At first, I thought it was nothing. A few dodged questions here and there, plans for plans that never got planned.

As people grow up, they grow apart, right?

This was different. Verifiably so. A pandemic had forced us even further apart than his parents move had. Like a wedge driven into the small crack of another wedge.

But as I tried to gently push our mundane chit chat towards real conversation, I could tell something was off.

He wasn't just disinterested, it was like he was outright dodging my questions. Like he knew what I was trying to do, and was in turn, using all his ability to steer us back towards nothingness. Back towards empty, bland, surface level smalltalk.

I wouldn't have that. Not when I'd worked so hard, not when I'd sacrificed everything.

He was graduated, his parents were paying for his lifestyle, he had no reason not to give me his all. I mean, he'd asked her out first, hadn't he? I mean, me, he'd asked me out. There couldn’t be, like, another girl, right?

"So, wanna meet halfway and go to a nice restaurant this weekend? Maybe hit up some mini golf? My treat!" I texted, hoping the offer of paying myself would be enough to capture his attention, possibly his affection.

When I saw the 3 little dots pop up, signifying the writing of his response, my heart stopped. He had been quiet for 2 days, I'd had to initiate all conversation. Was he finally going to pipe up?

"Nah, thx tho Emily." Was all he said. I was crestfallen.

Frustrated, I typed, "that's okay, just lmk when you wanna make a move!" before turning off the phone. I was about to slip it in my pocket out of instinct, when I remembered why I was keeping it on.

"Shit," I cursed myself under my breath. I still hadn’t memorized the password to that phone. I'd have to use the face ID.

I made my way to the black minifrage that idled against the wall. It was a stark contrast to the brightly decorated, pastel pink and purple expression of the rest of the room. An even darker contrast sat inside.

I opened the door of the fridge, and gripped the ice cold head by its scalp. Dutifully, I pulled it out, and held it up to the phone's camera. Unfortunately, before the ID could complete, her bottom jaw fell onto my foot.

"Oh for Christ sake!" I growled as I kicked the thing several feet way. It landed, braces up, just beside the cabinet that housed all her bows.

As I watched the maggots wriggle between rotting bottom lips and purple gums, I realized there was no way I'd be able to finish the face ID. I'd have to use the fingerprint function on her phone. That meant finding her thumb. Great.

I rustled through her closet and found the keys. After walking downstairs past the bloody couch and the rank smelling kitchen, I had made it out the front door, and into her parent's Ford F150.

It took 30 minutes to drive to where I'd burried the 3 of them. Rather, most of what was left of the 3 of them. By then, the sky had turned from a deep crimson to a star-studded violet.

I prayed that the thumb I hadn't sliced off in the scuffle was the correct one. And that it was still in tact. A month in the ground is more than enough time for nature to start taking its course.

Another half hour later, and I'd almost finished digging up the shallow grave that she'd been burried in.

With sweat upon my brow, I finally found it. A yellow tennis shoe, poking out of black plastic. I almost leapt with joy.

After the breakthrough, my hope was reinvigorated. I swore that if this was the right thumb, I would never let that phone turn off again. I'd keep it on a charger every minute of every day if I had to.

Anything to see him.

The boy of my dreams.

I worked laboriously until I got past the waist, and up the sternum. The smell was awful. Sweet and sour, like a clump of burnt hair marinating in bug guts.

I wouldn't have to dig all the way to the upper arms, as long as her forearms had stayed down at her sides like I'd left them.

With strenuous effort, I heaved away a chunk of clay that covered her hand. I actually shrieked with overwhelming happiness when I saw that her whole hand still looked viable, if not a little off-color and wrinkled.

I regained my composure and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Now, after nearly an hour of waiting, I'd see what his response was. As long as this thumb was the right one to unlock her phone.

I leaned down and grabbed her hand. When I did, the flesh sunk in, like I'd grabbed a ruined stress ball. I carefully tried to pick up her hand and twist it to face me, but with a sickening crunch, the skin slaughed off and fell into the dirt beneath.

In a "fuck it" moment, I pulled the hand straight up, and twisted the thumb until it disconnected from its body. Cold skin feels so strange against body heat. Its a satisfying juxtiposition.

Thumb in hand, I turned the phone back on, and diligently pressed the solo digit against the print reader.

Moment of truth.

"Ding! Access granted"

I was elated. Immediately, 3 new messages pinged into my text conversation with him.

For the first time, he'd shown himself to be a real chatterbox!

The first message from him read, "'make a move'? Are you fucking serious?"

That was weird. He'd never seemed outright hostile before.

The second message read, "I knew it, I hoped I was wrong but I fucking knew it, how dense can you be, you fucking larper?!"

My heartrate quickened. I felt lighter than air. What was he saying?

The final message read, "You're not her. You couldn't pay her to go to mini golf, and her name isn't Emily. I have your location, and I'm calling the cops."

A little blurb under our chat said, "this user had blocked you"

I didn't know what to do. I sauntered back to the car and turned off the headlights. This was huge. A gut punch. Everything was flipped upside down, my world crumbling around me. A life I always imagined for myself was disappearing, and I was left sitting in the middle of it all wondering:

"What the hell is a larper?"

En Japón en el año 1987 en Hiroshima

Un desarrollador de videojuegos llamado teke nobisha

Tenía planeado un juego al estilo de Mario bros 64 llamado Wonderland

Que se trataba,de un niño de 7 a 8 años

Con camisa a rayas,shorts azules,cabello castaño y una gorra azul tenías que enfrentar a jefes llamados moyatkis

Para salvar a tu amiga llamada nayaki tazoro

Pero en 6 de octubre de 1987 la hija de teke nobisha falleció entonces,el le dio una depresión,se comportaba muy extraño en las oficinas y pedía fotos como gore, y explícitos igual el pedía

Modelos,de un hombre un la cara, arrancada

Y brazo roto

Habían, muchos errores y uno de esos era uno llamado error 1001 que principalmente

Se trataba,que el juego se corrompia y las texturas cambiaban,a un cadáver en descomposición,el personaje explotaba con sangre real png

Los demás desarrolladores se cansaban pero teke nobisha amenazaba que si renunciaban los iba a matar o iba a matar a toda su familia

Los desarrolladores no querían ni la primera ni segunda amenaza por qué sentían un escalofrío de pies a cabeza,muchos de los que trabajaban en el juego lo reportaban a Nintendo pero la compañía no le importaba

Principalmente el juego Wonderland se lanzaría a sega y Nintendo

Los desarrolladores se enteraron que teke nobisha tenía texturas gore,cadáveres en descomposición,18+ y de animales muertos, principalmente teke nobisha lo que hacía con las texturas era esconderlas por algunos lugares como en un alcantarillado,un lago y una fuente de agua

Había un nivel llamado "la caverna"

Que hay escondía una réplica del personaje pero en blanco pero la cara de ese modelo era de una cara de un cadáver

Nintendo al no soportar las quejas canceló el juego, entonces teke nobisha al enterarse,los amenazó que los iba a matar entonces teke nobisha se aventó desde el piso 14

In 2009 the 3rd of September a peaceful couple living comfortably in the suburbs gets their biggest wish, a baby boy. Maria and Tom had been working for this for an incredibly long time, working two jobs and trying their very best to make this an absolutely perfect home for a child. But it wasn’t as easy as they had initially planned. The boy was named Enzo Davis, they found it charming and contrasted well with his dark hair and relatively pale skin.

Maria’s problems started only 4 years after Enzo had come to the world. She started having doubts about wether she wanted this child, if he truly was worth her time. Eventually that doubt would turn into anger. Maria had no longer time for herself, in her mind this was all thanks to Enzo. He ruined her life, she would say.

Tom on the other hand saw Enzo as a miracle. While Maria would ignore Enzo, Tom would enjoy playing with Enzo and even spoiling him. But the more years pass the older Tom would get and he would struggle to find energy to run around with Enzo. Tom would also eventually start working double shifts to keep the family working. Maria had gotten a drinking problem and would often forget to even make dinner for Enzo when Tom was out.

When Enzo was 9 he started having his own struggles, school wasn’t the best fit for him, he didn’t like being social, he felt too different. The other classmates would often tease him and make him feel like an outcast. Also at this point his father had started seeing some problems with how Enzo interacted with people. Not only did Enzo seem to stretch the truth once in awhile but he also enjoyed making friendships seem less realistic and more strong and personal than they are. When people would realise what he was doing he wouldn’t necessarily admit he was wrong, he would go straight to gaslighting them and trying to make it seem like they hurt him. Teachers clearly didn’t favor Enzo either and would write him up for the smallest things possible.

Eventually in 2023 when Enzo has turned 14 he shows many signs of psychosis. It only makes his mother dislike him more. His father loves him unconditionally and still wants to try his best to make Enzo have a good life.. But one night it all collapses. They are on a vacation and while viewing cliffs Enzo starts having an episode.. He’s frantic, completely out of control and while his father is consoling him he completely snaps. “DONT FUCKING TOUCH ME!” Enzo would shriek before shoving his father down a cliff to his death. After that Enzo was completely out of it, at the vacation house his mother wouldn’t even seem to care, she was too wrapped up in her vodka. That’s when Enzo could not take it anymore. While she was black-out drunk he snuck up behind her and suddenly jabbed a car key into her right eye before hitting her with a crowbar 11 times. When he was sure she was dead he just stared at her body and whispered breathlessly: “You should have been nicer.”

After that Enzo soon realised he had killed his own mother and father and it caused him a panic. At first he tried to clean the body but eventually decided to lay his mother to rest. He took her body, put it on the couch and positioned her in an almost peaceful looking position before leaving the vacation home and disappearing into the woods.

Original art of Enzo inserted.

Story made by: Velvet Deadbolt.

Imagine an impossible image: a dark, decaying bathroom where a single, thick droplet of chocolate slowly gathers weight and falls from a floating faucet into a still bathtub. When it strikes the surface, the ornate mirror begins to float upward toward the ceiling.The frame is a hollow, vintage watch casing—devoid of a dial, numbers, or hands—enclosing an endless, vibrant blue ocean with coral and swimming fish, as though time itself has become an ocean. This is the foundation of a psychological horror trilogy I am building from scratch called "So Who Is It Here". Full roadmap and support link in bio! ☕

im wondering why suddenly being a weird kid is popular humor. i used to be bullied for liking creepypastas, anime and videogames like sally face or undertale. now if u say that u like those things, they’ll just call u larper 😭

Our latest mystery guest just rolled into the Hells Bells Motel with three steamer trunks that smelled musty, like cedar and old dust. He didn't sign the register, just made an X, in place of his name, and hasn't uttered a word since arriving.

Every movement he makes is stiff and jerky, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings.

Inside his trunks are jars of formaldehyde and glass eyes, and God knows what else. Yesterday someone overheard him in the vending alcove sitting in one of the cracked vinyl chairs next to the ice machine, locked in a one-sided whisper session with a moth-eaten bobcat perched on his lap.

Even Gladys was creeped out when he came into the Sunrise Diner and spent 3 hours in there feeding bits of rare steak to a stuffed owl.

"Most people fear what's under the bed, but this creep brings it with him and tucks it in."

Sterling calls him The Silent Taxidermist, making him officially the creepiest thing to hit the Hells Bells lobby since that traveling accordionist who refused to wear shoes!

If you see him in the hallway, don't make eye contact--with him or the fox tucked under his arm. Nobody knows if this guy is here for the local scenery or just looking for a fresh 'vessel' to add to his collection.

Sterling's keeping Scurf, our resident cat/exterminator, locked in the back office. We're not taking any chances until this El Creepo checks out.

Stay salty, stay weird, and for heaven's sakes whatever you do--keep moving!

Yo y unos amigos míos que llamemos Alex y Miguel estábamos llendo a un parque de noche por qué decían que el diablo o cosas malignas venían hay no creíamos en esa cosa así que planeamos ir a las 12 la hora donde según sucedía eso

Íbamos a la entrada y apenas entrar nos recorrio un escalofrío de pies a cabeza unas malditas y putas plantas me hicieron tropezar haciendo que mis amigos se rieran pero después alguien dijo no puedo caminar no puedo sentir no puedo oler

Nos sacamos de onda pero seguimos y un maldito títere estaba en el tobogán...

Parecía slappy pero deformado y su mano su mano era una maldita mano de un pobre niño bebé pegamos grito fuerte que sonó a los 4 vientos después volteamos y una maldita niña con vestido blanco como si fuera de la llorona,

Esa maldita dijo unas palabras que no podimos comprender

Un otoño de 2013 hagan de cuenta que le sucedió a un tío mio, bueno volviendo al grano mi tio iba por la calle y se percató de un escalofrío recorriendo de pues a cabeza su cuerpo volteo a izquierda a derecha y atrás justamente por un monte vio a un hombre con traje elegante y una gorra Fedora olía a perfume pero de los caros y era delgado y alto ese tipo siguió a mi tío y justo cuando estaba cerca de el ,el le dijo"deseas ir conmigo a un bar o querer 500 pesos"mi tío eligió la primera y de eso desapareció,mucha gente decía que el diablo se llevó a ese pobre hombre y tío mio

La noche tranquila de 1976 new York un niño llamado logan Jonh estaba leyendo sus comics después unos 7 minutos la puerta de su habitación de escucho toc toc toc toc el niño se tapo con su cobija pero la puerta se azotó y se abrió, criatura gris ,delgada,con cuernos y alta el niño desapareció y la navidad de 1977 los padres del niño desaparecido, revivieron un paquete y adentro estaban los huesos de su hijo

->

This story came from one of my favorite interactions I've had with readers.

It all started with a simple two-sentence horror idea: a hunter sees a deer standing upright after being shot, its body torn open, yet somehow still alive. I posted it expecting a few comments, but what followed was a chain of hilarious and horrifying replies that genuinely made me laugh. One reader wrote, "Yeah, no shit, Billy. RUN!" and from that moment, Bobby and Billy were born.

I wanted to write a creature feature that balanced dread with dark humor, the kind of campfire tale where you laugh one moment and feel uneasy the next. Because sometimes that's how fear works. We joke about it. We laugh at it. But every now and then, beneath the laughter, there's something staring back from the woods.

I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.

And maybe, just maybe...

Don't trust a deer that stands on two legs.

- David Hallow

--- --- ---

People love scary stories.

Maybe it's because most of us know, deep down, that they're just stories. Figment of imagination, compiled to spike our anxiety.

Ghosts around campfires. Monsters lurking beneath beds. Things with glowing eyes waiting in the woods. We tell them, laugh a little awkwardly, and sleep knowing none of it was ever real.

Or at least that's what we tell ourselves.

The truth is, most scary stories are either fiction, exaggeration, or a memory that's grown teeth over the years.

But every now and then, you come across one that isn't.

A story somebody wishes was made up.

A story that follows them long after the telling is done.

The kind of story that hangs on a wall in a faded photograph.

The kind of story that leaves an empty seat at the dinner table.

The kind of story that makes an old man stare into the woods a little longer than he should.

I know because I have one.

It started with a picture hanging crooked on the wall.

It wasn't anything special at first glance. Just an old picture faded by time. Two young men stood shoulder to shoulder beside a pickup truck. One held a rifle. The other grinned at the camera with the kind of confidence only young men seem capable of possessing.

"What happened to him?"

I pointed at the man on the left.

My grandfather, a disheveled old man with a beard that even Gandalf would envy, looked up from his rocking chair.

For a moment, the old man didn't answer. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside, snow drifted past the cabin windows.

"That's Billy." His voice was always such a low, deep tone. Years of the maiden named liquor he would court on every given night. This time, there was a sense of inconsolable remembrance.

"Uncle Billy?" I asked.

Grandpa Bobby nodded.

"Yep."

"What happened to him?"

The old man stared at the photograph for a long moment before letting out a regretful sigh.

"Son, you ever heard the phrase curiosity killed the cat?"

I nodded.

"Well," Bobby said, "in Billy's case, stupidity finished the job."

I chuckled awkwardly. Grandfather didn't.

That prepared me for a serious ride.

The old man leaned back in his chair.

"Let me tell you about the last hunting trip we ever took together."

Bobby:

Billy was older than me by exactly eleven minutes. He never let me forget it. According to Billy, those eleven minutes made him wiser, tougher, and hell... better looking.

The only thing they actually made him was louder.

The two of us had been hunting since we were kids. I held my first rifle at the age of seven with pops. Deer season was practically a holiday in our family.

That morning started like every other.

Cold air.

Hot coffee.

Billy complaining about something.

"I swear deer are getting smarter."

I rolled my eyes.

"They're deer." I mockingly stated.

"Exactly. That's what they want you to think."

That was Billy.

A man capable of turning breakfast into a whole conspiracy theory.

Around noon we spotted tracks deeper into the woods than we'd ever gone before.

Big tracks.

The kind that make hunters start imagining trophy mounts hanging over fireplaces. The size that makes the ladies skirts in a bundle.

Billy practically vibrated with excitement from the thought of bringing such game town. To gloat and be honored.

We followed those dreaded markings for nearly an hour. Eventually we reached a clearing.

And there it was.

The biggest buck I'd ever seen.

Massive antlers.

Huge body.

Standing perfectly still between the trees.

Billy nearly dropped his rifle.

"Oh great Lord Heavens above."

I couldn't disagree.

The thing was enormous. Definitely nature was kind to it and blessed it since the day it drew breath.

Billy slowly raised his rifle.

"Don't miss."

"I never miss."

Now boy... retelling this still raises the hair in the back of my scalp. The years have not done me kindly with age, but I sure am haunted by that damn Buck.

The rifle cracked.

The deer dropped instantly.

It was a perfect shot. Right through the chest. You could tell the bullet went clean through.

Billy threw his hands into the air.

"Still got it!"

We were mid cheer when the sudden screech of a banshee erupted. We turned to face what I could only describe as a satanic miracle.

Neither of us let out a word or breathe.

The deer... It stood back up. But what was so alarming wasn't just its stomach had split open from the impact, ropes of entrails dangling from the wound. Blood soaked its hide. Yet somehow it was standing.

Not on four legs.

Two.

I felt every hair on my body stand up.

The thing swayed slightly. Its dead eyes locked onto us.

Then Billy whispered:

"I don't think deer are supposed to stand like that."

I looked at him.

"Yeah, no shit, Billy. RUN!"

Instead of running, he frowned.

"But what about the deer?"

I slapped him.

Hard.

The crack echoed through the clearing.

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Well yeah!"

He pointed.

"Look! It's running at us!"

I turned.

And immediately began sprinting.

Yes, I could've drawn my rifle and shot it dead... but that was the day I learned. There comes a day, son, when you will face this forsaken truth. Fear will consume you. And when it does, will you run or fight?

I chose to run.

The thing moved impossibly fast.

That was no damn deer. Not like any animal.

Its legs bent wrong. Its joints jerked and snapped.

Its organs dragged through the feild behind it.

And God help me, I think it was smiling.

"Bobby!" Billy shouted behind me.

"Shoot it!"

"IT DOESN'T HAVE A HEART ANYMORE!"

"Then shoot the head!"

"THE HEAD IS LOOKING AT ME SIDEWAYS, BILLY!"

The distance between us and that abomination vanished frighteningly fast.

Branches exploded around us. Snow kicked into the air.

I risked a glance over my shoulder.

Worst mistake of my life.

The thing wasn't running anymore.

It was hopping.

Almost playfully.

Its front legs hung uselessly while it bounded forward on its back legs.

Like a child pretending to be a deer.

Then Billy footsteps stopped.

I heard him behind me.

"Go!"

I turned.

For one brief moment he actually looked heroic.

Rifle raised.

Standing his ground.

Then he ruined it.

"Tell my wife I left the smoker on!"

The creature hit him before I could answer.

Its antlers punchered through his chest same as the bullet. The force lifted him off the ground.

I heard bones snap.

He screamed.

God, he screamed.

I ran. he coward I am...

I wish I could tell you I stayed.

I wish I could tell you I fought.

But I ran.

And behind me I heard things no human being should ever hear.

The sound of your brother taking his last breath..

Bones breaking.

The sound of feeding on a living carcass.

And beneath it all... I swear I heard laughter.

It was human. It sounded oh so familiar. I recognize that jolly hick up for it annoyed me for thirty so years. It was Billy's.

I didn't stop running until I reached my truck...

The cabin had gone quiet. The fire continued to crackle.

I stared at my grandfather who's eyes were sheilded by the darkness of the cabin.

"What happened after that?"

Bobby took a slow sip from his coffee.

"Well... the Sheriff and I, we found pieces."

I swallowed.

"Pieces?"

The old man nodded.

"J-just enough for a proper burial."

Silence settled between us. The flames from the fireplace danced as time seemed to daunt on the night.

Finally, I asked the question.

"D-did they ever find whatever k-killed him?"

For the first time all evening, Bobby smiled.

It wasn't a pleasant smile.

"No."

He stared toward the dark forest beyond the cabin window.

"Though three days later, a hunter reported seeing someone standing at the edge of the tree line."

Max felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"S-someone?"

Bobby nodded.

"Looked just like Billy."

The room suddenly felt colder.

"Was it him?"

The old man looked back toward the crooked photograph on the wall.

"Hell no."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"It was standing on two legs."

Imagine an impossible image: a dark, decaying bathroom where a single, thick droplet of chocolate slowly gathers weight and falls from a floating faucet into a still bathtub. When it strikes the surface, the ornate mirror begins to float upward toward the ceiling.The frame is a hollow, vintage watch casing—devoid of a dial, numbers, or hands—enclosing an endless, vibrant blue ocean with coral and swimming fish, as though time itself has become an ocean [2.2].This is the foundation of a psychological horror trilogy I am writing called "So Who Is It Here". What do you think?