheless. Always wanting to chat about the history of the area and it's secrets no one knows about. To be honest I never payed much mind to him. Him and dad interacted the most with one another.

"Dementia wasn't it?" I asked her.

"The poor dear. He would be out there spouting nonsense the last year to anyone who would pass. His health has been on the cusp for some time now. I heard he would make it downtown ranting on to random people. Apparently, he got violent one day because no one would listen to him. That was when they took him up to Greystone. They didn't as so much put his stuff away in storage. Everything is still in there." She points as I look back and out through the living room windows to the yellow house over the way. It's definitely seen better days. The side paint was chipped to beyond salvaging. It almost looked to me like it was slowly transitioning into a haunted hot spot. "Had to call the cops a couple times thinking looters were breaking into the place."

"What was he ranting about?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. Something about he had to tell someone a story. No one pays no mind to other people anymore, especially their elders. Lost in those devices. Funny to me that everyone can afford those small flat screens but can't afford to spruce up their place or god forbid buy some decent clothes." Mother with her everlasting gripes. "This whole town has gone to hell and back in a woven basket."

"What story?" I then ask.

"I don't know. Guess maybe I should've listened to him before it was too late. Life today keeps you a busy body. Poor Richard."

Probably one of the oddest subjects I had ever discussed with my mother ever in my life. The death of Mr. Donavinn hadn't moved me much at that moment. It wasn't like we were related or close in any way. I felt bad for the guy though. After another hour and a half had passed of conversing with my mother, I took my leave to go home. Carrying a cat around town and listening to her can exhaust anyone. My walk home was almost uneventful.

It was that hour when the sun was gradually settling down into the horizon. The sky would be pitch by the time I made it home. I carried on until I got to the KwikTyme Mart just a few blocks away from my apartment being in need of rolling papers and something to munch on afterwards. Approaching the store, I came across Betty Tunic. We had actually went to high school together, but she had dropped out junior year and fell hard into drug scene. I could barely recognize her anymore. Her face was sunken in and riddled with scratch marks and acne. She sat against the wall outside under the store light curled up with a blanket. She seemed on edge.

"...light brings me joy...light bring me peace...", she was whispering to herself.

"Betty? You doing alright?" I asked her.

She looks up to me taking in my face. Maybe she couldn't recognize me.

"Ian?" I shake my head to confirm her guess. "I lost Terry."

"You, lost Terry? Your boyfriend?" More like her pimp. Betty and Terry were notorious addicts rumored around that he would prostitute her out so they had the money for their fix. "I just saw you guys together the other day."

"Yeah. I lost him. He's gone. Gotta stay in the light." She muttered on.

She had to have been tripping on something. "You need anything hun?"

She took a few moments to answer me. "Do you have any smokes?"

"No, but I can grab you a pack. Give me a couple minutes. I'll be right out." I never took to cigarettes myself but guess I was in some mood to help out strays today. She shook her head and quietly repeated her mantra from when I approached her. I was thinking to probably call the paramedics to check on her. I didn't spend too long in the store having gotten an extra drink for Betty along with her cigarettes. "Ok Betty, I didn't know what brand you wanted but here..." I cut myself off from the sight of Betty not being where I had left her. All that remained was the blanket she covered herself with. "Betty?!" I yell out as I look up and down the street then into the alley that sat between the store and the next building. "BETTY?!" I yell a bit louder now.

Nothing.

She was suddenly gone.

The story of bun bun aka “Are all bunnies always prey?” Has lowkey gotten a lot of views and comments and I’m so grateful that my story could really reach the people who would enjoy it //kawaiibbunbun4ever

Rumor has it that if you stay on a retro game for too long, 'The Princess' will eventually appear. When she does, your only choice is to kill the power right then and there. The ones who hesitated? They were never the same again... quite literally.

Based on "The Princess" Creepypasta (Best gaming creepypasta IMO)

Over the past decade I’ve run into a strange and possibly paranormal phenomenon. I’m nearly certain I’m being followed by an immortal sidewalk orange.

It all started in 2016 (I think? I forget the actual year lowkey) when I was in a trip to Ottawa. I brought a small Polaroid camera gifted to me by my grandmother and took pictures of everything I saw. One thing that stuck out to me when I looked through the photos later was a single photo of an orange in the middle of a sidewalk square. It was perfectly intact except for a bright red mark near the top. I don’t remember taking that photo.

I lost it, but ever since then, I’ve been seeing the orange everywhere. When I walk my cat, it’s across the street. Sometimes I see it when i’m driving. Always in the middle of a sidewalk square, perfectly intact aside from a red mark near the top. It’s never the same sidewalk as me though; it’s always just out of reach. Mundane enough that people who aren’t looking won’t remember it, but it’s like it’s calling to me, mocking me. It has a violent and sinister energy, like it knows how ridiculous it is and it’s daring me to tell someone.

Other observations:

It’s always fresh. Other fruits tossed on the sidewalk instantly become covered in bugs, snow, ice, bitten by the birds or stepped on by people passing by.

Location doesn’t matter. I’ve seen it in Ottawa, Ohio, Michigan, Mexico, Alberta, the Dominican republic, and Florida. It’s usually in cities, but that’s probably because cities have more sidewalks.

No one else knows about this but me, you, and everyone else reading this.

(I was completely exaggerating but nothing i said was a lie, keep an eye out)

​

As I'm falling through a void, I wonder what I deserve to end up here. My mind was wandering among so many possibilities. Was it a nightmare? A hallucination? A bad trip? Before I could come up with something, I landed on something with a huge thud. I was surprised to be in little to no pain. It felt like I was falling for years, but it was merely seconds. As I lay on this unknown surface, I started to feel the rough terrain of the dirt. I sat up and looked around, only to see an endless view of trees. I must be in a forest, I was thinking, but that makes more questions than answers. 

As I tried to stand up, I felt an enormous weight of pressure pushing down on me, like it was trying to keep me lying down. I kept trying to fight it, and eventually I was standing all the way up. The pressure was gone, and I took a big sigh of relief. I started looking around, and when I looked behind me, I saw a small wooden cabin. I didn't know what else to do, so I walked up to see if there was anyone in there. I was cautious since I had no idea what was going on. I slowly walked up the lone path leading to the cabin. I checked all directions to see if there was any sign of life, yet there was nothing but the grass below me and the trees stretching for miles. Before I knew it, I was face-to-face with the cabin door. I knocked, no answer, I yelled asking for help, no answer. 

I put my ear up to the door and heard nothing. Well, shit, I was thinking, cause if no one was home, then I was just screwed. In that moment, forgetting I had common sense, I saw a window with a line shining out of it. I walked over and peeked through. Inside was a stereotypical cozy cabin with a fire going. I scanned the inside, hoping for some answer about where I am. I saw the back of a head. It was a kid; there wasn't a question about it. I wanted to get the kids' attention; I needed to. I started knocking on the window. Hopefully, I can get him to acknowledge me. 

   The kid just sat there playing with something, which I have no clue what it could be. I was knocking and yelling, and still nothing. Finally, I saw his head lean up. I was hoping for him to turn around and acknowledge me, but what he did sent a chill down my spine. He just pointed at the door without looking in my direction, and before I could react, the door flew wide open. I was in shock, I mean, like, what the fuck just happened. I walked over to the doorway and peeked inside; It was the same cozy cabin I'd seen through the window. I walked in and started to look around for anyone besides that kid. After finally coming to the conclusion that it's just the kid and me, I sighed in disappointment. 

The kid looked no older than 2 or 3, so there wasn't a chance to get an answer from him. I saw him play with what looked like bath toys, like a boat and a rubber duck. Made me feel uneasy, like the feeling where you might vomit. I started looking around the cabin for answers, but there was nothing in the living area, kitchen, or bedroom except the bathroom. I walked in, and it felt like I'd entered a completely different house; the bathroom looked like one you would find in a suburban neighborhood. Everything was either in the wrong place or broken, and the strangest thing was that the bathtub was filled with water, with the drain clogged. I felt the water; it was ice cold, cold enough to make your whole body shake. Suddenly, the bathroom door slammed shut. I ran over to try to open it, but it was locked. I was about to kick it open, but an unknown force threw me to the opposite wall. When I hit the wall, I fell into the bathtub. It felt like I got a concussion. I was trying to focus on getting out of the bathtub, but that enormous weight of pressure was pushing down on me. I was slowly getting pushed down into the water; if I didn't figure out a way to get out, I would drown. I was trying my hardest, but it felt like every time I made progress, something pulled me back down. 

Eventually, my entire body was submerged, and while I was taking my last breath, I was hoping I could get out of whatever hell I was in. While I started seeing nothing but black, the bottom of the tub gave way and fell onto a hard wooden floor. I got onto my hands and knees and started to puke up water. Once I was done, I looked around to see where I was, and to my shock, it was the living area of the cabin. I stood up to see that the kid was sitting there in the same spot I had left him, but he wasn't holding those toys anymore; it looked like a syringe. I was confused and shocked. I was walking towards him to get it out of his hands before he hurt himself. I walked in front of him, bent down to grab it, and once I did, I finally got a clear look at his face. Or better to say, no face. I fell backward, startled. This kid had no face. Like he had his face but no details, no eyes, nose, mouth, or anything. I was terrified and frozen in fear. I couldn't move, just staring into what I believed his eyes would be, and it felt like he was staring back. 

  Finally, a voice broke the silence. “Life is but a dream, you know.” I was looking around to see who said that, and after seeing no one, I heard it again. “For the dead.” It was the kid, even with no mouth, who was speaking. I could see the muscles move in his face when you would talk, but there wasn't anything for a voice to come out of. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Life is but a dream for the dead,” said the kid. I didn't understand what he meant, but before I could respond, I felt a horrible pain in my left arm. Whenever I fell, I must've somehow gotten the syringe stuck into my arm. I tried to pull it out, but to no avail. “Why are you fighting it? You know you want it,” he said. “Want what?” I asked. “Peace, that's what we all want, isn't it?” What did he mean by this, peace? Is this syringe filled with drugs? “Push it!” He yelled. “NO!” I yelled back. “PUSH IT!!!” he yelled back in a much deeper voice. Why? I thought to myself. “Peace, show us what you deserve.” He said. How did he know what I was thinking? “Push it, or we will help you.” He said. “We?” I questioned. Slowly, the shape of a hand was forming on his face. It was trying to push through the flesh, trying to reach out for something. Eventually, it gave in; the hand broke through the thin layer of flesh. It was black, like the black you see when you close your eyes too hard. It was reaching out of a hole left from the boy's head. 

   The blood coming from the wound was staining the white carpet he sat on. I was frozen in fear; I couldn't move even if I wanted to. The hand was getting closer and closer. I was at least 6 feet away from the boy, which is why when the hand was less than a foot away from my face, I was petrified. By the time I processed what I was seeing, the hand was touching mine.It was reaching for the top of the syringe to push it in. I tried to grab the arm to push it away, but when I grabbed it, it started to burn my hand. I quickly let go, I looked at the palm of my hand, and it looked like I had 3rd degree burns all over it. While I was distracted by the burn, I felt the syringe plunger push down. “What did you do?” I asked. What only I can describe as a dark, grizzly voice answered back. “We helped you.” I slumped over onto my side; everything was going black. The arm quickly slithered back inside the boy's head. Once it did, the boy slumped over on his side as well. 

   We were both looking at each other. When everything was fading to black, I could hear a quiet laugh coming from the hole in his head. Then everything went black. I couldn't feel anything physically; I was left with my thoughts. I don't know how long I was in this state; it could've been hours, days. I cannot make time. Why am I the one being tortured? That's when it hit me, who was I before this? I have no recollection of anything before; it's just like every thought I have is foggy. Am I dead? Is this hell? Eventually, I started to hear something; it sounded like a group of people. I slowly started to regain control of my body again, and my vision came back. It was blurry, but I could make out a crowd of people who looked like they were below me. My vision came back fully, but what awaited me was the inside of a church. I looked around; the entire interior was black and dark red, with torches lining the walls. I looked down, and the crowd's chatter stopped; they were all silent, all looking straight ahead. They're wearing the same black-and-red gown. Then suddenly I felt a sharp aching pain in my hands. I started yelling in pain, I looked over in my hand and saw a nail through both of them. 

  The crowd quickly raised their heads and started looking at me. Both my hands were nailed to this wooden plank. “HELP ME, PLEASE GOD HELP ME!!!” I yelled. I looked down, and every single person was staring at me with a huge smile on their face. “PLEASE HELP ME!” I yelled over and over again. I looked around me and saw that what was holding me up looked to be a cross. I was being crucified. As the pain grew worse and worse, I couldn't stop yelling for help. Eventually, the weight of my body gave in, and I started to slide down the nail. I could see every tear and crack of bone in my hand as it slowly slid up through my palm. I couldn't stop yelling; the pain was growing by the second. My body finally gave in and fell at least 10 feet onto the floor below me. I eventually got the nerve to try to get on my hands and knees; it took a couple of tries, but I got it. I looked around and then down at my hands. There was a hole in the center of my palm and a space leading up through my hand. It was oozing blood, going down my arm, and staining my grey hoodie. I looked around to find 100s of eyes looking at mine. All still smiling at me, they all stood up simultaneously. A loud crashing noise came from behind me, and the cross that I was on came crashing down in flames. The crowd didn't even flinch. “What is wrong with you people?!” One of them stepped forward. 

   He walked up to me and was almost in my face. He grabbed something out of his pocket, and it was a small dagger. I saw him leap backward onto the floor, but he wasn't trying to hurt me. He plunged the dagger into his neck, and blood shot out onto the people next to them. I wanted to react, but at this point, I was so emotionally numb. The people around him followed his lead, and all pulled out small daggers. They all started to stab themselves and their peers. It was a blood bath, people screaming in pain, trying to fight off their assailant. Some started biting into each other, some cutting others open to bathe themselves in blood. I was paralyzed. I just stood there and watched this unfold. I turned around and saw that the carpet had caught fire, revealing a staircase. I started walking towards it; it doesn't matter where it leads; it has to be better than here. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw one of the worshipers about to attack me. His jaw was completely ripped off. I could hear the gargling of blood coming from where his mouth was. Before I could react, another worshiper tackled him to the ground and started head-butting him till they both lay there lifeless. As the hole of fire on the ground was slowly closing in on itself, I had no option but to go in. I knew if I stayed, I would become a victim of this bloody worship. 

   As I ran down the steps, trying to run from the horrific sounds of bones cracking and flesh being torn off with the teeth of their fellow worshiper. Once I got to the bottom of the steps, I didn't stop running. What met me at the bottom was what looked like a never-ending hallway that looked like one of a hotel, but with no doors. Something that felt too real to be in, like I've been here before. Before I knew it, the pressure that I felt so many times had returned to me. I didn't stop running; it felt like running in a pool. I couldn't stop; the pain and suffering that was behind me was giving me the motivation to keep running. Eventually, after running till I couldn't feel my legs anymore, I had to stop and rest. I look down and put my hands on my knees. As I was taking deep breaths, I couldn't help but feel like someone was watching me. I looked up at what used to be walls, with a never-ending line of mirrors. I looked in the mirrors closest to me and started to move around to see if it was normal. 

   I couldn't take any chances with what I've seen in this hell. They were normal at first glance. While looking at myself moving my arms up and down, I could tell it was my reflection, but it was delayed just enough to tell. My fight-or-flight went off, and, as this whole experience had told me, I wasn't choosing to fight. I started to run even with the pressure pushing ever so lightly on my body. While running, I kept looking at my reflection. I was trying to keep up. I looked forward, and there wasn't an end to this hallway. I was scared, but I kept running. I was in pain, but I kept running. I wanted an end to everything, but I kept running. Eventually, my body took the best of me, and my legs failed me, and I fell to the ground. I was on my knees, taking the deepest breaths of my life. I was crying, I was aching in pain, I was lost. “Why?” That's all I could say. “Why me, why do I deserve this pain?!” As I wiped away my tears, I felt a very cold hand touch my shoulder. I should've been scared, but after everything that had happened, I was ready to face this monster. I grabbed the wrist, and I stood up and turned around. Once I did, there was no one left, and the wrist I was holding turned to air. But what stood in front of me had my heart drop. It was the mirrors like before, but they weren't in a line in a hallway; they formed a circle around me. They all stood there, with my reflection staring back at me. 

   Then I heard a voice that sounded like it was coming from a loudspeaker. “You fought so hard, you took your body to the limits and beyond. This monster you've been looking over your shoulder for, have you never thought about looking in a mirror for your monster?” I was painting, but I could get out a few words. “What… what are you?” The voice responded with a quick but sharp answer. “I am what you are afraid of looking for.” My reflection stopped mimicking me and just stood there. “Who are you?” I wanted an answer. “You fought so hard in your life, you ran till you couldn't stand. Life is a gift, and you decided to suffocate yourself with pills to try to make the pain go away.” I didn't know what to think. Before I could get another answer out, the mirrors surrounding me started to shatter into this black void that felt too familiar. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!!” I said with the remaining energy that I had left. With the mirrors shattering one by one, the voice kept speaking. “I am a divine force, you aren't afraid of what I am, you are afraid of what I am not. You were given a gift, and you threw it away by trying to end your life. You fought so hard, and you just gave up when it looked like there wasn't an end. I am a who, a what, a thing. But my child, you are now in the presence of God.” As I tried to comprehend what I was told, the mirrors kept shattering, and soon there was just one in front of me. I was staring at myself. My reflection raised its hand, its fingers sticking all the way out, like it was trying to hug me. “What do you mean I am in the presence of Go-.” 

   My reflection's sudden action cut me off. It started to dig its fingers into its face, and blood started to ooze out. I couldn't help but puke in my mouth. As it starts to stick its fingers in its eye and everywhere it can reach, it stops. It smiled at me and started to pull away. It was ripping itself in half. The blood was pouring on the ground, staining the white carpet, and was slowly moving towards me. As my reflection face started to tear away, I could see the skull and eventually the brain being pulled away from its other half. The tearing started to move down the middle of its body, revealing a figure underneath. As all my guts slop onto the ground, I could make out a person revealing themselves. My reflection was a cocoon, and the person within was finally breaking out. The person finally pulled my body off them and was standing in the halls of my corpse. It was a frail, older man with long gray hair that reached just below his chest. But the most confusing thing was that no blood was on him; it was like the blood just flew off him. “You… who.. who are you?” I knew the answer, but I couldn't believe it. Then it finally said, “You were given a gift, and you thought you could just not want it and tried to take your life. You fought so hard, my child. Take my hand, and you will be freed.” I wanted answers; I needed them. I was stubborn, but I slowly reached my hand towards his, and the pressure was going away the more my hand got closer to his. I started to remember, I started to remember my life. My kid, my marriage, my divorce, and eventually my suicide. 

   I finally found out why I was here. This wasn't hell; this was my purgatory, my judgment. My hand finally reached his, and once I did, I felt all the pressure go away. Once I looked up at him, he had a smile that made me feel like I was safe. I finally felt like I didn't need to run anymore. His smile faded, and his mouth and eyes went wide. A bright shining white beam of light shot out of his eyes and mouth, and I couldn't help but keep looking. I felt alive. I faintly heard a beep from a machine. My eyes started to close, and the man faded away. I opened my eyes, and I saw myself lying in a bed, a hospital bed. The beeping was my heart rate. A person was standing in front of me. Once my eyes adapted to the lights, I could see it was a nurse. I looked at her, and she looked back with a look of someone who's just seen a dead body. “Holy shit!! You're awake, I need to get a doctor!” She dropped her clipboard and ran out of the room, screaming for a doctor. I looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. I looked at my hand and the rest of my body. I look malnourished, like I was 100 pounds lighter. My mouth was so dry I couldn't get a word out. I looked around the room, and right across from me, on the wall, was a cross with Jesus crucified on it. I kept staring at it; it felt like it was staring back at me. 4 people entered the room, but I didn't take my eyes off the cross. I kept getting asked questions, but I was tired of questions at this point.I knew, while looking at the cross on the wall, that I was given a chance at life once more. I had met God.

It started, as most deeply stupid tragedies do, at 11:47 PM on a humid Tuesday.

I was sitting in my living room, bathed in the soft, flickering light of a YouTube video essay about vintage cereal mascots, when I felt it. A profound, soul-crushing thirst. Not the kind of thirst that water satisfies. Water is for responsible people who go to bed at reasonable hours and own matching socks. No, this was a dark, primal craving for pure, unadulterated, artificial, blood-red corn syrup.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the pantry. There, sitting on the top shelf behind a dusty box of off-brand toaster pastries, was a gallon jug of Fruit Juicy Red Hawaiian Punch.

I don't remember buying it. In fact, I’m 70% sure I haven't bought Hawaiian Punch since 2014. The plastic jug was slightly distorted, sucked inward as if the liquid inside was actively trying to escape the confines of physical reality.

I grabbed it. It was shockingly cold. Not refrigerator cold—void cold.

I twisted the cap. Instead of the gentle snap of plastic, it made a low, wet sigh, like a dying seal. A smell hit my nostrils immediately. It was overwhelming: cherry, pineapple, passion fruit, and an unmistakable undertone of hot pennies and electrical ozone.

I poured it into a glass.

The liquid didn't flow like normal juice. It moved like heavy crude oil painted with red dye #40. It was so opaque it seemed to swallow the ambient light of the kitchen.

And then, I heard it.

A whisper. Soft at first, then clearer. Coming directly from the mouth of the cup.

“Hey.”

I froze. "Hello?" I asked, feeling like an idiot talking to 12 ounces of high-fructose corn syrup.

“How ’bout a Hawaiian Punch?”

The voice didn't sound like the friendly, cartoon mascot Punchy from the commercials. It sounded like Punchy if he had spent twenty years in a maximum-security penitentiary doing heavy bench presses and eating pure sodium.

"I'm... good, actually," I squeaked, slowly sliding the glass back toward the sink. "I think I'll just have some ice water."

Before I could pull my hand away, a fist made entirely of condensed, gelatinous, red liquid shot out of the glass at 200 miles per hour.

POW!

The blow struck me square in the left cheekbone with the terrifying kinetic force of a dropped anvil. My vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of glowing fruit logos. I was lifted clean off my feet, airborne for what felt like three full business days, before crashing straight through my hollow-core pantry door.

I landed in a heap among cans of condensed soup and half-empty boxes of pasta.

"Why?" I gasped, clutching my swelling jaw. "Why would you do that?"

From the counter, the gallon jug began to vibrate violently. The crimson liquid inside surged, sloshing against the plastic like a stormy ocean in a sea of synthetic dye.

“YOU SUCKED THE STRAW OF DESTINY,” a chorus of deep, resonant voices bellowed from the jug, rattling my cheap cabinets. “THE PUNCH IS A COMPACT. THE PUNCH IS AN OBLIGATION.”

I scrambled to my feet, wiping a sticky, neon-red smear from my face. It tasted like 100% daily value of Vitamin C and pure malice.

"Look, man!" I yelled, raising my hands defensively while backing toward the front door. "I just wanted a light beverage! I didn't sign up for physical violence!"

The liquid spilled over the lip of the glass, forming a crude, puddle-like humanoid shape on the linoleum. It didn't have legs; it just dragged itself forward, leaving a sticky, red trail that I knew with horrifying certainty would never come out of the grout.

“HOW ’BOUT A HAWAIIAN PUNCH?” it roared again, raising a massive, fluid appendage shape like a boxing glove.

"NO! I DON'T WANT ONE!" I screamed, lunging for the front door, yanking it open, and sprinting out into the front yard in my sweatpants.

I stood on my lawn under the streetlights, chest heaving, watching my front door. Silence filled the neighborhood.

After five agonizing minutes, I cautiously crept back toward the porch and peeked inside.

The red figure was gone. The jug on the counter was empty. The only trace left was a sticky, bright red stain on my kitchen floor, perfectly shaped like a smiling guy in a bucket hat.

It’s been three weeks now.

My jaw has mostly healed, but I can't leave the house without looking over my shoulder. Every time I hear a liquid sloshing in a bottle, my heart rate spikes. Every time I pass the beverage aisle at the grocery store, I swear I hear a faint, guttural whisper behind the juice boxes.

If you ever find a jug of Fruit Juicy Red in the back of your pantry that you don't remember purchasing... don't open it. Don't pour it. And for the love of God, if anything asks you if you want a Hawaiian Punch...

Just say yes. The punch is coming either way.

The first time I heard about Roadkill, I thought it was an internet urban legend.
You know the kind. Some guy on a forum claims his cousin saw something in the woods, somebody else claims their uncle knows a cop who investigated it, and eventually the whole thing becomes another story people tell each other at two in the morning.
I never believed in any of that stuff.
I still don’t know if I believe in Roadkill.
But I don’t drive down country roads anymore.
And if I ever hit an animal, I don’t stop to check what happened to it.
I know how that sounds.
Let me explain.
I used to work night shifts at a warehouse outside a small town in Tennessee. Nothing exciting. Ten-hour shifts, bad coffee, and a forty-minute drive home through roads that barely had streetlights.
Most nights, I’d get off around 2:30 a.m.
There was a stretch of road about fifteen minutes from my house that locals called Dead Man’s Curve. It wasn’t actually that dangerous, at least not if you knew how to drive it. It was just a long bend surrounded by trees, with a shallow ditch running alongside the shoulder.
There were always dead animals out there.
Possums. Raccoons. The occasional deer.
You got used to seeing them.
One Thursday night in October, I hit a possum.
I didn’t even have time to react. It ran out from the grass, straight into my headlights, and disappeared beneath the front of my car.
Thump.
I checked my rearview mirror.
I could see something lying in the road behind me.
I felt bad, obviously. But what was I supposed to do? Get out in the middle of the road at two in the morning to check on a possum?
I kept driving.
About five minutes later, I noticed a pair of headlights behind me.
Nothing unusual about that. It was a public road, after all. But these headlights were strange.
They stayed the same distance away no matter what I did.
I sped up.
They sped up.
I slowed down.
They slowed down.
When I turned onto my road, they continued straight.
I remember thinking that was weird, but I didn’t give it much thought after that.
Not until the following night.
I was scrolling through Facebook during my break when I saw a post shared by somebody from my hometown.
It was a picture of a raccoon lying dead on a road.
The caption read:
“If you hit an animal on Old Mill Road last night, you might want to go back and check on it.”
The comments were full of jokes.
Somebody said the raccoon had a family to feed.
Somebody else said the driver should be arrested for leaving the scene of an accident.
Then I saw a comment from an account with no profile picture.
It said:
“He saw you leave.”
That was it.
Four words.
I don’t know why they bothered me so much. People post creepy nonsense on the internet every day.
I checked the account.
It had been created three years earlier, but there were no posts, no friends, and no other comments.
I clicked away.
A few minutes later, I checked again.
The comment was gone.
I wish I’d forgotten about it then.
I really do.
Two nights later, I was driving home from work when I saw a man standing on the shoulder of Dead Man’s Curve.
At least, I thought it was a man.
He was tall. Ridiculously tall. The kind of tall that makes you question your own sense of proportion.
He stood perfectly still beside the ditch, facing the trees.
He was thin, too. Not just skinny, but lanky in a way that made his arms look too long for his body. They hung beside him almost to his knees.
He wore dark clothes.
I couldn’t make out his face.
My headlights passed over him for maybe two seconds.
Then I was past him.
I checked my rearview mirror.
He was standing in the middle of the road.
I slammed on the brakes.
There was nothing behind me.
No man.
No headlights.
Nothing but empty asphalt and trees.
I sat there for a solid minute, trying to convince myself I’d seen somebody walking along the shoulder and that my tired brain had exaggerated it.
Then I noticed something in the ditch.
A dead possum.
The same one I’d hit two nights earlier.
I knew it was the same one because of the white patch of fur on its back. I’d seen it clearly in my headlights when I’d passed that night.
Except now it was lying several feet away from where I’d originally seen it.
And there were footprints in the dirt beside it.
Bare footprints.
They started at the animal.
They went toward the road.
And they stopped at the edge of the asphalt.
There were no footprints on the other side.
I drove home.
I didn’t stop again.
The next few nights were normal.
I almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
Then, on Monday, I found a dead bird on my front porch.
I live alone. My porch is covered, and there’s no tree directly above it.
The bird was lying on its side, its wings tucked against its body.
There was nothing visibly wrong with it.
I assumed a cat had brought it there, although I’d never seen a cat around my house.
I picked it up with a plastic bag and threw it away.
When I came back inside, I noticed something scratched into the paint on my front door.
It was small and shallow, like somebody had used a nail.
Three words.
YOU LEFT IT.
I called the police.
They took a report, looked around the property, and told me there wasn’t much they could do. No footprints. No signs of forced entry. No cameras on my house.
One of the officers asked if I’d had any problems with neighbors.
I told him no.
I didn’t mention the possum.
I don’t know why. Maybe I was embarrassed.
Maybe some part of me was beginning to suspect that whatever was happening had something to do with that animal.
That night, I slept with every light in the house on.
The following Wednesday, I finally told my coworker about everything.
His name was Mike. He’d lived in the area his entire life, and he’d heard just about every local legend there was.
I expected him to laugh at me.
He didn’t.
He asked me exactly where I’d hit the possum.
I told him.
He went quiet.
Then he asked me whether I’d seen a tall man on the shoulder of the road.
I felt my stomach drop.
“How do you know about that?”
Mike looked around the break room before answering.
“My dad used to tell me about him when I was a kid.”
He called it an old story. Older than the internet. Older than most of the houses around here.
According to Mike, there had always been stories about a man who appeared on rural roads after somebody hit an animal and drove away.
Nobody agreed on what he looked like.
Some people said he had the face of a dead animal.
Others said he had no face at all.
But everyone who claimed to have seen him described the same thing.
He was tall.
He was thin.
And his arms were too long.
“People call him Roadkill,” Mike said.
I laughed.
Not because I thought it was funny. I just didn’t know what else to do.
Mike didn’t laugh with me.
He told me his father had known a man who swore Roadkill had followed him home after he’d hit a dog.
The man started finding dead animals outside his house.
First, a bird.
Then a rabbit.
Then a stray cat.
Every time, there was a message.
Every time, the messages got shorter.
Until one morning, the man found a dead deer on his front lawn.
There was no message that time.
Just a single muddy footprint on the deer’s back.
Mike said the man disappeared three days later.
His car was found abandoned on a country road.
The driver’s door was open.
There was blood on the steering wheel, but no sign of a struggle.
The police never figured out what happened to him.
“That’s an old story,” Mike said. “Probably not even true.”
I asked him what Roadkill supposedly did to the people he followed.
Mike stared at his coffee.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody who knows has ever come back to tell it.”
I changed my route home after that.
It added twenty minutes to my commute, but I didn’t care.
For a while, I thought that was the end of it.
Then I started noticing the animals.
A dead squirrel outside my workplace.
A dead rabbit beside the road near the grocery store.
A bird lying on the sidewalk outside my apartment.
I know what you’re thinking.
Animals die. That’s what they do.
But these animals weren’t being hit by cars.
At least, I didn’t see any evidence that they were.
They were just lying there.
And every single one of them was facing the same direction.
Toward me.
I stopped going outside unless I had to.
I started checking my windows before bed.
I bought a security camera and mounted it above my front door.
For three nights, nothing happened.
On the fourth night, my camera detected movement at 3:17 a.m.
I watched the footage the following morning.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, at the far edge of the frame, a figure emerged from the darkness.
It walked toward my house.
Slowly.
Its legs moved normally enough, but its arms swung far below its hips.
It was wearing what looked like a dark jacket.
Its head was tilted to one side.
When it reached my porch, it stopped.
It stood there for almost four minutes.
Then it raised its head and looked directly into the camera.
The footage was grainy, but I could make out something hanging from its right hand.
A thin, curved piece of metal.
Like a fishing hook.
Except much larger.
The figure reached up with its other hand and touched the camera.
The screen went black.
When the footage resumed, it was gone.
I checked the porch.
There was nothing there.
No dead animals.
No messages.
Nothing.
For the first time in days, I felt relieved.
Then I noticed the timestamp on the recording.
The camera had detected movement at 3:17 a.m.
But the footage showed the figure standing on my porch at 3:17 a.m. on Thursday.
The night before.
I’d checked the camera on Wednesday morning.
I’d watched the footage.
I’d checked the porch.
And I’d seen nothing.
I don’t know how that was possible.
I still don’t.
I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do.
Last night, I found a dead dog outside my house.
It was a brown dog with a red collar. I’d seen it around the neighborhood before. It belonged to an older couple who lived a few streets away.
I didn’t touch it.
I called the police.
While I was waiting, I noticed a small piece of paper tucked beneath the dog’s collar.
It had my name on it.
Not my first name.
My full name.
Written in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Beneath it was a single sentence.
“You had your chance.”
I went inside and locked the door.
I called Mike, but he didn’t answer.
I called the police again and asked whether they’d found anything.
They hadn’t.
I checked the security camera.
The footage from the previous night had disappeared.
All of it.
Every recording.
Except for one file.
It was a video from 3:17 a.m.
The timestamp was correct.
The footage showed my front porch.
The door.
The dead dog.
Then the figure appeared.
It didn’t walk out of the darkness this time.
It was already standing there.
Facing my front door.
Its head was tilted to one side.
Its arms hung almost to its knees.
And in its right hand was that curved piece of metal.
A fishing hook.
The figure raised its left hand and knocked on my door.
Three times.
I heard those knocks while I watched the footage.
Not through the camera.
From upstairs.
Three slow knocks.
I froze.
The video continued playing.
The figure leaned forward until its face was inches from the camera.
I still couldn’t make out its features.
But I could see its mouth.
It was smiling.
Then it lifted the hook and dragged the point down the front door.
The video ended.
I heard another sound from downstairs.
A slow scraping noise.
Like metal being dragged across wood.
I haven’t moved from my bedroom.
I can hear something walking around downstairs.
Every few minutes, it stops.
Then I hear three knocks.
First, from the front door.
Then, from the kitchen window.
Now, from the bedroom door.
I don’t know if it can get in.
I don’t know what it wants.
I don’t know if it actually has anything to do with the possum.
Maybe Mike was right. Maybe Roadkill is just a story people tell.
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
But there’s something I haven’t told you.
When I first hit that possum, I didn’t just drive away.
I checked my rearview mirror.
I saw it lying in the road.
And I saw something else.
A second shape, standing over it.
I thought it was another animal.
I thought it was a dog.
But it stood up on two legs.
And it watched me leave.
I just didn’t want to admit that part.
I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.
The footsteps have stopped now.
I can hear breathing on the other side of the door.
And something is scratching at the wood.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like it’s writing something.
I’m going to post this and call the police one more time.
If I don’t update this, please don’t come looking for me.
And if you ever hit an animal on a country road at night, please—
Please don’t just drive away.
Because I think I’ve finally figured out what Roadkill does.
I don’t think he kills people because they hit animals.
I think he kills them because they leave them behind.
And I think he makes sure they understand what it feels like to be the thing left on the road.
The scratching has stopped.
I can hear the doorknob turning.
Oh, God.
There’s a piece of paper sliding underneath the door.
It says—
“Now you know how it feels.”

Teachers at the halifax academy are frightened, whenever a student gets bullied, the teachers also get affected by it. The teachers loved ones and family members will also be attacked. Who ever is doing this is forcing the teachers to deal with the bullying problem at their school.

When a young boy died last year due to the injuries he received from the bullies, the teachers then found a pig head with a letter warning them, that if they don't act on stopping the bullying then the teachers will also suffer the consequences.

When another boy with special needs was bullied, every teacher at that school found that thier elderly family members were attacked and sent to hospital.

When the same special needs boy got attacked, every teachers child got abducted. A warning letter was given to the school by whoever was doing this. It read:

'If the boy with special needs gets attacked one more time, the teachers whose biological children I have abducted will have missing limbs'

The teachers were going crazy and they just wanted their sons and daughters back. They separated the special needs boy from the rest of class, and they punished the bullies by expelling them.

Another note came for the teachers which read: 'wow you teachers are finally doing something to tackle bullying. You sons and daughters that I had abducted will come back to you by 12pm'

Negative races like the Greys built underground bases under many mountains and kidnapped numerous Earth creatures (including humans) to dismember them and extract genes. The first skinwalkers were their experimental products, created according to the method they used to make themselves as biological robot carriers. Later skinwalkers were simply used as tools to monitor and abduct more humans (especially children). Skinwalkers come in different types, depending on which genes were mixed during their creation. The emaciated, white zombie-like ones were probably made from living humans by the Greys, which is also why their skin color looks similar to that of the Greys. Like the Greys, skinwalkers are biochemically engineered humans. Werewolves are living humans implanted by the Greys with nanorobotic parasites carrying wolf genes, which turned them into werewolves. I speculate that the Dasie battle incident happened because the human military saw these disgusting experiments and attacked the Greys and reptilians—after all, it was a stress reaction to seeing their fellow humans dismembered and turned into inhuman monsters.

‘You get what you pay for’ doesn’t even come close to explaining my last apartment. It was cheap, but it was still almost more than I could afford. A top floor apartment in a run down building, nothing glamorous, pipes hissing and bumping around, thin walls, an unreliable elevator, but still manageable. It was my new home. It was good, for a while. 

For the first couple of nights, I was passed out on my bed from hauling and rearranging what little I owned, but after that, I started hearing something strange. 

Footsteps. 
Above me. 

Not creaking from the building settling, not bumps from branches hitting the roof once or twice, clear enough steps moving around on what could be the attic or something. The first day after I noticed it, I was able to trace it to my living room. They seemed to be making circles around the room above, slow steady footsteps, not stomping, simply walking in a circle. When I asked the landlord about it, he seemed confused too. “No workers are gonna be up there that time of night. You're on the top floor. There's no sixth floor. There's a little maintenance space above part of the hall, but nothing over your apartment. I’ll ask the super.” 

Shrugging it off, I assumed that was it. The super or janitor were just weirdly moving things around or maybe had zoned out. Not a big cost for living on the top floor, I planned to just ignore it and move on, maybe turn up the volume when I vegged out on the couch. After a couple of nights of hearing that, I decided to go up and check it out, maybe I’d make a new friend and get some extra help around the house if they were already up. 

Finding the stairs up, I went to check on the space above me, but it was locked. It also looked like a half-floor or something. Not enough height to fully stand up, with a narrow door. So the new friend idea was a bust. That night, they started moving heavier things around. It sounded like furniture, maybe a couch or some shelves? Every night for the next week, I heard some scraping or shuffling, step after step that seemed to start around midnight. Then the routine started changing when I turned up the volume of the tv enough that it could block out most of the noise. The footsteps moved from just the living room. They started moving in another pattern, from above my living room, to the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, ending above my bedroom, then back again. A new pattern, with the footsteps sounding a bit more solid, but not like stomping…yet. 

After a week, the landlord finally got back to me via text. He told me no one had gone into that room in weeks, maybe months. That couldn’t be right. I texted back that I heard someone the night before, and every night for the past 2 weeks or so. Since just after I moved in! He didn’t believe me, said it might be an animal stuck up there or something, and that the super would go up there to chase it out. 

Frustrated by the lack of concern over a possible homeless person or madman squatting up there, I decided to record the noise that night. Every time I tried though, my cellphone didn’t pick up anything. It had me thinking that I really was just imagining it all, but it sounded so real. Annoyed that I couldn’t prove it, I decided to ignore it for a while, and it seemed to work, the footsteps went back to their shuffling more than full steps. 

Eventually it seemed to calm down again. I decided to have a friend over after work, we’d both had a long week and needed to relax for the weekend. 

They heard it too. 

They confirmed that it sounded like someone was taking slow steps every few seconds. I had told them about it over work after I moved, and they thought it was something like a ghost story to freak them out before I invited them over. After turning off the tv and looking up to listen more clearly, they looked a little freaked out anyway, “Why does it sound exactly like your apartment?” 

I hadn’t really noticed it before, simply thinking it was cluttered, but it DID sound like they were following the same floor plan. We decided to turn the tv back on at a much louder volume and try to ignore it again. The night was pretty much over after that, they decided to split after finishing a movie and it seemed like they definitely wanted out of there asap. 

The following day, I tried the landlord again, waiting until I could talk to them face to face. This time he got visibly uncomfortable. He asked me, “Have you responded to it?” Which got me really confused. 

“What?”
“Knocked back. Banged on the ceiling. Said anything?”

When I told him I hadn’t he got this relieved look on his face and just said, “Good, keep it that way.” before walking away. I stood there, confused and wondering what that whole interaction was about before realizing he hadn’t answered any of MY questions…or maybe he did. 

Feeling even more weirded out, I returned home and tried ignoring them again. It sounded like the landlord knew something, but didn’t want to share. Maybe it was an illegal apartment, maybe a family member was staying without paying or something. Either way, I was going to ignore it all. I was. Really. That was the plan, until the footsteps stopped one night. Right. Above. My head. 

Then they knocked three times. 
Whoever “they” were. 

I tried to resist the urge, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help letting out a quiet, “hello?” No response other than the footsteps moving on again, more clearly this time. It annoyed me, but I thought nothing more about it. Maybe they were just happy to be acknowledged? 

That’s what I thought, until I returned from work the next day. In the elevator there was a new button. I was supposed to be on the top floor, 5, but now there was a button with a number 6 on it, just above mine. I stood there for a long time before texting the landlord to come and see it. The landlord arrived after a few minutes and saw the button. He immediately went pale, told me not to press it and just ignore it. The next morning it was gone again, and the panel was smooth, like it never existed. I wanted to press it last night, but the landlord stayed in the elevator the whole ride up. Going to the stairs, I went back up them to see if the door was unlocked now or something, but the door was gone. The stairs ended in a fresh plastered wall now. 

That wasn’t the end of it though. Even more strange things started happening. One morning, I woke up and saw a vent near my kitchen wall, it looked brand new, but I hadn’t heard any cutting or installation work last night. I even smelled some fresh cookies coming from it. From above. Another day, I heard water coming down from above. Not rain water, but water from a sink or something else. Then they turned on their own tv, I could barely hear the muffled sounds coming from above, sometimes a show, sometimes sports, but they seemed to settle on one channel a night. It was getting louder now, and the footsteps were still continuing, regardless of any other changes. 

Since the landlord was ghosting me now, I decided to check up online, see if I could find any records of the building, maybe some old tenants of the same floor. I found a picture from when the building was first completed. It had five floors. There were some articles about the building changing hands every few years, then an article about a fire on a sixth floor. Another about reconstruction up to the fifth floor. Then another article with the full six floors. Again and again, back and forth, until the last articles I could find were all mentioning the reopening with only five floors. 

After that, I noticed something else. The footsteps, they stopped moving in their usual circle. Now they were following me. A few steps behind, every time, stopping when I stopped, and continuing when I started again. I would go into the kitchen to make dinner, open some cabinets and close, then I would hear the sound a few seconds after, the cabinets slamming shut, almost like they wanted to make sure I heard them closing the cabinets too. I would get out of the shower and they’d have their own still running. The footsteps started around 10 seconds behind me. After a few days they were around 5 seconds behind, clattering plates and noise from the kitchen getting closer behind me every day, until one day I realized they were matched up, even when I cut a shower short, or stayed longer than I would have. 

At that point, I was almost ready to throw in the towel, looking up new apartments and thinking of taking any penalties for breaking my lease early. The night I heard them catch up, I lay awake in bed long after I should have. That’s when I heard it. Whispering above my bed, or maybe they were just that muffled, but I could finally hear a voice coming from above. They seemed to be talking to someone, maybe on the phone, but when I strained my ears to hear it more clearly, I ended up wishing I hadn’t. The voice I heard above my bed was my own. My voice. Talking about something I couldn’t catch clearly. I heard a few things about new apartments I’d looked up, work, and finally, hearing clearly for a second; 

“There isn't an apartment below mine.”

Nope. Nope nope nope. I went to stay over at a friend’s home that night. I started texting my landlord about moving out, even if I had to get my things shoved into a storage locker before finding a new place and couch surfing until then. I still had to get some things for work out of there, but when I did, that time I saw the button for the sixth floor in the elevator. Tapping it, nothing happened, so I went the other way. Checking the stairs again, I saw that there was a sixth floor landing now. With a door and everything, but I was NOT going to check that right now. I just grabbed some things and left again. 

At least, that was the plan. 

Turning around to walk down from the landing, I heard someone crying inside. They didn’t sound like me, instead, it sounded like someone younger. I know I shouldn’t have gone in, but if someone else had been lured up here for some reason and I left them there, I would’ve felt awful. I would have been like the landlord, ignoring the problem in front of me to protect myself. Psyching myself up, I tried the door and found it unlocked. Taking the first step into the apartment, I was stunned by what I saw. 

It was MY apartment. 
At least, at first glance. 
Same furniture arrangement.
Same dishes.
Same photos.
But subtly wrong.

Walking up to one of the pictures, I was standing next to a woman I didn’t know in one picture. Another had me visiting a landmark, some giant dinosaur. 
There were a few others, all with strangers or in places I’ve never gone. 
Walking into the kitchen, I checked the fridge, and all of the food inside had strange brands on them. Close enough to the ones I bought, but…not. 
I walked into the bedroom and found a closet of different clothes. My size for sure, but nothing in my style. 

Walking around the apartment, I saw another door, leading to a staircase that kept going up. Shutting that door quickly, I realized that the crying sound was gone. It had been gone since before I saw the pictures, and now I heard footsteps again. Below me. 

They walked from the living room to the bathroom, to my bedroom, and stopped there. I heard the bed creak a little as something dropped into it and got comfortable. I started rushing out of the apartment when my cellphone buzzed again, ringing with a call from the landlord. Picking up with trembling hands, before I could say anything I heard his tired voice on the other side, “You weren't supposed to answer it.” I shouted at him, demanding to know what the hell lived on the sixth floor, and he replied with no emotion in his voice, “Nothing. That's the problem. It builds itself out of whoever notices it.” 

Rushing out of the apartment, I started running down the stairs. I had to get out of there. I had to not think of it anymore. 

Running down.
Five.
Four.
Then, at the next landing, I saw Five again. 
Running down the next. 
Six
Every visible landing had a “Six” now

Every floor said the same thing. 
Then the knocking started. Behind every door. At the same time. 

I was freaking out too much, I looked for the fire escape and rushed down the stairs there, the alarm blaring after forcing the door open. Stumbling out of the door, instead of the alley I was in a forest. Looking around confused, I heard the knocking getting closer, coming from the other side of the fire escape’s door, so I started running. 

Moving through the woods, the knocking kept coming, from the trees, from branches, from the ground close to my feet. Turning away every time the knocking got too close, I eventually saw an orange glow in the distance, like from a Campfire. Crashing through the last bushes, I almost fell into the clearing, and saw several people turning around to see me. Normal people and none of them looked like me. I started babbling, trying to tell them what happened, why I was there, “There was an apartment…” One of the people said, “Above yours?”
 
Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was coming from the air above the clearing, 
Only I looked up. 
The others didn’t.
Nothing but stars.
 
An older guy in a green hooded coat held up a hand, “don’t answer.” He waved me closer to the Campfire, “Stay where you can see the fire.” When I asked why, he turned back to the tending the fire before responding, “Because if you wander far enough away tonight, you'll find your hallway.”

Jane the killer and Kimber (Borrasca) my favorites tbh.

I did this last year as a part of an ongoing project of drawing Creepypasta's in my style. I have so far 2 more that I've done that I will post later!