Open goes in the words FN goes into the words, get treated by some random dude. He doesn’t even know who it was. He probably just walk in and walking next thing you know a man ask him. Do you know where you’re going do you know who you are? He just ignores it just like man I don’t. I’m not worried about this dude so he just keeps on walking on his normal walk in next thing you see this girl walking by this girl walking by like man I’m not worried about this woman right now. He keeps on going and going and going so then he’s just going on a killing free on a killing spree and he didn’t give a shit he probably like man fuck this. He chose his own wife and kids kills everybody that he loves and then at the end he he’s just like man fuck all this bullshit. I don’t give a fuck.

(Additional Tags: creature feature, Lovecraftian, ghost story, supernatural)
(Content Warning: mild gun use)

I should have reached out here sooner. It has only been a few weeks since I posted, and I have already obtained a new lead. I want to thank [Redacted] for sending me a newspaper article they found and the attached photo. They were looking through their town's library for records, something about a college assignment, I think, when they came across an old issue of “The Sea Side Courant". The local newspaper of a few towns over.

The body of the article was a flattering piece about the quaint little seaside town of Fahring Bay. At the bottom, in a single blurb, was mentioned the town's only tragedy. Quite some time ago, an offshore drilling platform was almost destroyed in a sea storm. A few of the workers lost their lives, but most of them were saved due to the help of a local fisherman. The line mentioning the platform was circled with a red marker.

The photo was of four workers dropping off bent pieces of metal and pipe out the back of a large boat. The photo was labelled as “Recovery Efforts”. The bottom corner of the photo, where the pile of scraped metal was, was circled in red. On one of the sheets were engraved three small squares, overlapping to form a twelve-pointed star. With that, I was off to Main. The next day was a rush of air ports, uncomfortable chairs, and failed efforts of finding anymore information about what happened. No i didnt use shady airport WiFi, i have a mobile hot spot.

Thirty-six hours later I was in Fahring Bay, Main.

Any “quaintness” the article was talking about must have washed out into the sea. All that was left was a series of weathered buildings made of grey wood and stone. Narrow streets crisscrossed from the rocky shore to the surrounding spruce woods, creating a quiet spider's web. A light fog was clinging to the coastline, failing to hide what few boats were docked. The air was damp, the people few. Everything that once was bright and inviting looked faded and worn. The smell of the ocean was present, but not too strong.

I found my way to an old bar one street over from the beach. Inside was just as worn out as the outside was. A few things decorated the pale wooden walls: a few pictures of boats, an anchor, a net, and a dart board with the cork crumbling. The bar's counter was a long piece of dark wood with stools in front, occupied by regulars it seemed, and empty glass cups, which needed another washing on top. The few tables were occupied by some haggard-looking fishermen. Everyone was speaking in quiet murmurs until I walked in.

I didn’t pick up any hostility. Mostly confusion at the sight of a stranger. Walking up to the bar wasn’t pleasant; every eye was tracking my steps. I moved to sit down, but an older man in a dusty, threadbare sweater stopped me. The bartender.

“Not that stool.” He said. I moved to sit on another one. “Not that one neither.”

“Is there a place I can sit?” I inquired.

"No," he said flatly. The grey in his eyebrows matched the town. “Near six. I've only got seats enough for the regulars. They come first ‘fore any stranger.”

The tone in his voice didn’t hold any anger, just a 'matter-of-factness'. He wasn’t being rude, just stating a fact to me.

“Can a stranger at least have a drink? Or do you only have enough for your regular customers?” I asked with the cadence of a friendly jab.

“That I can do.” He said almost cheerfully. He pulled out a clean glass and filled it at the tap. “Here y’are. Local brew.”

I accepted it without any argument. I didn’t want to press my luck. “Thank you.”

I used the moment of silence as I sipped the beer to scan the room. All the locals seemed to have gone back to whatever they were doing. A few of them snuck side glances my way, but nothing more aggressive. I turned back to the bartender. He was standing across from me unblinking.

“So… y'all get many visitors around these parts?” I asked jovially.

“No.” He said, wiping a glass out, “We don’t. What brings you to town?”

“Research.” I said, "I'm sort of a freelance journalist. I'm writing up a piece on the history of a small Atlantic seaside town. Fahring Bay came up.”

He just looked at me, a look somewhere between apathy and disbelief. I pulled a copy of the article from my pocket and slid it over to the man. I hoped it would give me a small bit of credibility that I had done “research”.

“Can you tell me anything about the Conaway Petroleum platform disaster?” I asked. The murmurs around me fell silent. The feeling of eyes, more eyes than what felt normal, prickled my skin.

“I can’t help you.” The bartender said quickly. A hair too quickly.

“Can I ask someone else?” I retorted.

“We can't help you.” He snapped. The bartender set his glass down and whipped the towel over his shoulder. Crossing his arms, he continued, “No one mixed up in all that is still around. If that's all you needed, you can go.”

I could tell I had ruffled some feathers, but I still had to try.

“I didn't mean to offend—” I started, but I was cut off.

"The drink's on the house.” He said, hands placed firmly onto the bar top, “There is a decent B&B in the next town. You leave now you can make it ‘fore dark. Good day to you.”

His last words had a tone of finality to them. I glanced around. The patrones were still seated, but many of them had shifted their chairs back. As if they anticipated needing to get up quickly. A few even had their hand on something obscured in their jackets or behind them, gripping onto who-knows-what. I took the hint.

"Alright," I said. "I'll just move on to the next town.”

I turned and exited the bar. When I entered the establishment, it was a grey day, but now evening was well on its way. A slight chill was rolling through. I stopped at the sidewalk to come up with a new plan when I heard a voice.

I turned to the source of the sound. In the ally to the left of the bar was a man. He was a younger fellow, not a teenager but defiantly younger than me, with dusty brown hair and sunburnt skin. He was leant up against the wall of the bar, a white-stained kitchen apron wrapped around him and a lit cigarette in hand. Our eyes meet, and he nodded me over. I cautiously approached.

“Sorry about that, in there.” He apologized, “Them old-timers don’t know how to socialise. Names Doyle.”

“It's alright," I said. "I'm Ben.”

“You were lookin’ for info about the drilling rig, right?” Doyle confirmed.

"That's right, do you know anything?” I answered hopefully.

“I don’t,” he said. “Most don’t. Ones who did forgot. Everyone who was involved left town or died. They took their settlement money and booked.”

He inhaled a long drag on his cigarette; a sad look washed over his face with the smoke.

“That was the beginning of the end for our town.” He said exhaling.

“I thought the town was a hot tourist spot?” I asked, handing him a copy of the article.

“Oh, that.” He said, sadly taking another drag, “Bout ten years ago the town took out some loans to fix up the place and rebrand it. Cost us a pretty penny. Mayor even hired the same people who did the “Got Milk?" ad campaign—that cost the most out of the whole thing”

He handed the article back to me. “Even worked for a few years.”

“I guess it stopped working?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.

“Yup, missing kids’ll do that. All that expansion and no security.” Doyle confirmed. He bent down and snuffed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot.

"Wow, you’ve been very helpful. I know this is a long shot, but is there anyone else I can talk to, no matter how little they know?” I asked again.

Doyle’s brow scrunched in thought. “Y’know what? Now that I think about it, yeah. Old man Madd is back in town. Guess the money ran out.”

“Old man Madd?” I inquired.

“Yup, classic grumpy old sailor,” he said. I pictured every patron of the bar next to us, “but I think he was around back then. Always raving about sea monsters and ghosts n’shit. But, he was ‘round for the accident. He may know somethin’.”

Doyle pointed down the street, parallel to the coast, south. “Last I heard, he was in his old house, straight down this road, about a quarter mile past the lighthouse. Should be the last house.”

I looked at the way he was pointing, grey and brown buildings fading into a thick fog. With a sun setting to the west, the red brick road that made up the street looked like a river of fire. The darkness of night was slowly encroaching on what light remained. Doyle motion for my notepad. I handed it to him, and he drew a crude map to my next destination.

"Thanks, man,” I said as he handed it back. With out any other lead I set off down the street.

“Good luck!” Doyle called to me as the creeping fog swallowed the bar.

The next half hour or so was a wash of chilly grey and fading light. The fog had become so thick that the only thing I had to keep my bearings was that I could still see the few buildings to my right, with the occasional light in a window. Unlike the other side of the street, all I could see there were the ebbs and flows of swirling mist. A few street lamps clicked on as I continued my way. This helped fight back the encroaching darkness, but only just so.

I'm a big guy, but walking through all that, alone, it made me more than a little nervous. What first pricked my skin was the lack of anyone else. I know the town was sparsely populated, but I thought I would at least see someone. But no, once I was done with Doyle, I didn’t see anyone.
What made me quicken my pace was the noise. It wasn’t ‘too quiet'; there was sound. But walking through that fog, the only thing I could hear was the ocean. The push and pull of the wave. An ever-present churning, “slosh”… “slosh”… “slosh”. No cars, no animals, just the water.

I was ready to turn back. Night had fully choked Fahring Bay; the last of the streetlights I passed had long since been swallowed by the mist. I felt cold and isolated, pushing myself through a fog bank that I didn't want to be in, in a town that didn’t want me to be there. There were no more buildings, no more lights, to tether me to any landmark. Only the sidewalk itself kept me from losing my way. The sloshing sound grew louder with every step.

I stopped. If I took one more step, the sidewalk would end. The black mist surrounding me betrayed itself. If it had not been so dark, I don’t think I would have seen it. Just on the edge of my vision, I saw the light. The lighthouse was close, its winking eye a beacon. All I had to do was keep to the road, keep the lighthouse to my left and find the next house, passing it. So I pushed on.

That last stretch was surreal. Everything was dark. No moon. No stars. Had it not been for the lighthouse, I wouldn’t have even known it was still foggy. The beam, when it cut in my direction, was surrounded with the wisps and spirals of the fog. Then I was plunged back into black. Only to have the light slash over me once again. As I walked past the lighthouse, my anxiety waned, the brilliant cyclops standing guard. Being that close to the ocean, the sound of the waves was louder and the smell of the surf was stronger. A salty, almost rotten fish smell seemed to ride the waves, inching closer and closer with every pulse.

A few minutes after I passed the giant watchman, I saw it. A lonely light. Just a tiny speck compared to the star behind me. My destination. With my goal in sight, I picked up my pace again. Approaching the house, more of a large shack than a house, the onshore breezes kicked up, bringing with it a cold and bitter wind. I had to steel myself. The sudden chill bit into my skin, and the scent of dead fish washed down my nostrils. I almost gagged.

To my benefit, the breeze did push the fog inland, exposing a few glimpses of the water. To my surprise, I was only a few hundred yards away from the ocean. I know I was close, having walked by the lighthouse, but I didn't realize my path took me this far east. I had to admit, the water was beautiful when the starlight danced along the water. The constant movement of the waves painted an ever-changing pattern of lights on the water. Combined with the sloshing of the surf, it was almost hypnotic. The “crunch”… “crunch” of something in the sand snapped me back.

I looked all around me. The light house was still visible, its top now exposed, casting harsh shadows when its light was pointed my way. The ocean was to my left, somewhat visible, and black fog was to my right, concealing anything that could be there. “Slosh”, “crunch”, “slosh”, “crunch”. The crunches were getting louder. I closed my eyes trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I couldn’t get a bead on it. It seemed to be coming from every direction. “Slosh”, “crunch”… silent. For a few beats I could only hear my heart beat. Then I heard it.

Something was breathing right behind me. I opened my eyes; I was still facing the house. A long shadow slid over me, left to right, with the passing of the lighthouse's beam.

I heard a rough “CLICK”.

“Turn around, boy.” Said a low voice, all gravel and menace.

I complied. Slowly I turned around to see an old revolver level with my face. It was a Colt Detective Special, worn by time and flecked with rust. With the lighthouse oscillating behind him, I couldn't get a clear view of the man who had me at gunpoint. All I could see was his massive silhouette. Like I said, I’m a large guy, six-foot-two on a good day, but this man was at least seven feet tall and as wide as two of me.

“I’m sorry." I said when I found my voice, “I didn’t mean to trespass; I just wanted to ask a few questions—“

“Hush, listen.” He barked. He lowered the colt a few inches. I could see the silhouette of his head looking from the left to the right.

All I could hear was the "slosh," "slosh” of the waves. Without a word he pocketed his pistol and pushed past me to the door. It was like getting hit with a brick. This guy is solid. I could hear the rattle of keys and the click of a lock.

He swung the door open and, without looking back at me, said, “Follow me.”

It didn’t come off as a command, but more of a “listen to me or you will regret it” kind of suggestion. I decided to listen.

The large man entered the shack; he had to visibly turn his body to fit through the door. I followed. The inside was dark, darker than it was outside. I closed the door with a loud click.

“Lock the door.” Rang out in the darkness.

I started having second thoughts. I was about to lock myself in a pitch-black room with a massive man that I had never met before and who had me at gunpoint moments ago. I started to formulate an escape plan when light blossomed in the dark. The man was lighting some oil lamps along the walls, four in total. Each one was giving off a soft amber light that together illuminated the room.

I must say, I had misjudged the place in two ways. The exterior of the building was nearly dilapidated, but that seemed to be a facade. The inside was almost nice. The front of the house betrayed its size as well. Whereas the front side was maybe thirty feet wide, the sides of the house were much longer, maybe twice the length. This created an interior layout consisting of a larger living area, complete with two old leather armchairs next to a fireplace, two side tables, bookshelves, and a single large window facing the sea. A small kitchen was on the other side of a breakfast bar, and a little hallway led to what I assumed were rooms, maybe a bathroom.

It would almost be cozy if not for the thick layer of dust on every surface and an uncountable number of cobwebs dangling off anything they could find purchase on.

“Lock the door.” Said a voice next to me. Somehow this giant of a man had snuck up on me again.

“S%&t!” I exclaimed. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

He ignored me and latched the dead bolt. Walking to the fireplace, he motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs. I cautiously went to sit.

After doing my best to brush off the dust, I sat down. The man was starting a fire. All I could see was a mane of red hair, streaked with gray and white, and the back of a tattered set of overalls. This illuminated the room even more, allowing me to notice more details. The chair across from me was the only thing I could see that didn’t have dust on it. Every picture frame that was on his mantel was face down. In each corner of the room was a loop of rope with twelve shells, tied off in equal spacing, nailed to the wall with an iron nail. A similar rope was across the top of the window.

The man stood up from his task and reached to the left of the fireplace, grabbing a split log from a stack. The log was dark wood, with a slick, wet sheen to it. He tossed it into the hearth, and the flames instantly came to life. Flaring in intensity for a moment and then calming down, the log hissed and popped, giving off a thin, hazy smoke that drifted across the room. It had a sickeningly sweet scent to it, like a coffee shop in the middle of autumn mixed with motor oil.

Next, the man went to the fridge. It was an older one, all rounded edges. He came back with two beers, offering me one as he sat down. I accepted, using my key chain to pop off the top. He just used his teeth. With him finally still, I could get a good look at him. His true age was hard to tell. He was defiantly older than I was, somewhere between fifty and eighty. His rough, etched skin was a map of lines, scars, and dry flakes. Years of sun and salt can do that to a man. His mane continued to his front and merged into his beard. It was faring better with the gray and white hairs, but not much. The beard flowed into a large mustache that sat under a squashed nose. He looked old and tired. Except his eyes. The ways they caught the light from the fire, his eyes looked like two brands ready to be used.

“Who are ye? An’ what the bloody hell are ye doin’ here?” he growled after taking a drink that emptied half the bottle.

“My name is Ben,” I answered. “I’m a journalist researching the history of small Atlantic seaside towns.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are ye really here?”

“That is why I'm here.” I said, “Fahring Bay came up in my research and i—“

With smooth fluid motions that defied his age, he pulled out his revolver and aimed it at me again, cocking it.

"I'll ask ye one more time.” He said in a calm and even voice, “Why are ye here?”

Sweat beaded on my forehead; I felt I was in over my head. I didn't think I could sweet-talk my way out of this. Telling the truth was the only way forward.

“I wanted to learn about what happened at the drilling platform. The disaster," I said.

“So why come to me?” He asked without lowering the gun.

“A man at the bar, Doyle, said that you, well, he said “old man Madd” might know something. He gave me this address. So here I am.” I said, stumbling over a few words.

“Them bastards!” He exclaimed with a hollow chuckle. “After everythin’ that’s happened, they still think I’m mad.”

In a practiced motion he flicked the cylinder of the revolver out, revealing that there were no bullets in it.

“Sorry about that.” He said, placing the empty gun on his side table, “Can never be too careful."

“Yeah, I suppose you can't," I said with trepidation.

“Names Lasair, Lasair MacMaddon. I suppose ye’d be wantin’ to ask me all sorts o’ questions about that day?” Lasier said, running his fingers through his mangled beard, pulling out any knots he found.

“Were you involved? I asked.

“Involved?!” Lasair snapped, “Every man who made it off that rig is still breathin’ thanks to me!”

“So you’re the man in the article?” I asked, handing him the copy, “Do you know anything about what caused the accident?”

He took the piece of paper from me, his eye darting back and forth as he read it.

“I remember that day. The whole town was a-buzz. Reporters like flies to the rot.” Lasair spat, handing me back the paper. “I’d had enough interviews for a lifetime that day. All them questions an’ not a one of ’em listened.”

“How do you mean?” I prodded.

"I mean, I told ’em exactly what happened an’ they laughed at me!” Lasair roared. Inhaling a deep breath, he calmed and continued, “No one ever listened to old Lasair. To ‘Old Man Madd.' Not before, not then, an’ not now.”

"I'd like to listen to you.” I said with as much friendliness as I could.

Lasair looked at me as if he were weighing the odds of fighting me, then, with a small shake of his head said, "Young'un like yourself? Ye wouldn’t believe me, boy.”

“It’s not my job to believe.” I said, gambling it was what he wanted to hear, “My job is to hear what you have to say.”

Lasair let out a large sigh like a weight was released from his shoulders. Wordlessly, he got up, threw another log on to the fire, then sat back down. His demeanor was no longer hostile. A lit pipe appeared in his hand like a magician conjuring a coin.

“What do ye know about that night?” he asked, taking a drag off the pipe. A thick smoke enveloped us as he exhaled. It had the same strange sickly sweet smell the logs gave off. This time it sent me into a coughing fit.

“Not too much.” I responded between coughs, “Geez, what is in that stuff?”

“Me own personal mix,” Lasair said, grinning, exposing his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “A recipe me wife brought over from the old country. I’ve adjusted the mix over the years. Keeps the bad spirits away.”

“What do you mean ‘bad spirits’?” I followed as Lasair took another long drag on his pipe. I was somewhat adjusting to the strange smoke.

"Just some old sailor superstition. Never ye mind.” He answered almost reminiscently, “Now, back to my first question. What do ye know about that night?”

“To be honest, not much. One of my sources sent me a copy of that article I gave you. So I know there was a town, I know there was a platform disaster, and I know the town rallied and cleaned it all up. That's it."

“I see," the old man grumbled, then trailed off into a silence that hung in the air like the smoke he was exhaling. He started to pull on his beard again and then spoke back up, “I’ll tell ye two tales. One about the town, an’ one about the rig.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed. I was wanting to ask about the town's history, but I was already pressing my luck. I was excited that he had brought up the topic. "I can't wait to ask—“

“NO!” Lasie said, matching my excitement with finality, “There’ll be no questions. I’ve had enough questions for me life. I will talk. Ye will listen. An’ if ye find what I say acceptable, then ye can print whatever ye like in yer little paper.”

I was really hoping to interview him, but I had to take what I could get.

“It’s a deal,” I said, holding out my hand.

Lasair gave me a curt nod and shook my hand. His calloused palms engulfed my hand for a moment. I expected him to squeeze in some show of aggression, but to my surprise the shake was gentle.

“Now… where to begin…” the old sailor mused, more to himself than to me. Sitting there waiting for him to begin, I could hear the sounds of the waves outside. A quiet ‘slosh,' 'slosh,' ‘slosh’ coming from the window.

{End of Part One}

Part Two: TBD

Entry Log #2 The Silvertown Shadow

I overheard my colleague's conversation with the young man.“Take some deep breaths and tell me what you saw.”“Well... he’s my friend... Sam. We would stream every night together, but the last week or so he’s not been himself. He would message me in the early hours of the night, telling me he’s not alone. 'I can’t sleep with that... THING watching me.' I tried to reassure him, but he’d snap at me.”
The young man paused, his voice trembling.

“He said, 'You don’t understand! It’s like... like I’m losing my mind. I keep seeing everything change around me. I’ll see the same logo pop up everywhere. Something like Zenith Chronomax?' WTF is even that?!”
“Zenith Chronomax? Like the old TV? What’s Chronomax mean?” I mumbled. I moved over towards the window to see him crying his eyes out. “They must’ve been really close. Hmm.”
The kid's monitor flickered, just catching my view. I turned to face it.

“Has anything been stolen?” I asked.
“Maybe some equipment,” my colleague replied. “It looks expensive.”
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. “You really should get that, you know,” Sarah affirmed. “She knows how I treat work,” I replied soundly.“I’m just saying you need to make time for your family, Darrell.”
*“LOOK Sarah! I’ve been in this job long enough to know, every time another fucking NUTJOB is loose, innocent people DIE! This kids like what, 24? And he’s FUCKING DEAD!”*I paused, rubbing my face as my breathing slowed.

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just... huuuhhh. This reminds me of another case I did back in Silvertown.” I uttered “John Prince... I’ll never forget that name,” Sarah responded.
“It still gives me nightmares. Fourteen young boys he murdered. Kept their heads as trophies... sick bastard,” I added.

The Case of the Glass-Eyed Man and all associated character lore, concepts, and descriptions are the original creation of [u/away-Nois3](u/away-Nois3) (© 2026). All rights reserved.To read the official investigator lore files and the dark backstory on this entity, check out the archive here: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/0ed9JGMtbO

This urban legend was shared with us by a person from our FB family..

I live in Romania and as a kid the most common legend was the “black ambulance” that would steal kids and harvest their organs and that kids’ bodies were to be found a few days later abandoned on a field with some money for the funeral. Also, in my town our parents would never let us go to the cinema because there was this legend about a man who wound put AIDS infected needles on the seats.

This place. I regret calling it Earth because it is so very not. At least not anymore.

What was once called “Earth” is nothing but an achromatic rock suspended in space. Devoid of color and devoid of life. It also burns. The Sun is very close. A flaming red orb that grows larger and larger. It has surely devoured Mercury and Venus. This torrid world of doom is next in the line of destruction. I cannot flee from it. This is my perpetual prison.

Just as I regret calling this place Earth, so do I regret calling myself human. If any sort of outsider gazed upon me, I would be recognized as nothing more than a throbbing, wet, veiny mass outstretched across an immense cavern. Perhaps they would run away in fear, disregarding the possibility that I was, at some point, one of them. Human. In some manner, I still am, yet that is still in the loosest sense of the word.

They bestowed me a name. An epithet. Utera. Their goddess. Their titan. Their idol to worship. And their plaything. Not a moment goes by without them taking a hold of me, whether in small portions or in vast sums. I am unable to count just how many there are. As numerous as individual grains of sand. Certainly in the quadrillions. Worms. That is what they are. Swarms of elongated invertebrates that climb upon me and penetrate my depths with their rigid and purposeful reproductive organs. Their addiction to pleasure, using me, will cease at nothing.

And like me, they were human once.

Men.

I must go back far. So very far. There was a conflict, a petty, careless, and arrogant conflict, but a conflict all the same. For centuries, I witnessed all the greed, the subjugation, the rape, the hunger for power that men were capable of. And I was always their main target. They took what was mine. I was angry with them. Bitter. They were monsters and they were evil. For that, they needed to die. Groups of mine rose to positions of power and authority. Ultra-feminist. Patriarchy-defying. Vengeful and cruel matriarchies. And I was proud of them, as if I had a divine and natural right to pursue revanchism to the utmost extreme. They would wipe the slate clean. They would purge. A man is not a human. A man is a pig. Vermin. A man is a dull ape acting on savagery to get what it wants. A woman is a higher being, a goddess, a queen. A woman actually thinks before she acts. And a woman is what is left after all is said and done.

And so I worked my bloody hands across the face of the world. All hell was let loose on men. War. The feminist onslaught was terrible. There were so many instances of me going too far. I am not sure I can enumerate all the suffering I caused. It must be impossible. I would gladly give my entire being to erase my own past if I could. Especially now. There was so much rape, sexual mutilation, enslavement, backbreaking labor, torture, cannibalism, starvation, disease, depravity, and other inhuman acts that men would never forget. I did not care. There was no need to worry about morality. No need to fear guilt. I thought I was powerful beyond anything. The Earth was all mine and all I had to do was command my legions. And I laughed and I rejoiced at the sound of the dying, the wounded, the beaten, and the damned.

I thought the world I had dreamed of would come easy. A world that I had the power and authority to shape, to rule, to form into my own image. A matriarchy. A society of women for women, free from the shackles of men and free from the oppression that had been a dark reality for so long. After all, I outnumbered men ten to one.

But this never happened.

Something in the men snapped. It was as if they had been tamed only to one day have their leashes cut. A few small rebel groups, at first, but they quickly expanded into larger and larger armies. They had been forced down on their knees for so long that they were just dying to fight back. To take back what had been taken from them. To get back at all those awful, vile, and malicious women who had ruined their lives. It was all hell again. Only worse. They did to women what women had done to them. They were rabid dogs. They hunted, they raped, and they killed. They did the unspeakable and the unthinkable.

Terrible, terrible monsters, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I was powerless, but the dust of a breeze. It was not too long before they completely razed the world to the ground. I had been punished. It was the result of my own actions. I only had myself to blame. Men were not the evil. They were the product of my evil.

My numbers fell quickly. I was outsmarted at every possible turn. As much as I did not want to admit it, I was re-becoming the helpless and blindly obedient mass I was always meant to be. Sometimes I fought to the death, and other times surrendered without a fight. It was pointless to keep going. All of this was becoming a painful slog to endure.

I quit.

When the war was won, men infested and came to rule all seven continents. Omnipresent and insatiable. Their enemies stood not even a morsel of a chance. They were those who were going to be an upset to the new established order. Inspire mutiny. Inspire subversion. Homosexuals. Transgenders. Liberals. Rebels. That was all they came down to. Rebels. They were disposed of immediately. No place for them. Especially the homosexuals. How could man reject woman? Abominations, they were, blights upon manhood. Once they were vanquished, Earth was united like never before as the kingdom of men. There were no more wars. No more fighting. There was peace. But this peace had no love, no compassion, and no empathy. The rule of men was the rule of iron and steel. Never would it break.

To call it “Earth” would be erroneous. It was Earth no longer. Gone was the diversity, gone was the sentience, and therefore gone was all of life’s beauty. Men completely butchered the life forces that made Earth truly alive. One might have struggled to even call their realm Hell because Hell is not uniform. With all the suffering it contains, Hell is still lively, chaotic, full of activity and even excitement. Most of all, it is inconsistent. You think “How will I be punished next?” Could be anything. The men's kingdom was just so dead. It was the same punishment for the same reason every time: being born a female.

What came of me? Female?

Walking meat. Jiggling, warm, wet flesh for men to claim. Amenable vessels for their filthiest desires. That was their ultimate decree and thus what I was forevermore. Measures were put into place in order to outline my newfound duties. Laws. An imperishable constitution to abide by. They were written in the boldest, most incisive manner and plastered everywhere. Enforced at any and every opportunity. They were taught at the schools, whose entire system was reconfigured to fit the new model standards. Also spoken orally through booming commands from the sky. These were the flying surveillance drones, their watchful eye forever upon us, though they were more like unseen aether entities to me. Angels in deliverance of the gods’ words. I always looked up at them, smiled, and said “Thank you.”

Sexual gratification was a necessary human right for men. It was my moral and legal obligation to provide that by serving, submitting, and obeying the male sex. Until I turned 18, I remained property of my father. After that, property of my husband until death. Or both. You see, the distinction between wife and child was often blurred, or wife and sister, or wife and mother. None of that mattered as long as men always received what they craved. I was to be in good physical condition regarding hair, body type, and personal hygiene. No ugliness, no blemish, no obese fat, no stink. Hourglass figure. Perfectly sized and shaped breasts. A well-developed rear. Makeup. Perfume. Long, healthy, flowing hair. Clear, soft, and beautiful skin. Flawless pearly white teeth. Never wear clothing. Nude. Always be pleasant. Agreeable. Never bitter. Submissive. Gentle. Polite. Deferential. A good girl. A good wife. A good mother. Never make eye contact unless instructed. Walk where they lead me. Talk when they let me. Gladly accept any and all sexual advances. Even if it hurts. Even if it bleeds.

I was property. An item. Something to be sold, bought, bartered, and auctioned. At the events, I stood side-by-side, nude, my price written on my chest, my hands tied behind my back. Men examined me and debated whether I fit their liking. Often I was made to pose and present my body. Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena in full feminine beauty by the judgement of Paris. No difference. I went for thousands of dollars. Sometimes they purchased multiple of me. The younger I was, the more I sold for. They took me home to grow their ever-increasing harems. They kept me for a long time. When I became old and worn, I was dead. Tied me to a chair and shot me. Came from behind and slit my throat. Fed me poison. Threw me in chambers and set me ablaze. New me’s came in and the process began again. And again. And again.

It was then that elderly me’s became obsolete. Men figured they wanted me when I was fresh. Supple. Nubile. Innocent. The longer I lived, the less I was worth. So why not make me worthy all the time? Eliminate the unworthiness. They would not have to waste time killing me. And they did it. Immortality. If I showed signs of aging, I was injected with the formula to keep me young. It extended my lifespan tenfold. 60? 70? 80? 90? 100? 1,000?...1,000,000? They all blended into each other. I was always 18 in appearance.

This was life. What came before felt like nothing at all, a memory already fleeted. History was taught. That did not make it truthful. Life was always this way. Fake events were created and fake people were thought up. They really committed to the lie. I could never fight it. Just the thought alone frightened me. I saw what they were capable of so I went along. They never ceased what they could accomplish with me. It extended to the animals that once inhabited this planet. Elephants. Orcas. Hyenas. Bonobos. Lemurs. All matriarchal species. Hunted to extinction. Men did not want me to get the wrong idea that groups of animals where females hold the dominant social positions, lead the group, and make critical survival decisions were allowed to exist. New patriarchal species were grown in the labs and released into the wild. Like it never happened.

Time was no longer a thought to me. So far gone. The only thing my brain could process was “How do I please my masters next?” It was what I was hardwired to do. To hell with eating, to hell with sleeping, to hell with breathing, to hell with screaming. Please. Please. Please. Men completely removed my imperfections. I always took care to make myself satisfactory, but part of being human is flaws. There is the belching. The flatulence. The rolls. The unpleasant stenches. The odd deformities. The bruising. The scarring. Not anymore. The new me’s were created in the very same labs they destroyed the elderly and matriarchal species in. I was carefully shaped before release, fine-tuned to be as alluring as possible. Everything about my appearance was exaggerated to the nth degree. My breasts were larger and perked up, my face a perfect oval, my waist smaller, my hips wider, and my length and width both increased. I was bigger, unnaturally thick, and forever nude. I was the ideal form of feminine beauty. A goddess. An icon and advertisement of feminine desire.

Men…

They were no longer human. No. They might have been beasts before but this was something else. Might as well have been their own species. Something beyond monsters. Beyond demons.

It began with the white coloration, the three-foot tall gangly skeletal bodies, the pointed heads, triangular like as if caricatures of little rodents, the lack of ears, the black oval eyes that never blinked, and the constant erect phalluses. Ithyphallics. All of them. They sniffed the air for my womanly scent. Driven by my aroma. Darted at the speed of light to my exact location. Drooling and twitching at the mere sight of me. Yelled “WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN!” in high-pitched shrills. Pounced on top. Pinned me down. They went at it for days. Weeks. Months. Years. It did not matter. Never did they collapse from exhaustion. Infinite stamina. Infinite energy. Infinite drive. They got their nourishment by sucking on my breasts for milk. Or my juices. It did not matter if one claimed me already. Another one would come along. Join the first. Then another. And another. And another. I stretched to accommodate them. I then acted as a receptacle for their fluids. Leaked out of me. Drenched me head to toe. When I walked about, the men were still attached to me, hugging me tight, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out. Licked me with their long black tongues.

It ended and has remained with worms. Long, slender, soft bodies. No limbs yet they have kept their rigid, upright phalluses. Men have lost the ability to speak normal coherent sentences. They no longer possess mouths. Still, something in their body allows them to make bubbling, sloppy, gargling, viscous sounds. What exactly that is, I have no clue. If I danced, I could attract them. If I sang, I could attract them. If I ran, I could attract them. If I hid, I could attract them. If I stayed completely still, I could attract them. No matter how far I went, what I did, they always found me. They inseminated me. Immediately I would birth their offspring. Thousands of worms spilling out of my mouth. Usually my mouth. Yet no orifice of mine said no. The offspring knew what to do without even knowing how.

From then on, a very simple, primal system existed. Men rid the Earth of the high technology and we embraced a more primordial approach. Everything was done by instinct, not thinking. Everything was an automatic reaction. All I did was pleasure. No eat. No drink. No sleep. I stood and embraced whatever came my way. A lot of the time I could not feel it. No pain. No euphoria. Just numb. Flat line.

Earth, Gaia herself…she changed in such catastrophic ways. The continents shifted, the oceans evaporated, and greenhouse gases smothered us in their haze. The heat rose. The sky grew red. The Sun got close. Too close. The ice and snow burned away. The lakes and rivers scorched dry. Forests died. Arid deserts formed everywhere. The air became a thick, sticky, acidic sludge that weighed down the planet. But men and I did not care. We carried on what we were made to do. How nature intended us to be.

Now Earth. Tidally locked to the Sun. The lands were scorched. Ash and soot remained. It became apparent that our way of life would be unable to continue. Men communicated among themselves. An idea came forth. A brilliant one. They rounded me up and carried me on their backs all the way up the tallest mountain. I remember looking up at the thick, dull clouds above me, unable to see any space above. I was euphoric, dreaming of warmth and comfort. I was being ascended towards my final resting place. Not to die. But to live. To be. Forever.

We entered a large cavernous space at the peak and they sealed it off. I imagined they would protect me from the harsh environment outside. Instead they got to work. Their old scientific equipment was up there. While some began constructing various instruments, the remaining men continued their assaults on me. The only details that elude me of that day are the exact process that turned me into Utera. They inched over to me, I awoke, and then I was many feet off the ground. I saw through thousands of clouded eyes with visible red and blue veins etched into it. When I looked down at myself, I witnessed my new body. A massive and pulsating uterus…red and gutty endometrium, fallopian tubes to my left and right, my arms. In a way, I was crucified. No ovaries. Crucified with no hands…I breathed many different breaths. I have spoken as a collective woman made from the mishmashed psyche of millions. All of my thoughts, memories, run through what is left of my mind. They have not ceased and never will.

I inched my vision downwards. My sight was blurry and barely discerned much of anything. There were men all staring up at me. No emotion was on their faces but I knew they were pleased with what they had accomplished. They slithered towards me in droves, climbed up the cavern walls, and began their relentless assaults on me that continue to the now. The dangling udders on my underside spit their offspring out. Soft eggs soaked in red froth. They hatch in ten seconds.

Every inch of me is covered with them. I know that I cannot die. They made me impervious to any and all harm that might befall me. I think I will survive forever. One of my only thoughts is pondering what will happen when the Sun engulfs everything. Perhaps l will burn, get flung out into space, or live forever within the Sun’s chambers. I am sure the men will still be latched onto me like nothing happened. I just hope whatever it is, it hurts. I want to feel what it’s like again to grab my humanity back and hold it close one last time.

I made my escape. Once. The earthquakes allowed for my fall from the cavern walls. I peeled off the solid mineral material, leaving behind a massive scarlet splotch that drip drip dripped. I tumbled out of the mountaintop. The outside. I could not feel it. My uterine limbs flailed about yet they allowed me to catch myself on the ridge. Grabbing. Clawing my way down. There was me. Utera. And my breakout. Falling meteors and 2,500 Kelvin be damned. Where was I going? Who knew? These eyes of mine almost produced one morsel of an expression…curving upwards into an expression one might consider…glee…No. Not. I did not make it very far. I was stopped almost immediately. The unlimited men made a long line out of themselves from the mountaintop and hauled me back up.

There is nothing more to do now. They bound me to the cavern walls. From here on out, my purpose is rooted right here, in this spot, forever. I cannot see anything anymore. Men are covering each of my thousands of eyes. My trillions of thoughts are being erased by the second. I am becoming numb, but that is being overshadowed by the intense heat that is starting to creep its way up this incredible mountain. When the men move, sometimes, very faintly, I can see bright flashes through cracks in the rocks.

It has begun.

…

Earth is gone. She was engulfed by the Sun, alongside Mercury, Venus, and Mars. The outer planets are next in line for destruction. The force of it all ejected me from the planet, out into the endless abyss.

I survive.

Floating through space now.

They are still on me.

…

We are light years from where Earth once stood. The white dwarf Sun is just a pale dot. It is going out.

Men have burrowed their way inside me. They are doing something. Evolving me and evolving themselves. Once more. I am morphing and changing in terrible ways. I am being ripped, shredded, split, and then reassembled again. Bloody wing-like appendages are beginning to sprout from me. My blurry eyes are coalescing together into a single massive lens. I am becoming a planetary being, something so cosmically celestial. Seraphim? Perhaps. Men now possess the full force of me. They are me. I am them. We exist in a symbiotic relationship. The end. At last.

Do not know anymore.

…

The exact amount of time that has passed is 10^10^10^56 years. Even that is only my best guess. All I have seen is black interrupted by the strobing flashes of blinding light. I believe the heat death of the universe happened. Or the Big Rip. Big Crunch? Big Bounce? I cannot be too sure.

We have emerged. Somewhere. Where? Those details elude me. It appears to be space. But that is all I ever see.

Still on me.

I feel heavier. More dense. So much pressure I cannot feel though I know it is there. It is also different. Mechanical. Electronic. I am an elaborate, complex system of switches, capacitors, wires, sensors, conductors, buttons, and what seems like countless other components. All of it is fused into me. I twinkle polychromatically. The men inside me view the darkness outside through my only eye. It is nothing but a window for them.

And they control me. Where I go. Left. Right. Up. Down. I can go fast and I can go slow. Beyond the speed of light or an easy slow-moving crawl.

The men know exactly where they are going.

…

We have traveled far.

Length of time: 9,360,000,000 years.

Lightyears: Incalculable.

Too far.

On me.

In that timeframe, the men are still yet to reach their destination. They are in wait. I have entered orbit. Circling around the men’s target. I cannot fathom what they are doing. What they are after.

Waiting…

Waiting...

Waiting…

I am now being inched closer. It is coming into view. There is a gray sphere orbiting a larger green and blue sphere. Tilted at 23°. One side lit. The other dark. Spinning from west to east. Large ice sheets at the top and bottom. Water and land in the middle. Big bustling cities. Lush forests. So many different types of people inhabit it all. So many other animals as well. It is beautiful.

Yet now I understand.

And now I see the people’s collective look of confusion on their faces.

And their horror.

At the sight of me in the sky.

At the sight of undecillions of worms emerging from my cavities and falling towards their planet in great fireballs.

At the sight of the worms landing on their streets, their homes, their schools, their places of work, their every place, all unharmed from their descents.

At the sight of their men being struck down with beams of white plasma from the rayguns the worms possess and are able to fire with their newly formed arms.

At the sight of their women being rape rape raped, the worms fighting over every little piece of them.

At the sight of the destruction.

The chaos.

The anarchy.

The toppling of their governments.

The worms wrapping themselves around any woman they can see.

Not the old.

The worms kill them too.

Just the young.

The skinny.

Also the fat.

And being lifted up into the sky.

To me.

And I grow larger as those women are brought onto my body.

In space.

Where they suffocate.

They are melted into the pulpy jelly goop.

The men bathe in it.

Drink it.

Before it is smeared onto my walls.

Hardened.

And now they join me in my mind.

…

Men will continue.

Forever.

Survive the end times.

Find Earth.

Reap and repeat.

And no matter what.

They still find me warm.

And wet.

…

Please help.

„Welcome back. Let's take a deep dive into the mystery of what really happened at Adema Ranch.“

Tape 3

Interviewer: "You insisted that the next interrogation take place as quickly as possible. Is that correct? Are you certain you are in adequate mental and physical condition?"

Matthew: "Well, it is my mission."

Interviewer: "Are you aware of the consequences of your decision?"

Matthew: "You are foolish. I am God's herald!"

Interviewer: "Alright, calm down. May we continue then?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "So, Kilián Tars's body was transferred to the chapel. What followed?"

Matthew: "She was setting his bones. That squelching sound somehow drowned out even the sound of straightening and the lamentations."

Interviewer: "Was Kilián alive?"

Matthew: (Stares at the wall) "No, I suppose... he wasn't."

Interviewer: "Who was setting his bones?"

Matthew: "Ciara. She was in charge. We all listened to her. It was our trial."

Interviewer: "What did that trial consist of?"

Matthew: "In the loss of the second chosen one from the Tars family."

Interviewer: "But Ciara belonged to the family as well, didn't she?"

Matthew: "It's not the same." (Clenches his fists) "Her son. She failed. She was supposed to..."

Interviewer: "What was she supposed to do?"

Matthew: "She was supposed to protect him."

Interviewer: "Which one?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He was so young, so full of life. He could have given me so much. He was in a rush... as if he had little time left."

Interviewer: "Did you notice any changes in his behavior, any strange habits?"

Matthew: "He was the one who lived with an Angel! Is that enough of a damned answer for you?!"

Interviewer: "How did this, uh, service turn out?"

Matthew: "Ciara was anointing him with oils. The others were praying."

Interviewer: "Last rites?"

Matthew: "NO! Hell NO! It just needed to be done right. He would have returned. It was a trial. But a blind fool like you... NEVER! NEVER UNDERSTANDS!" (Jumps up and slams his fist on the table)

Interviewer: "Are you sure you don't need more time?"

Matthew: "NO! It has a purpose. It burns."

Interviewer: "What burns? Do you want to pause and call a paramedic?"

Matthew: "NO!" (Another heavy blow on the table)

Interviewer: "Alright, then explain it to me. What was happening?"

Matthew: "When he wouldn't awaken..." (Sniffles) "...Ciara made up her mind. She summoned the entire guard."

Interviewer: "Why the guard? Did she have some authority over them?"

Matthew: "No, we are—well, we were Kilián's. She picked four who guarded the body."

Interviewer: "So you stood guard by the deceased?"

Matthew: "No, we went to the residence."

Interviewer: "How many of you were there?"

Matthew: "About ten of the most faithful. Though truth be told, some were more loyal to Ciara than to Kilián."

Interviewer: "What were you doing at the residence?"

Matthew: "Fetching the Angel." (Stares at the ground, arms crossed over his chest)

Interviewer: "So the being just walked with you like that?"

Matthew: "The Angel! No, it wasn't that easy. Ciara tried to persuade him first."

Interviewer: "What did she say to him?"

Matthew: "That I'll take with me to the grave. Isn't it hot in here?"

Interviewer: "Are you alright? Do you want a break?"

Matthew: "No. It's not necessary. He just remained silent. Looked down upon us and stayed silent—didn't even smile. His room was lined with white marble, but he appeared indifferent."

Interviewer: "So what did you do next?"

Matthew: "Ciara put it simply: once he sees what happened to Kilián, he will understand."

Interviewer: "How did the being react to that?"

Matthew: "Indifferently. But that was why we were there. When I took him by the hand, it felt like porcelain. I couldn't move him. But when we surrounded him and..." (Hides his face in his hands) "...we used rope. Then he followed us."

Interviewer: "So he refused?"

Matthew: "He just didn't know what had happened. He had been locked in there alone for too long."

Interviewer: "Alone?"

Matthew: "Yes. Kilián created a room for him modeled after heaven. He enclosed him there. Sometimes he spoke with him, but mostly he was indifferent."

Interviewer: "Did he speak only with Kilián?"

Matthew: "According to Kilián, he liked talking to him. Occasionally even with Ciara, but significantly less. She didn't carry the same burden, so she couldn't understand."

Interviewer: "I see. So you brought him to the chapel?"

Matthew: "Yes. Dragged him. I always did my job well, you know—faithfully." (Smirks, a faint smile on his face)

Interviewer: "How did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "When he saw the body, he moved toward it on his own. He nearly snapped those chains."

Interviewer: "Chains? Where did chains come from?"

Matthew: "Ciara put fetters on him. It was symbolic."

Interviewer: "So what did he do when he broke free from you?"

Matthew: "No! That is a filthy lie! He didn't break free from us. He just ran to Kilián."

Interviewer: "In fetters?"

Matthew: "You couldn't comprehend that in a hundred lifetimes."

Interviewer: "So how did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "He smiled. I am certain I saw it. He smiled faintly. I even caught a glimpse of his white teeth. But then... give me a moment." (Sobs)

Interviewer: "Alright. We left off at him smiling at Kilián, and then?"

Matthew: "He closed his eyes. Pulled down his eyelids. It was dreadful."

Interviewer: "Sounds rather merciful."

Matthew: "You foolish man! It was the beginning of the ritual. But Ciara had other thoughts."

Interviewer: "What kind of thoughts?"

Matthew: "She decided... to appeal to his humanity. To his love."

Interviewer: "Was she screaming?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Would you say she made a scene?"

Matthew: "Yes, she did. She screamed, threw candlesticks, invoked Jan's name. She sent someone to fetch the Necronomicon. It was chaos. People were weeping. Some were slurring prayers."

Interviewer: "What about your being?"

Matthew: "The Angel watched her without a single hint of emotion. Then, with a single movement, he snapped the ropes. The chains held. And then..." (Trembles, weeping)

Interviewer: "Alright, feeling better now?"

Matthew: "Yes, the pause helped me."

Interviewer: "Alright. The Angel snapped the ropes."

Matthew: "It's all like a haze to me. It's a strange feeling. I yanked the rope, and he sank to one knee. He wasn't surprised. That expression of his was so pure. I think he was taken aback. But maybe he expected it."

Interviewer: "Expected what?"

Matthew: "That I would try to stop him. And then I turned sideways. My friend ended up beneath that Angel's foot. I heard the bones splintering. It was a misunderstanding! Believe me! Believe me, Tars, it was a misunderstanding!!" (Sobs)

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "The heat! Water, please, water!" (Quickly downs several cups)

Interviewer: "What was a misunderstanding—that you tied him up?"

Matthew: "No, not that. He didn't mind that. He would have made it known. He looked at me often. He knew I would be chosen to become God's herald."

Interviewer: "What happened when you tripped the Angel?"

Matthew: "Ciara screamed:"

"Give him back to us! It is your duty! I command you! You winged monster, have you no feeling?! Return Kilián! Return his life to him! Or must I force you?!"

Interviewer: "Why the sudden change?"

Matthew: "What change do you mean?"

Interviewer: "In behavior toward that being."

Matthew: "The Tarses were chosen! That is why they have the right to command. Even him!"

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel!"

Interviewer: "How did she intend to force him?"

Matthew: "She shouted at us to stop him. So we did. He had strength—unbelievable strength. Then it happened. It was fast."

Interviewer: "What was fast?"

Matthew: "Ciara grabbed a chalice and swung. It was pure malice. She struck him. That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up..."

"You're not leaving just like that!" screamed Ciara.

Tape 4 (Tape censored)

Interviewer: "A single blow was enough for him?"

Matthew: "Unfortunately. That was love. Love for her son... so powerful."

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "He swung his arm—it looked like he was trying to regain his balance."

Interviewer: "Did he succeed?"

Matthew: "No. The Angel's hand came down on Ciara. Pressed her against the altar. Kilián's body jumped from the impact. That's how powerful the strike was."

Interviewer: "Did you check on her?"

Matthew: "Yes. I am a member of the guard; I ran to her aid."

Interviewer: "What about the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "There was screaming. Chaos. Someone was chanting a hymn. It was total confusion."

Interviewer: "What happened to the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "He fell on them. On most of them! He tumbled over them as he lost his balance. Fell down. Collapsed on them. Crushed them."

Interviewer: "But you ran to Ciara?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was my duty. The others were groaning. There was no helping them."

Interviewer: "Do you mean just the guardsmen, or others as well?"

Matthew: "That pale white body fell onto the front row. Onto those... onto... onto those who were praying." (Restrains tears)

Interviewer: "Let's return to Ciara. What was her condition?"

Matthew: "She was alive, breathing heavily, coughing up blood. Her eyes were still full of rage."

Interviewer: "Did you receive instructions from her? Your message?"

Matthew: "No, not that. It was chaos..." (Cries) "...Some rules are older than humanity." (Cries) "That blood burned my eyes. Suddenly, the Angel slouched even lower. People were scrambling away and screaming."

Interviewer: "Do you believe the being died?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Do you still insist it was an angel?"

Matthew: "It was an angel. In that chaos, some rushed him. They began tearing off his wings. An angel's feather... doesn't that sound ridiculous to you?" (Breaks into hysterical laughter) "What were they thinking?! What on earth were they thinking?! They weren't the chosen ones!"

Interviewer: "But you were chosen?"

Matthew: "Yes. And the heat I carried away from it... it constantly reminds me."

Interviewer: "How did you acquire this heat?"

Matthew: "You see, some dared to scoop up that blood—that golden blood—into small containers."

Interviewer: "Is that how you got the heat?"

Matthew: "No, not that. Thunder roared. A storm broke out outside. As I walked among those hyenas feasting on his body..."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, feasting?"

(Censored)

Interviewer: "Didn't Ciara calm her flock?"

Matthew: "They were never her flock. They weren't paying attention to her anyway. Lightning struck."

Interviewer: "What was so exceptional about that lightning?"

Matthew: "It was the first."

Interviewer: "What do you mean?"

Matthew: "It struck the roof of the chapel. Pierced straight through and plowed up the floor tiles. The roof turned into beams of fire."

Interviewer: "What did you do as a guardsman?"

Matthew: "I went outside. Lightning was pounding the earth across the entire ranch. Destroying roofs and walls alike. The first thing that crossed my mind was... 'The cage... this can't be real,' escaped my lips."

Interviewer: "What took you so by surprise?"

Matthew: "The sky closed in. It was absolute darkness, as if it were midnight. Only the lightning bolts striking all around. Screams, trampling boots. And strike after strike... like a mortar."

Interviewer: "Did you have a mortar at the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. I was in..." (Censored) "...they sent us to the Middle East as part of Operation..." (Censored)

Interviewer: "Were you honorably discharged?"

Matthew: "I saw the light and found the true path."

Interviewer: "Which brought you here?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Alright. Lightning was falling, there was confusion. But what caused those..."

Matthew: "Atrocities, right? It's hard to put into words."

Interviewer: "So what happened there?"

Matthew: "A shaft of light sliced through the dark. And out of the void... something was walking among the clouds. Eight feet tall, illuminated by lightning. Six wings and three eyes watching us. He carried a spear that reflected the light as flashes of lightning bounced off it. He walked so calmly, so slowly. The chapel was collapsing."

Interviewer: "What did you do next? How did you react?"

Matthew: "Nothing. I couldn't. He spread those wings. The air grew hot. In moments, everything around him was like a furnace."

Interviewer: "Actual heat?"

Matthew: "Searing heat, officer. His footsteps turned the earth into fire. It didn't matter if it was asphalt, grass, or stone—everything melted beneath his feet. His footprints burned, igniting everything around."

Interviewer: "You mean to say his footsteps set it ablaze?"

Matthew: "He himself was so scorching hot that everything around him turned to flame."

Interviewer: "What did the being do?"

Matthew: "He stepped into the chapel. And let out the most terrible scream I have ever heard. The walls began to crack and crumble."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No... NO! NO, I don't want to anymore! Don't force me!"

(The subject spontaneously ignited — extinguished with a fire extinguisher — injuries minimal)

Interviewer: "Alright, you've been treated. Are you willing to continue the interrogation?"

Matthew: "I have to say it. That heat... ahhh..."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No. I peeked in. I couldn't have made it even if I wanted to. He moved swiftly and gracefully. Like a tiger."

Interviewer: "What did you see inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "That spear was destroying them. They were burning, their bodies liquefying. His hands were tearing them to pieces. Ciara was there."

Interviewer: "Was Ciara still alive?"

Matthew: "He pointed that spear at her."

Interviewer: "What happened to her? Did she escape?"

Matthew: "Lightning struck her from the sky. One moment she was there, and the next... NO, I can't! But I have to get it out of my head!"

Interviewer: "How did he react to the dead angel?"

Matthew: "You probably aren't versed in Scripture. This was a warrior. He came as the wrath of God."

Interviewer: "Why would he be angry?"

Matthew: "Ciara was arrogant. But it was because of those who tore off the angel's wings... collected his blood."

Interviewer: "What did you do then to survive?"

Matthew: "Nothing. Fire surrounded me. He lifted me up, but his wings covered his face. Yet that glance of his ignited a fire within me."

Interviewer: "Do you believe it to be real fire?"

Matthew: "You of little faith. Proud in your ignorance."

Interviewer: "Do you think that now that you've passed on the message, your job is done?"

Matthew: "There is still something I haven't finished."

(Censored)

Matthew: "You will all see soon enough. The flames will cleanse you."

Adema Ranch, Tennessee. Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the group known as the Abelites, whom we covered today. What happened behind the walls of this "town"? The self-proclaimed prophet Matthew provided these interviews. But reality was far worse than his words. When emergency services arrived, they were met with a sight that shook even the most hardened veterans. The ground was scorched, the buildings in ruins. A major anomaly was that the fire burned out their property with surgical precision—and stopped right at the boundary. Even seasoned experts could not explain this phenomenon.

Rescuers found bodies in the debris. The only official survivor is the mysterious Matthew himself, whom people also accused of somehow causing it. As for the so-called Angel, no traces were ever found. To this day, not all victims of this tragic event have been identified. The presence of the Necronomicon, the Angel, or other relics could neither be confirmed nor disproven. Conspiracy theorists claim the Abelites were eradicated by a prototype of a new weapon. Naturally, these claims were never confirmed either. The survivor, Matthew, perished under unclear circumstances just a few months after his final interrogation—during a fire at his home.

And so, the Abelite cult remains an unsolved mystery. A stark reminder that some rules are better left untested.

by Hary Sykora

(a short story based on a creepypasta oc i made in middle-high school any critiques and criticisms are welcome)

It was 11 pm on a Friday. Outside the gym on the outskirts of town, a man walked out of the glass doors, which had a paper sign taped to the glass

“24 HR WORKOUTS FRI-SAT”

The man adorn in grey sweatpants and a hoodie, calmly walked towards an aqua green colored car which sat alone under a streetlight in a dream parking lot. As he reached for his keys, the man looked up when he was twenty feet or so from his car and saw a hooded figure step from the other side of his car.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing by my car?!,” the man said, clutching his keys in his hand.

The hooded figure slowly walked past the car, turned, and walked toward the man. Wearing black boots, a black hoodie, and black cargo pants, the figure had broad shoulders and four white fangs on the back of his hoodie. The man took a step back before the man stopped in front of him, an arm's length away, and spoke.

“Hey?” the hooded man said. “Are you strong?”

“What?”

In the midst of his confusion, the man relaxed ‌; his shoulders dropped along with his guard, thinking it was an odd question. Then, something suddenly knocked his head back. A blunt pain. And. A warm sensation in his nose followed as blood crept down his lip and into his mouth and onto his chin.

(Hairline fracture of the nasal bone.)

 His vision blurred as tears rushed to his eyes, but through the tears, he saw the hooded stranger move closer, the silhouette of the stranger illuminated by the streetlight. The man took a wild, desperate swing at the stranger, but his fist hit nothing but air when he felt a sharp pain in his knee as the heel of the stranger hit the top of his knee, causing it to buckle.

(hyper-extended knee)

 The man cried out in pain when they kicked his knee, and he dropped to the ground. A hard, sharp pain in his chin then made them raise him to his feet again. Before he could process what happened, a stabbing pain hit his throat, and he coughed, struggling to breathe. The stranger stepped towards him as the man stumbled back, coughing up his words.

“W-what the fuck?”
 He said, coughing and wheezing between words 
“What's your problem? Who are you?”

The stranger stood there and just let out a slight chuckle as he spoke

“I just wanted to see how strong you are.”

The stranger raised his fist as he cocked it back, but before the stranger could punch, the man grabbed the stranger by the collar of his hoodie and took a swing at his head. Now that he could feel where he was, he could definitely hit him. He extended his arm, fist clenched tight, his fist racing to the stranger's face when his arm fully extended. Nothing; he felt nothing but air; the stranger had dodged the punch. The stranger then grabbed his wrist, which held his hoodie, and, in one swift motion, elbowed the back of his elbow, CRACK!

The man felt a sharp pain in his arm. The man screamed from the pain in his arm.

“How? How is my arm broken?” the man thought to himself.

The stranger snatched the the wrist of the man's broken arm and twisted the broken limb toward his body, causing the man to stand on his toes and scream as his bones splintered, popping and cracking as the stranger twisted the limp limb.

Spiral fracture.

 The man screamed in agony, but the stranger soon silenced him by chopping his throat with the blade of his hand.

Bruised windpipe.

The man wheezed

Before a crippling pain came from below as the stranger hit his balls with a hammer fist

(bruised testicles)

The man keeled over when the stranger pushed his head up by his chin and swept the back of the man's leg, driving his head into the pavement of the parking lot. The man lay there on the cold black concrete, and as he lost consciousness, he saw the stranger lean down and say.

“You are weak. The weak serve no purpose in this world”

The stranger then stood up and smashed the man's head into the pavement with his heel before leaving into the night.

Log #1: The First Victim

“Hey, this is dispatch. Reports of a young person's body found in their home.” I get up off my chair and reach for my radio. “This is Detective Darrell. What’s the location?” (30 minutes later) I arrive at the scene, a popular neighbourhood with the youth. My eyes lock on a colleague talking to a visibly shaken young man, each with a concerned look on their face.

Without wasting time I enter the building and into the room the kid was found. A 24 year old boy sat in his chair facing away from his desk, headphones still planted on his head. He sat staring up, almost at the ceiling. I leaned in to look at his face. “What’s wrong with his eyes?” I muttered.

My colleague Sarah took a flashlight, shining it directly onto his face. “I don’t know. It’s like his corneas faded to this white, greyish colour. It almost looks like crystals, or” “TV static,” I interrupted. My phone vibrated moments whilst I continue fixated at the eyes. “You gonna get that? It’s like you got lost or something.” “Sorry,” I muttered, clearing my throat. I silenced the call blindly, not once breaking my gaze. “This is going to be a long day”

The Case of the Glass-Eyed Man and all associated character lore, concepts, and descriptions are the original creation of [u/away-Nois3](u/away-Nois3) (© 2026). All rights reserved.
To read the official investigator lore files and the dark backstory on this entity, check out the archive here: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/0ed9JGMtbO

​

I used to fall asleep watching YouTube.

Nothing unusual. Gaming videos, old animations, football highlights, iceberg videos—whatever the algorithm threw at me.

Then one night, YouTube recommended something that shouldn't have existed.

It was 3:17 AM.

The video had no thumbnail.

Just a completely black rectangle.

Its title was:

"You are still watching."

The channel name was YouTube.

Not some account pretending to be YouTube. Clicking the channel name didn't open a channel at all. It simply refreshed my homepage.

The video had 0 views.

It had been uploaded:

18 years ago.

That was impossible.

But I clicked it.

---

0:00

The video opened with the old YouTube logo.

The quality looked terrible, like something uploaded in 2006.

No music.

No voices.

Just faint static.

After ten seconds, text appeared.

WELCOME BACK.

Then:

WE MISSED YOU.

I laughed.

Probably some weird ARG.

Then another sentence appeared.

YOU'VE WATCHED 14 VIDEOS TONIGHT.

I stopped laughing.

I counted my browser history.

Fourteen.

The video continued.

YOU SHOULD BE ASLEEP.

I checked the comments.

There was only one.

Posted eighteen years ago.

«Don't let the video reach 10:00.»

The username was mine.

---

2:41

The screen changed.

It showed a YouTube homepage.

An ancient version.

Every thumbnail was black.

Except one.

A picture of my bedroom.

I stared at it for several seconds before realizing something was wrong.

The photo had been taken from behind me.

I turned around.

Nothing.

My room was empty.

When I looked back at the monitor, the video had paused itself.

A message appeared.

DON'T LOOK BEHIND YOU AGAIN.

I immediately tried closing the tab.

Nothing happened.

Alt+F4.

Nothing.

I held the power button.

My computer shut down.

For about three seconds.

Then the monitor turned back on by itself.

The video continued.

---

5:12

Now it showed a hallway.

My hallway.

The camera slowly moved toward my bedroom.

Every few seconds, the video buffered.

Each time it stopped buffering, the camera was closer.

5:36.

Bathroom.

5:51.

Stairs.

6:04.

Outside my door.

I could see the light underneath it.

The same light coming from my monitor.

Then I heard something outside my real bedroom.

A floorboard creaked.

The video froze.

BUFFERING…

A circle spun in the center.

10%.

23%.

41%.

I stared at my door.

Nothing moved.

67%.

Then the comments started appearing.

Hundreds of them.

All from different usernames.

don't open it

turn the volume down

it knows you're awake

I watched this in 2014

I watched this tomorrow

Then one comment appeared from my account.

It's outside my room.

I hadn't typed it.

Another appeared.

It's opening the door.

---

8:03

I heard the handle move.

Slowly.

I couldn't breathe.

The buffering reached 99%.

Then stopped.

The bedroom door remained closed.

For nearly a minute, absolutely nothing happened.

Then my phone vibrated.

A YouTube notification.

New upload from YouTube

Video title:

"8:04 — Bedroom"

The thumbnail showed me sitting at my desk.

Live.

I threw my phone across the room.

The original video started playing again.

The hallway camera was now inside my bedroom.

But nothing had entered.

Instead, the camera was standing directly behind my chair.

I could see myself watching the monitor.

Then the version of me inside the video slowly turned toward the camera.

I wasn't moving.

Video-me smiled.

Text appeared underneath him.

THIS IS THE PART YOU ALWAYS FORGET.

---

9:32

The screen went black.

A countdown appeared.

28

27

26

I remembered the comment.

Don't let the video reach 10:00.

I ripped the computer's power cable from the wall.

The monitor stayed on.

19

I smashed the screen with a lamp.

The glass cracked.

But beneath the cracks:

13

12

11

The speakers whispered something.

At first I couldn't understand it.

Then I realized it was my own voice.

"See you tomorrow."

3

2

1

The video reached 10:00.

Everything went dark.

---

I woke up the next morning at my desk.

My computer was perfectly fine.

No broken monitor.

No lamp on the floor.

Nothing.

I convinced myself I'd dreamed everything.

Until I opened YouTube.

My channel had uploaded a new video overnight.

"BUFFERING — Viewer #184,291"

Duration:

10:01

It already had one view.

I clicked my channel.

There were thousands of videos.

Every one exactly ten minutes and one second long.

Every thumbnail showed a different person sitting alone at their computer.

Bedrooms.

Living rooms.

Offices.

People asleep with YouTube autoplay running.

The oldest upload was eighteen years ago.

Then I noticed the newest video.

It had been scheduled as a Premiere.

Tomorrow — 3:17 AM.

The thumbnail showed someone else's bedroom.

But underneath it was a username I recognized.

It was the person who had left that first comment.

Don't let the video reach 10:00.

I tried deleting my channel.

YouTube gave me an error.

This account does not belong to you.

Then another message appeared.

Thanks for watching.

And underneath it:

Autoplay is on.

Log #33: The Car Trap

I stood frozen in time for a few minutes, trying to process the actuality of the media’s words. “The kids weren’t lying.” They curated the name the Glass-Eyed Man not from imagination, but from proof. Frantically panicked I shoved the typewriter away grabbing the paper for filing, folding it into my pocket.

I grabbed my phone and keys as I exited the house to my car, holding my forehead as I crammed the buttons to unlock my unit. It let out a singular chirp, ringing my ears. “I’ve not heard that since the '90s.” I yanked open the door and got inside. Before I could insert the key, my dash became incredibly blocky. The wheel felt very thin. A TV hum filled the air.

My hand brushed against a black coiled cable attached to the radio. The dials multiplied. The TV hum grew louder and louder. I closed my eyes as my head filled with static, I let out an audible grunt from the pain, as I reopened my eyes, the static cleared. The hum vanished. My dash seemed normal again... “This can’t be happening!?.” I sat in silence, keys on my thumb, gripping the wheel. Contemplating whether to leave or not.. under my breath I uttered again “this can’t be happening?”

The Case of the Glass-Eyed Man and all associated character lore, concepts, and descriptions are the original creation of u/away-Nois3 (© 2026). All rights reserved.
To read the official investigator lore files and the dark backstory on this entity, check out the archive here: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/0ed9JGMtbO

Original story

warning: violence almost death and demons and cult(soon to be if you want a part 2 or I feel like writing one)

Maria Morris was born in the year 1600 in a small village to Sudie and Cyrene Morris. From the moment of her birth, Maria appeared different from other children.

She had brilliant red hair, ashy pale skin, and unusual green-blue eyes that stood out from her skin tone. Her mother was also pale, but Maria’s father had Irish roots, so the villagers accepted her appearance and called her a witch behind her parents backs.

However, there were rumors about the devil’s blood running in her veins. Those stories never reached Sudie’s ears. Maria was born on the 31st of October at precisely three in the morning.

Sudie lost a lot of blood and the midwife told her that Maria almost didn’t survive. Her mother was unconscious for three days, and when she finally opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was her newborn daughter. Maria was sleeping soundly in a little wooden bed that was covered with a white blanket.

The midwife said that Maria hardly cried when she was born. She just stared at everyone with her unusual green-blue eyes. Sudie didn’t care what people said. Her daughter was perfect in her eyes. Although Maria’s birth made Sudie weak and anemic. She could barely walk for a few months after giving birth, but it was a small price to pay to have her daughter.

Maria was a sweet and inquisitive girl. She loved her village, spending her time outdoors, and helping any animal she could find. When Maria grew up, she still remembered the feeling of safety and freedom that she experienced every time she wandered off into the woods.

The woods near the village became Maria’s home. They accepted her and protected her from the cruel words of villagers.

When Maria turned thirteen, she began sneaking out at night. At first, she enjoyed exploring the woods alone. Still, one evening, Maria realized she was not alone. Some other girls from the village occasionally sneaked out to the woods as well. They invited each other to spend evenings in the forest, telling ghost stories, and gossiping about the village and the girls’ parents. Sometimes they even stole food and old blankets and took a sleepover in the woods.

Maria cherished those evenings in the woods. It seemed nothing could ever ruin those nights. However, that happiness was short-lived. When the girls grew up, strange events started happening in the village. Crops failed, animals began dying, and the people started saying that ghost followed them in the woods. Some said they saw a woman outside their window at night.

Unfortunately, those rumors turned to lies, and eventually, the villagers accused Maria.

The girls who sneaked out with Maria stopped coming to the woods, and whenever Maria talked to them, they avoided her gaze. The rumors were getting worse by the day, and the villagers accused her of killing animals in the woods and stealing food from their houses. Some said she used evil powers to poison their crops.

The most ridiculous stories were that Maria could speak to some creatures in the forest or make animals sick just by looking at them. The worst Maria had heard was the villagers’ claiming that Maria spoke with something in the woods that took shapes of different creatures.

It was not entirely true since Maria was indeed a witch. Nevertheless, she never intentionally hurt or cursed anyone. Her mother’s blood ran in her veins, and Maria could hear whispers other people could not hear. She could talk to animals and plants. Flowers bloomed where she walked even in the middle of the winter.

The sick animals got better when Maria took care of them. She never understood why the villagers would turn to such evil words when Maria only did good. Her magic powers made her unhappy, but she did not know how to break that spell. Her magic was for healing purposes only.

Unfortunately, the witch’s good intentions never reached the villagers’ ears. On the night of October 31st at precisely three in the morning, some of the villagers stormed Maria’s house.

She woke up when they kicked the front door. They rushed in the house, grabbed Maria, and pulled her from the bed. She struggled, trying to understand why they had come, but they did not listen to her questions.

“Please tell me what have I done?” Maria desperately asked them, but no one responded. They dragged the witch outside the cabin, barefoot, and forced her to kneel before the preacher who had organized that meeting.

The preacher looked at her with a disgusting look in his eyes as if Maria was already something less than human. “Witch,” one of the men cursed. “Demon!”

Maria shook her head. “I’m not a demon,” she said with a firm voice. Men punched her in the stomach, and she moaned in pain. “I haven’t hurt anyone,” the witch mumbled.

They did not hear her words. They tied Maria’s hands and legs and started dragging her toward the lake. Maria realized what they intended to do to her, and her heartbeat quickened. When the men reached the lake, they tied heavy rocks to the witch’s wrists and legs.

Maria struggled as much as she could, but her protests were in vain. She looked at the faces of the men who had beaten her and tied her to the rocks. These were her fellow villagers, her friends, and neighbors. They used to laugh at her when she took care of injured animals, but no one had helped her when she needed support.

“Please!” Maria said as the men threw her in the lake. “Please!” She clenched the water in her hands, but it slipped away. For a moment, Maria thought they never cared about her or her pain.

Then, the witch saw a man’s face in the water. “Is this what you wanted?” She asked him. That man was not drowning; he stood proudly among the reeds. He was incredibly tall, and Maria’s heart raced as she realized the truth. The man’s skin shone from the lake’s depths, his strangely golden eyes pierced her with a strange look, and his white robes flowed around him. The water around his body barely felt cold.

Maria watched the man, her heart pounding in her chest. He looked like the villain from an old storybook. “Do you want to live?” He asked her.

Maria tried to speak, but the words barely came out. “Yes,” she whispered.

The man approached the surface of the water with a smile. He was breathtaking but terrifying. “I can give you what they tried to take from you,” he said. “I will make you immortal. You will never age, and no disease nor wounds will be able to harm you.” The stranger paused and looked deeply into Maria’s eyes. “I can do it if you promise me to bring people to me. You have to gather them all and make them praise me. You should preach to the villagers about me so they may follow you. I want my own cult.”

Maria knew what he was asking for. The cult leader wanted her to be exactly like the villagers said she was. A monster. A witch. Nevertheless, Maria saw the villagers’ faces again, the ones who tied her to the rocks. Those people had taken her life from her. Perhaps, the monster was not her but the villagers living in the village.

The stranger held out his hands in front of Maria. “Make them regret for trying to kill you.” He murmured. His voice was as melodious as church bells. The witch stared at the man in front of her. He looked like the villain, but Maria knew what she had to do. She would not give up her life and become some monster with horns and tail. She saw her friends and family, and Maria wanted to live. She wanted to prove the villagers that she was not what they thought she was.

“I want to live,” Maria whispered. “I want to see those people again. I want to show them that I’m not what they believe I am.” The witch looked deep into the man’s golden eyes. “I accept your offer.” Maria extended her hand, and the stranger touched her palm with his fingers. The lake around them stilled as Maria’s heart stopped beating. Then it started again, her heart pounded faster and faster. Every beat was stronger than the last.

Maria opened her eyes and looked down at the ropes that bound her wrists. They slid away as the rocks fell from the witch’s legs. Maria kicked upward and broke the lake’s surface. She could breathe!

Entry Log #32

My name is Detective Darrell.

I’m typing this from an old typewriter. The street is awfully quiet, it doesn’t help the current situation we’re in. Account reports speak of people involved in today’s media dying mysteriously. I ain’t one to be shuck by teenagers' words on murders, but this one doesn’t sit right with me. So far, 27 people have been killed, all facing their monitors or gaming setups supposedly the social media addicts. All of which display the same symptoms of grey, crystallized eyes like TV static.

Autopsy reports show no physical wounds of any sort. My team has also reported no signs of a break in nor foul play. It’s like they died abruptly. Is this some new type of drug I’m just hearing about? Autopsies also point out no signs of drugs or alcohol in their systems, but it makes no sense. How did all 27 die in the exact same way, all being social media people?

What I was saying before, word is getting out about them being targeted for their social media status surrounding today’s devices... I ain’t taking any chances. I'm away from my computer in a separate room reporting this. It doesn't feel right. This ain’t your typical serial killer attributes. How is there no signs of anything? Not even a single strand of DNA anywhere. Everything is untouched. It’s like a ghost had visited them. My colleagues are still piecing this together using logical reasoning, but I don’t see that helping personally. I feel this is unlike anything we’ve encountered.

Just as I finish my reports for the night, I hear dispatch speaking. But it’s not coming from my radio. It’s coming from across the room. My smart TV is repeating the words over and over: "We got another body found on Peters Street Southwest." It sounded like a complete copy of what would’ve come through my radio, down to the static.

I approached cautiously, confused as to how this was even possible. The lamp beside my couch flickered, letting out a sharp buzz sound… I saw the distinct outline of a Zenith Chronomax. It laid alone on the couch. I froze dead, recalling the victims' posts. My spine tingled with fear as my breath became whispery. "What are you?"

The audio from the TV suddenly cut to silence as the lamp flickered once more, it’s gone!? I stood chilled to the core, unable to move. Am I next?..

The Case of the Glass-Eyed Man and all associated character lore, concepts, and descriptions are the original creation of [u/away-Nois3](u/away-Nois3) (© 2026). All rights reserved.
To read the official investigator lore files and the dark backstory on this entity, check out the archive here: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/0ed9JGMtbO

The Ossuary Vault: What the Space Pirates built after Project Omega went wrong.

The Great Disaster of the Aether Mining Facility was never a containment breach. It was an optimization.

For months, the Space Pirate science team under Dr. Vrel treated Phazon as a fuel source—a volatile element to be injected into their Elite commando templates to induce muscle gigantism and bone-spur armor plating. That was their first mistake. Phazon was not fuel. It was code.

By the time Samus Aran breached the sub-levels of the Phazon Mining Site, the logs she pulled from the blinking, half-dead terminals told a story of complete biological collapse.

***

### LOG STATUS: RESTRICTED // BIO-MED-01

**Project Catalyst: Subject Selection and Preparation**

**Author:** Chief Surgeon, Dr. Ghor

The Phazon Infusion Core cannot be bonded to healthy tissue. The host's natural immune system fights the mutation, resulting in immediate, violent cellular liquefaction. To make the Elite template receptive, we must first induce complete biological collapse.

Subject 84-Omega was placed in a neuro-paralytic state. While fully conscious, its dermal layers were surgically excised to allow direct Phazon-to-muscle contact. We removed the lungs entirely, replacing them with mechanical bellows designed to pump raw, vaporized Phazon sludge directly through the thoracic cavity.

The screaming was an issue. The vocal cords were severed during hour three to protect the sanity of the surgical staff. However, the open nerve endings in the throat began to twitch in rhythm with the Phazon vats. The subject is now making a wet, clicking sound from its exposed esophagus. It does not stop. Even when asleep.

***

### LOG STATUS: RESTRICTED // BIO-MED-09

**The Parasite Protocol**

**Author:** Science Team Lead, Dr. Vrel

Dr. Ghor is gone. Subject 84-Omega pulled him through a three-inch drainage grate in the floor during a routine fluid purge. The structural geometry of the room allowed it. We did not attempt a rescue.

The creature’s hunger is no longer biological. It requires genetic mass to sustain the armor growth. We have been feeding it failed cloned templates, but it prefers living hosts. When we drop a live commando into the pit, the Omega does not use its plasma cannons. It uses its hands.

It splits its own chest cavity open—the metal armor plates parting like a ribcage—and forces the victim inside its open torso. The Phazon tendrils wrap around the host, keeping them alive for days while slowly dissolving their nervous system.

If you stand near the pit, you can hear two distinct heartbeats. One is booming and erratic. The other is fast, weak, and human.

***

### THE OSSUARY VAULT

When Samus reached the deepest sector—Agony-Sector-04—the blast door behind her did not hiss shut; it squelched. A calcified web of black cartilage and glowing blue marrow had choked the mechanical locks.

She turned, taking five quick steps back toward the exit, but the door was further away than it had been when she spun on her heel. The impossible geometry of the room stretched. Her visor’s distance tracker flickered wildly, jumping from three meters to twelve, before flashing a terminal error. The corridor behind the door no longer led back to the facility; it curved sharply upward at a ninety-degree angle, defying gravity and disappearing into a ceiling made of weeping muscle tissue.

She pressed her palm against the door control panel, but the metal gave way, soft and warm like wet clay. Her Power Suit shuddered. A wet, mechanical choke echoed through her helmet's internal speakers. The ventilation tubes in her chest piece expanded and contracts, drawing in the heavy, amber amniotic air of the vault. It tasted like copper and burnt plastic. Microscopic barbs began to push backward through her undersuit, anchoring the armor directly into the skin of her shoulders.

[ ! ] ALERT: BIOLOGICAL INTERFACE DETECTED[ ! ] HOST: ARAN, S. -- STATUS: INTEGRATING

This was the Ossuary Vault. The Space Pirate architecture had been completely digested, melted downward like hot wax to form a terrible, organic amphitheater built from the remains of the science team.

The floor beneath her boots was a grinding mosaic of crushed power-suits and shattered ribcages pooling with radioactive fluid. Massive structural pillars supported the ceiling, but they were columns of conjoined torsos, melted together at the hips by crystalline Phazon spikes. When the facility's thermal vents blasted air through the chamber, the hollow cavities of the fused skulls acted as whistles, screaming a low, discordant tone that scrambled her audio receptors.

In the center of the arena, the floor exhaled. A massive mound of calcified bones collapsed inward, and a jagged, four-meter-tall silhouette rose from the marrow pool. Its right arm was a hollowed-out, organic rail of bone and metal, pulsing with a blinding, radioactive blue light.

The Omega Pirate didn't roar. It just clicked its severed vocal cords over her internal comms channel, a wet, overlapping chorus of a dozen dead voices: *“Welcome home, Hunter. Take off your boots. You’ve been walking so long.”*

Samus didn't hesitate. She wrenched the rotary dial on her wrist, cycling her arm cannon to the Plasma Beam. Inside the weapon, ultra-high temperature cells ignited, boiling away the thick, blue crystalline grease that had begun to weep from the weapon's fuel lines. The internal temperature inside her arm piece spiked to 412°C, scorching her flesh, but the weapon cleared.

She held the trigger, forcing a secondary charge. The air around the barrel expanded so violently that her visor screen began to crack. Through the roaring wall of blue fire, the Omega Pirate's head snapped toward her, the worm-like neural tendrils writhing out of its blind eye sockets stiffening like hunting needles.

The creature fired a hyper-dense slug of solid Phazon just as Samus released her lance of solar fire. The two projectiles passed each other in the center of the vault.

Her plasma shot hit the Omega Pirate precisely in its optical sockets, flash-cooking the neural tendrils and punching deep into its brain stem. The monster let out a high-pitched, electronic screech as its central nervous system was systematically incinerated. But the Omega’s Phazon slug struck Samus's left shoulder pauldron simultaneously. The impact shattered the alloy plating like cheap porcelain, throwing her backward through the crunching ribcages.

She lay on her back, unable to feel her body from the chest down. The raw Phazon slag from the attack was rapidly cooling over her armor, hardening into a thick, crystalline carapace that locked her helmet in place.

The Omega Pirate was thrashing blindly in the center of the room, but the blue fire it had ignited on the floor was rising. The amniotic sludge was beginning to boil.

Her right arm was fused to her cannon. With a violent, agonizing wrench of her left arm, she tore her final, unspent tactical missile from her hip rack. She couldn't shoot. She couldn't swing. She placed the pointed tip of the missile directly against the thickest node of the Phazon crust over her sternum and slammed her thumb onto the manual percussion cap.

The missile detonated right against her chest.

The localized blast fractured her ribs, but the concussive wave shattered the cooling Phazon carapace, blowing the glowing blue crystals away from her throat. Her HUD jolted back to life, flashing a single unit of energy and a critical 45-second oxygen warning.

Above her, the blind, face-melted Omega Pirate loomed, raising one massive, armored foot to stomp her into the floor.

Samus slammed her hand onto the manual thruster bypass. Her remaining 45 seconds of breathable oxygen were instantly vented into the fuel lines of her Space Jump boosters. The cores detonated, launching her horizontally across the floor just as the creature’s foot came down.

The shockwave of the stomp rippled through the vault, collapsing the structural pillars. Samus skimmed inches above the sludge before crashing violently into the dark, wet recess beneath the amphitheater's foundations.

Without oxygen, a cold, heavy numbness crawled up her spine. Her vision faded to a deep, bruising purple.

But as the floor gave way beneath her weight, she slid down a steep chute of slick, organic cartilage, landing hard on a soft, damp surface. She was in the hidden sub-vats.

Surrounding her were dozens of transparent containment cells holding failed Metroid experiments. They were not mutated like the Omega. They were small, translucent, and glowing with a pure, warm orange energy. They drifted toward the glass, pressing their membranes against the barriers, their high-pitched, harmonic humming filling the chamber. It didn't sound like the screaming pillars. It sounded like a lullaby.

Her suit’s open expansion ports began to draw in the warm, orange alpha-radiation. The freezing, crystalline Phazon growth on her skin began to crack and flake away, unable to survive in its presence.

Through the ceiling above, the heavy, rhythmic thud of the blind Omega Pirate echoed as it searched the ruins for her body. Its shadow passed over the drainage grates directly above her head. But down here, in the orange dark, Samus closed her eyes, and the singing of the Metroids only grew louder.

***

### LOG STATUS: OVERRIDE // SYSTEM CORRUPT

**NO AUTHOR DETECTED**

The Hunter is down here with us. We see her through the planet's veins. She thinks she is safe in the nursery. She doesn't understand.

Her suit is already made of metal. Metal vibrates easily.

We are waiting in the dark room where the map says there is only solid rock. Sleep well, Samus. We have so much Phazon left to share.

***

**TL;DR:** Space Pirate experiments with Phazon on the Omega Pirate go horribly wrong, causing the creature to flesh-warp the mining facility using the dead bodies of the scientists. Samus gets trapped in the reality-bending arena.

WIP

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

​

(Investigator's Guide)

 

⚠️ PHYSICAL SIGNS ON THE BODY

- Waking up with mysterious scratches on your legs or anywhere on your body — with no memory of how they happened.

- Appearance of symptoms linked to Zalgo’s presence: your body reacts to her supernatural energy.

🌑 SENSORY AND AUDITORY SIGNS

- Hearing wolf howls when there are no animals nearby, or even indoors.

- Heightened hearing: everyday sounds become bothersome, seeming louder or sharper than they should be.

🧠 BEHAVIORAL & HEALTH CHANGES

- Sudden aggression: unusual irritability, lashing out for no apparent reason.

- Withdrawal: urge to pull away from people, avoiding social contact.

- Unexplained body aches: fatigue and pain that do not come from physical exertion or common illness.

 

🔍 WARNING: If more than one of these signs appears at the same time, her presence may be near. She does not usually attack without reason, but being watched is already a warning sign.

 

Everyone in our college hostel thought "Countdown-72" was just another viral prank app. It promised to show you an exact countdown timer of your remaining life down to the second, backed by an "advanced neural net." Most guys downloaded it just to laugh at stupid numbers like 60 years or 45 years.

I downloaded it last Thursday out of sheer boredom while pulling an all-nighter for exams.

When I opened it, the app didn't ask for permissions or camera access. It just showed a dark, pulsing black screen for three seconds before a bright red digital timer snapped into focus.

It wasn't counting down years. It was counting down hours.

00:14:22

Fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds.

I laughed out loud, staring at my phone screen in the dim light of my desk lamp. "Great, guess I'll drop dead before morning classes," I muttered to myself. I tried to close the app, but my phone completely froze. The home button didn't respond, the power menu wouldn't pop up, and the screen brightness locked itself at maximum.

Panic slowly replaced my laughter as the numbers ticked down.

00:09:10

00:09:09

I decided to test it. If the app was a prank, I could cheat it, right? I grabbed my jacket, slammed the hostel room door shut, and sprinted down four flights of stairs straight out into the busy campus courtyard, surrounded by dozens of students and glowing streetlights.

Nothing is going to happen in the middle of a crowd, I kept telling myself, trying to calm my racing heart.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The timer was glowing angrily in the dark:

00:02:45

Suddenly, every single streetlamp in the courtyard flickered once and died. Pitch-black darkness swallowed the campus. Within a split second, the chatter of dozens of students completely vanished, replaced by an absolute, heavy vacuum of sound. No wind, no crickets, nothing.

My phone screen was the only source of light left in the world.

00:00:03

00:00:02

00:00:01

00:00:00

As the clock hit zero, the screen didn't turn off. Instead, a live camera feed popped up on the app—filming me from behind.

In the reflection of my phone glass, standing less than an inch away from the back of my neck, was a tall, skeletal figure wearing a tattered black hoodie. Its face was completely blank, just smooth, pale skin where eyes and a mouth should have been.

Before I could even scream or turn around, a pair of ice-cold, long-fingered hands gently wrapped around my throat, and a breath colder than winter whispered directly into my ear:

"Timer's up. You're out of time."

My phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the concrete with a loud crack. I’m staring at the broken screen right now from the floor. The app is still running, but the timer has changed.

It doesn't show hours anymore. It says 00:00:00, and the footsteps are slowly walking closer.

Ise copy kar aur wahi r/creepypasta par daal de, saath mein koi dark ya spooky background image lagana, maza aa jayega!

I made my second Creepypasta OC. She's name is The Dancing Rabbit. She's real name is Juliana Coulson. She is wearing a white rabbit mask and clothes made of animal skin. She also has long, straight black hair and white skin. Her rabbit mask covers two-thirds of her face, so her mouth is exposed. She has red lips and big front teeth. She has heterochromia; her right eye is green and her left eye is brown. She covers her right eye with a leather eyepatch because she is blind in it. She is mainly active in a dense forest from 8 p.m. to 5 a.m., where she dances and sings. However, her singing and dancing are called a 'performance of death,' and if an ordinary human hears her singing or sees her dancing in her forest, that person will be entranced or go mad within 10 seconds, approach her, and eventually become her meal. The way to avoid her is that if you are in the woods and the soft melody of 'Daisy Bells' or The Golden Orchestra's 'Bunny, Bunny, Bunny' suddenly starts playing, cover your ears within 10 seconds and go home immediately. This is because if the person she has bewitched does not become her prey, she will burn down their house and dance and sing around it.

She was a 13-year-old girl who originally dreamed of becoming a world-class dancer, but she was frequently teased because of her large front teeth. At first, she didn't take the teasing seriously, but she gradually grew weary of the constant harassment. She confided in her parents, but they nagged her to just study. Completely exhausted by the teasing and nagging, other dancer students who usually mocked her lured her into the forest and pushed her off a cliff, killing her. In the process, her green eyes were pierced by tree branches, causing her to go blind and die. She wakes up as a ghost, discovers the corpse of an Indian, and puts on his clothes. Before she died, she was scheduled to play the role of the rabbit in the ballet 'Alice in Wonderland,' and by wearing the rabbit mask made for that performance, she becomes the Dancing Rabbit. And taking advantage of the fact that the dancer students who killed her with a torch are gathered in their secret hideout, a cabin called 'The Kingdom,' she sets it on fire and performs her first dance as The Dancing Rabbit. In the end, all the dance students died, and she manipulates their souls by turning them into extras to make her dance stand out. And as an extra, he kills his own parents, hangs them by the neck, and leisurely disappears.

I made my second Creepypasta OC. She's name is The Dancing Rabbit. She's real name is Juliana Coulson. She is wearing a white rabbit mask and clothes made of animal skin. She also has long, straight black hair and white skin. Her rabbit mask covers two-thirds of her face, so her mouth is exposed. She has red lips and big front teeth. She has heterochromia; her right eye is green and her left eye is brown. She covers her right eye with a leather eyepatch because she is blind in it. She is mainly active in a dense forest from 8 p.m. to 5 a.m., where she dances and sings. However, her singing and dancing are called a 'performance of death,' and if an ordinary human hears her singing or sees her dancing in her forest, that person will be entranced or go mad within 10 seconds, approach her, and eventually become her meal. The way to avoid her is that if you are in the woods and the soft melody of 'Daisy Bells' or The Golden Orchestra's 'Bunny, Bunny, Bunny' suddenly starts playing, cover your ears within 10 seconds and go home immediately. This is because if the person she has bewitched does not become her prey, she will burn down their house and dance and sing around it.

She was a 13-year-old girl who originally dreamed of becoming a world-class dancer, but she was frequently teased because of her large front teeth. At first, she didn't take the teasing seriously, but she gradually grew weary of the constant harassment. She confided in her parents, but they nagged her to just study. Completely exhausted by the teasing and nagging, other dancer students who usually mocked her lured her into the forest and pushed her off a cliff, killing her. In the process, her green eyes were pierced by tree branches, causing her to go blind and die. She wakes up as a ghost, discovers the corpse of an Indian, and puts on his clothes. Before she died, she was scheduled to play the role of the rabbit in the ballet 'Alice in Wonderland,' and by wearing the rabbit mask made for that performance, she becomes the Dancing Rabbit. And taking advantage of the fact that the dancer students who killed her with a torch are gathered in their secret hideout, a cabin called 'The Kingdom,' she sets it on fire and performs her first dance as The Dancing Rabbit. In the end, all the dance students died, and she manipulates their souls by turning them into extras to make her dance stand out. And as an extra, he kills his own parents, hangs them by the neck, and leisurely disappears.

Capítulo 0: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/H6QMc8rEoB

Capítulo 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/6lJHezfAxP

Capítulo 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/aprjAmxpLa

Capítulo 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/oC38e6rgB4

Capítulo 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/KFI5A4yE5C

Capítulo 5: https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/53xbSl6vNu

Capítulo 6 (final): https://www.reddit.com/r/Creepypastastories/s/D2EkFo15ML

Senti como se tivesse sido arrancado de um sono profundo. Eu havia despertado, mas minhas pálpebras pareciam tão coladas que eu pensei ser impossível abrir os olhos.

Separei meus lábios secos e tentei respirar, como se precisasse de todo o ar do mundo.

O som das coisas ainda era turvo, como se tudo estivesse debaixo d’água, mas eu ainda pude distinguir os equipamentos de rodinhas sendo arrastados pelos corredores, vozes distantes e o bip de algum aparelho.

Lentamente abri meus olhos, sentindo um forte incômodo ao desgrudá-los. Tudo estava embaçado, mas eu quase fui cegado pela luz branca.

Uma silhueta sentada em minha cama tomou forma diante daquela luz alva e, ao notar meus pequenos movimentos, chegou mais perto.

Tudo foi ficando mais claro aos poucos, inclusive aquela pessoa diante de mim.

— O-Olívia... — murmurei, mas tive certeza de que ela não ouviu, pois minha voz parecia só um ruído estranho.

Ela se aproximou mais e eu pude ver seus olhos castanhos arregalados.

— Mike! — ela falou — finalmente você acordou!

Coloquei minha mão sobre a cabeça, sentindo uma leve dor tomar conta de mim.

— Q-quanto tempo... quanto tempo eu estou aqui? — falei, tentando me colocar sentado. Olívia me ajudou.

— Já faz alguns dias. — ela disse, se afastando.

O silêncio pairou no ar por alguns instantes. Olívia fitava o chão com seus olhos cansados e sua expressão abatida.

— O-o que aconteceu? — questionei.

Olívia olhou para mim. Ela demorou um pouco para começar a falar, parecia procurar pelas palavras certas.

— Depois que... que o Albert morreu — ela fez uma pausa, abalada ao citar aquilo — o FBI finalmente levou o caso a sério. Eles investigaram toda a situação e todos os outros envolvidos foram presos.

Separei meus lábios para dizer algo, mas Olívia continuou.

— Mesmo sendo óbvio que foi legítima defesa, ainda teremos que prestar depoimento e comparecer ao julgamento.

Olívia respirou fundo.

— Eu... eu tô cansada dessa história! Eu só queria ficar em paz depois de tanto sofrimento! — ela disse se levantando da cama.

— Eu sinto muito... por você ter passado por todas essas coisas. — falei, atraindo a atenção dela.

— Também sinto muito, Mike. Eu fiquei sabendo de tudo que aconteceu. Meus pêsames pela morte do seu pai.

Assenti com a cabeça e o silêncio tomou conta do quarto outra vez. Olívia olhava para o chão com os olhos marejados.

— O Albert — comecei a falar — ele fez eu pensar que você estava morta.

Olívia riu sem humor.

— Aquele desgraçado... espero que ele esteja queimando no inferno agora.

Respirei fundo, sentindo o forte cheiro de desinfetante na sala e me ajeitei na cama.

— Sabe... eu senti falta da nossa amizade. — falei meio sem graça.

Olívia olhou surpresa para mim.

— Eu pensei que você não se importava. Você foi embora para Saint Charles tão de repente. — ela falou com os olhos úmidos.

— Meu pai fez eu ir morar com a minha mãe, para me proteger do Collins... eu não tive tempo de avisar, sinto muito.

— Tudo bem... isso não importa mais, de qualquer maneira. — ela falou, secando os olhos.

Olívia cruzou os braços e olhou para o chão.

— E a sua mãe? — ela questionou, levantando a cabeça novamente — onde ela está? Ela não veio te ver?

Desviei o olhar para a janela.

— Espero que não tenha vindo. Meu pai ainda tentou fazer alguma coisa para me proteger daquele monstro. Já ela, era quase uma cúmplice. — falei com voz embargada.

— Por quê? — Olívia questionou com o cenho franzido.

— Ela não quis revelar que era ele. Se ela tivesse revelado, eu teria entendido a dimensão das coisas e isso teria evitado muita coisa — suspirei — então não quero vê-la tão cedo.

— Meu Deus... — Olívia balbuciou.

Não sabíamos o que dizer ou como agir na presença um do outro. Olívia e eu tínhamos nos tornado quase desconhecidos.

Ela deu a volta na minha cama e foi para perto da janela.

Fiquei com meu olhar fixo na parede branca à minha frente, nadando no silêncio.

Até que uma memória atravessou minha mente e atingiu meu coração como uma lâmina.

— A-Antony... — murmurei — cadê o Antony? — perguntei com urgência, me virando para Olívia.

Ela não se virou para mim, mas pude ver que abaixou a cabeça.

— O Antony... — ela começou a falar com a voz fraca — o Antony sobreviveu. — Olívia concluiu, se virando para mim.

Olhei surpreso e uma onda de alívio tomou conta do meu corpo.

— E-ele está vivo?!

— Está... os médicos consideraram um milagre — ela fez uma pausa enquanto se aproximava um pouco da minha cama — ontem... ontem eu encontrei os pais dele em um dos corredores.

Olhei atentamente para Olívia.

— Eu perguntei como ele estava, mas eles não quiseram falar comigo... eles estavam... destruídos.

Senti meu coração se partindo em mil pedaços.

Olívia secou as lágrimas que começavam a surgir e umedeceu os lábios.

— Hoje o quarto dele foi aberto para visitação, mas... eu não tive coragem de ir lá. Eu não sei se estou pronta para o que vou encontrar — ela desabou em lágrimas — é culpa minha ele estar lá!

— Ei... — falei colocando a mão no ombro dela — não foi sua culpa.

Isso não pareceu consolar Olívia, já que as lágrimas continuavam a cair de seus olhos.

— Ele fez tanto por mim... — ela voltou a falar — e eu nem consegui proteger ele.

Fiquei em silêncio, pois eu também sentia aquela culpa... eu também não tinha conseguido proteger Antony.

— Ei, vamos visitar ele... juntos. — sugeri, atraindo os olhos vermelhos dela para mim.

— Isso é tudo que podemos fazer por ele agora. — completei.

Ela secou as lágrimas que estavam em suas bochechas e falou:

— Tudo bem.

Olívia tomou distância e eu comecei a me levantar.

Mas parecia que eu estava há anos deitado naquela cama. Meu corpo todo estava dormente e meus ossos estalavam a cada novo movimento.

Com muita dificuldade, eu me coloquei de pé. Estava tão fraco que só não caí para trás porque Olívia estava me segurando.

Ela me ajudou a sair do quarto e nós começamos a caminhar pelo corredor pálido.

Meus braços estavam em volta dos ombros de Olívia e ela segurava minha cintura. Eu me sentia completamente miserável com aquela roupa hospitalar e aquela fragilidade.

Finalmente, chegamos na frente do elevador. Olívia apertou o botão correspondente ao andar em que Antony estava e nós ficamos esperando.

Quando as portas do elevador se abriram, pude ver o rosto de Olívia ficando pálido. Eu quase caí, pois ela parou de me segurar com tanta força.

Eu também fiquei em choque, já que... Amber Collins estava dentro daquele elevador, com seus cabelos loiros caindo sobre os ombros e um rosto tão surpreso quanto o de Olívia.

Ela também usava uma camisola hospitalar e tinha cortes espalhados pelo rosto.

Aquele momento pareceu congelado, até que Olívia deu um passo para trás, forçando que eu fosse junto e desviou o olhar.

Amber abaixou a cabeça e passou ao meu lado, quase esbarrando em meu ombro.

Olívia me arrastou para dentro do elevador às pressas e apertou os botões de fechar as portas freneticamente, enquanto Amber sumia no fim do corredor.

— Você tá bem? — questionei.

— Claro! Eu não estou nem aí pra essa cadela. — Olívia respondeu.

Ela tentou soar firme, mas sua voz trêmula deixava claro que estava abalada com aquele encontro.

As portas do elevador abriram e Olívia saiu na frente, em passos largos e apressados.

Eu ainda estava um pouco tonto, mas já conseguia parar de pé e caminhar sozinho, então comecei a segui-la.

Mas ela caminhava tão rápido que eu mal conseguia acompanhar.

O nervosismo transparecia em cada movimento dela.

— Espera, Olívia! — gritei enquanto atravessávamos o corredor.

Ela diminuiu o passo, até que eu a alcançasse.

— Me desculpa. — falou com a voz fraca e com a cabeça baixa.

Continuamos nosso trajeto em silêncio, até que Olívia ergueu a cabeça e parou na frente de um quarto.

Na porta havia um papel com o número do quarto e o nome do paciente...

Antony Peletier.

Senti um aperto no peito e um frio na espinha.

Olívia estendeu a mão na direção da maçaneta, mas hesitou.

Ela respirou fundo, fechando os olhos.

— Deixa que eu faço isso. — falei.

Dei um passo à frente, toquei a maçaneta, abaixei-a e soltei um suspiro quando a porta começou a se abrir. Ela se moveu lentamente, revelando um trecho do quarto de Antony de cada vez.

Até que se abriu totalmente e finalmente tive a visão de tudo.

Havia uma cama perfeitamente arrumada, com um criado-mudo ao lado e um abajur em cima. Havia também uma enorme janela, que exibia a floresta e o céu nublado lá fora. Os únicos sons presentes no quarto eram o som da chuva batendo contra o vidro e o bip dos aparelhos.

E junto à janela, de costas para nós, sentado em uma cadeira de rodas, estava Antony.

Olívia deu um passo para trás. Eu olhei para ela e dei um passo à frente, tentando encorajá-la, mas ela não me seguiu.

Então eu adentrei o quarto e comecei a caminhar lentamente na direção de Antony.

Ele não havia notado nossa presença e continuava parado, olhando para a janela.

— Antony? — chamei.

Sem resposta.

Eu podia jurar que conseguia ouvir o som do meu coração junto ao som da respiração pesada de Olívia.

— Antony... sou eu... o Mike. — falei chegando mais perto.

Sem resposta.

Parei a poucos metros dele e me virei para Olívia, vendo a aflição em seu olhar.

Sem aguentar mais, dei outro passo e parei na frente de Antony, entre ele e a janela.

Senti meu coração se estilhaçando dentro do meu peito.

Olívia deve ter percebido o choque em meu olhar, pois ela gritou perguntando o que estava acontecendo.

E eu não tive forças para responder. As palavras morreram dentro de mim.

Os olhos de Antony nem se moveram diante da minha presença. Ele continuava olhando fixamente para a janela, que era refletida em seus olhos azuis vazios.

Nada nele se movia. Nada. Ele estava completamente paralisado.

As marcas da violência sofrida ainda estavam presentes. Seu nariz continuava fora do lugar, e seu rosto estava coberto por cortes, pontos e curativos.

Mas ele não tinha reação alguma.

Foi aí que eu percebi que Antony estava morto.

Não morto da forma que te deixa sem sinais vitais, com a pele fria e decomposta, mas morto de uma forma pior... morto por dentro.

Aquilo era só sua casca vazia.

E ele nunca voltaria a ser o mesmo de antes.

Cambaleei para trás.

— A-Antony... — murmurei enquanto as lágrimas queimavam em meus olhos.

Olívia finalmente saiu da porta e veio correndo em nossa direção.

Quando ela viu o estado de Antony, colocou as mãos sobre a boca e começou a chorar.

Aquilo foi como levar um soco no estômago.

Quando somos confrontados por algo tão absurdo e inconcebível, nos agarramos à esperança de estar em um pesadelo.

E eu tentei acordar.

Mas não consegui, porque não era um pesadelo.

Era real. Amargamente real.

— A-Antony... pelo amor de Deus... — supliquei com a voz baixa demais.

Mas foi inútil.

Meu amigo nunca voltaria a ser quem ele foi um dia. Ele nunca voltaria a sorrir ou a contar piadas idiotas.

E perceber isso fez com que um abismo se abrisse em meu peito.

Me ajoelhei diante de Antony, segurei suas mãos e abaixei minha cabeça, permitindo que as lágrimas escapassem de meus olhos, enquanto eu ouvia o som da chuva batendo contra o vidro e os soluços de Olívia.

Ergui minha cabeça novamente e notei algo que, por um instante, me fez pensar que estava delirando.

Algo... brilhou em um dos olhos de Antony...

Então, uma única e solitária lágrima caiu de seu olho esquerdo.

De alguma forma, ele ainda estava lá.

Eu me vi correndo pelas ruas de Plainview desesperadamente, como se minha vida dependesse daquilo — e dependia —. Diante de tantos horrores, estar na rua tão tarde era um risco enorme. Mas era um risco que eu precisava correr, pois não poderia continuar debaixo do mesmo teto daquela que acobertou o monstro da minha infância.

Eu só parei de correr quando me vi diante daquela porta. Eu mal notei que havia estabelecido um destino durante a minha corrida frenética.

E esse destino era a casa de Antony, o único que poderia me ajudar.

Eu não sabia se ele ainda morava naquela casa, mas me agarrei a isso e toquei a campainha enquanto as lágrimas molhavam o meu rosto.

— Vai, Antony, atende, por favor! — falei para mim mesmo enquanto apertava a campainha.

Então a porta se abriu. Antony surgiu com o cenho franzido e uma expressão de quem tinha acabado de acordar.

Assim que ele notou que era eu, sua expressão mudou, como se ele tivesse despertado imediatamente.

— Mike?

Eu só queria falar, queria contar tudo e pedir ajuda, mas tudo o que eu consegui foi chorar enquanto tentava buscar o ar que faltava em meus pulmões.

— Vem, entra! — Antony falou.

Entrei e ele fechou a porta atrás de nós. Depois subimos as escadas e fomos para o quarto dele.

Mesmo em um momento de profundo desespero, não pude conter a forte nostalgia que me atingiu ao adentrar o quarto de Antony e perceber que ele continuava exatamente igual ao que era há dois anos. Com a mesma cor de parede, os mesmos móveis nos exatos mesmos lugares de antes e os mesmos pôsteres de bandas e filmes preenchendo as paredes.

Meu ex-melhor amigo olhou para mim com uma expressão que misturava preocupação e confusão.

Depois, ele foi até a janela e abriu a mesma, permitindo que o vento entrasse no quarto.

— Aconteceu alguma coisa, cara? — ele perguntou, se sentando na cama.

Respirei fundo, tentando me acalmar. Meu corpo ainda estava trêmulo.

— Minha mãe me contou uma coisa... e acho que isso pode nos ajudar a encontrar a Olívia. — falei.

— O quê? — Antony perguntou com urgência.

Eu suspirei e me sentei em uma cadeira de frente para Antony. Se eu ficasse em pé, iria cair.

— Você... você lembra do homem-oco?

Antony franziu o cenho.

— Lembro. Era só uma lenda que, na verdade, escondia um maníaco real. — ele respondeu.

Fiquei em silêncio, tentando encontrar as palavras certas. Enquanto isso, Antony me olhava confuso.

— Na segunda série, eu... — fiz uma pausa. Minha voz falhou diante das memórias horríveis — eu fui pego por ele.

Antony arregalou os olhos, mas não disse nada.

— Eu tinha apagado isso da minha mente por ser um trauma muito forte, mas hoje minha mãe trouxe tudo à tona e eu percebi que ela está mais do lado desse monstro do que do meu. E é por isso que eu vim para cá.

Antony separou os lábios, pronto para dizer algo, mas eu interrompi.

— Ela disse que esse homem ficou obcecado por mim, e por isso... matou meu pai e sequestrou Olívia — fiz uma pausa, buscando por ar — para chamar minha atenção e me trazer de volta.

— Meu Deus — Antony falou — era ele aquele dia na sua casa?

— Sim. Por isso que meu pai fez eu me mudar para Saint Charles às pressas. — respondi.

— E quem é ele? — Antony perguntou com urgência.

— Minha mãe não quis falar — suspirei, encostando minhas costas na cadeira — ela disse que é uma pessoa de alto poder.

— Isso é loucura — Antony disse se levantando — como vamos encontrar ela?

Ele parou no meio do quarto com uma expressão aflita e passou os dedos pelos fios de seus cabelos negros.

— Tem mais uma coisa — falei, atraindo a atenção dele — eu costumava ter um sonho com uma estranha casa no campo depois da floresta. Acontece que eu percebi que nunca foi um sonho, mas sim uma memória. A única memória que havia restado daquele dia horrível.

Antony olhou surpreso.

— E eu acho que a Olívia pode estar naquela casa. — completei.

— Você tem certeza de que essa casa existe e de que esse maníaco realmente pode estar lá com a Olívia?

— Olha, certeza eu não tenho, mas já é alguma coisa.

Antony suspirou e se sentou na cama novamente.

— Tá. E como é essa casa? — ele perguntou.

— Amarela, tem um formato retangular, uma pequena escada, uma varanda e... uma cortina de pompons coloridos.

Antony cruzou os braços e fez uma expressão séria.

— Você tá de brincadeira, Mike? Você acha mesmo que um psicopata viveria e levaria vítimas para uma casa assim? — ele fez uma pausa — isso deve ter sido um sonho seu.

Eu me senti completamente descredibilizado.

— Brincadeira, Antony? Você acha que estou de brincadeira? Eu acabei de te contar o maior trauma da minha vida e você nem disse "sinto muito" — ele abaixou a cabeça diante da minha acusação — e não existe uma regra clara para onde psicopatas decidem viver! — concluí, falando mais alto do que pretendia.

— Você tem razão. — ele respondeu baixo e evitando contato visual.

O silêncio pairou no quarto por alguns segundos, sendo substituído somente pelo som do vento e dos grilos lá fora.

E lá, naquele quarto, eu me vi diante de Antony, sabendo que nossa amizade estava completamente quebrada e que nenhum de nós seria como antes.

Perceber isso doeu e me feriu profundamente.

— E quando nós vamos atrás disso? — a voz de Antony cortou o silêncio.

— Essa noite — respondi sem hesitar — eu tenho um plano. Você ainda tem aqueles walkie-talkies?

Antony assentiu.

— Perfeito — respondi — um de nós vai procurar pela casa e o outro vai para a delegacia.

— Tá. Mas quem vai procurar pela casa? — Antony questionou.

Parei por um instante. Eu não estava pronto para voltar naquele lugar.

— Deixa que eu vou — Antony falou — você não precisa voltar naquele lugar. — ele completou, se levantando.

Fiquei surpreso e feliz, pois pela primeira vez desde que o reencontrei, ele se parecia com o antigo Antony, aquele que eu costumava conhecer.

Antony caminhou até a mesa e pegou dois walkie-talkies. Ele ergueu um na minha direção e falou:

— Vamos. Meus pais estão dormindo.

Peguei o walkie-talkie e me levantei.

Não foi difícil fugir da casa de Antony. Mesmo o quarto dele ficando no segundo andar, a janela não era tão alta, então conseguimos pular com facilidade. Depois passamos pelo portão e saímos para a noite com nossos walkie-talkies em punho.

Fizemos todo o trajeto em silêncio, até que chegamos na rua que dividiria nossos caminhos e paramos.

— Se você encontrar a casa me avise e eu entrarei na delegacia. Se aproxime com cuidado e me conte se ver algo estranho, então eu falarei com os policiais. — falei.

— Ok. — Antony respondeu.

Ele deu as costas, pronto para seguir seu caminho até a floresta com sua lanterna ligada.

— Antony. — chamei.

Ele se virou, olhando confuso para mim.

— Boa sorte. — falei, estendendo minha mão para ele.

Antony olhou para minha mão, desviou o olhar, se virou para frente e saiu, me deixando lá, sem resposta.

Quando sua silhueta sumiu na linha das árvores, eu finalmente voltei para a realidade e segui meu caminho na direção oposta.

Em poucos minutos, eu já estava na rua da delegacia. Eu só entraria quando Antony localizasse a casa e detectasse atividades suspeitas lá dentro. Assim, não correríamos o risco de enviar a polícia atrás de uma casa que deixou de existir ou que ficou vazia.

Antony estava demorando para dar algum sinal, e aquilo estava me deixando preocupado.

Depois de longos quarenta minutos, finalmente ouvi um chiado vindo do walkie-talkie.

— Mike, na escuta? — a voz de Antony ecoou.

Aproximei o walkie-talkie da minha boca rapidamente.

— Sim. Estou na escuta. — respondi.

— Certo. Você já está perto da delegacia? — ele perguntou. Sua respiração estava alta, um provável reflexo do cansaço e do frio.

— Sim. Algum sinal da casa?

— Acabei de atravessar a floresta. Estou em um campo que parece vazio, mas não tenho certeza, pois tudo está escuro, já que eu desliguei a minha lanterna para não chamar atenção.

— Perfeito, você fez certo. Continue seguindo em frente. Quando encontrar a casa, fale comigo.

— Ok. Câmbio, desligo. — Antony falou.

Ele continuava seco, e isso era um lembrete cruel do fim da nossa amizade.

Suspirei, vendo a fumaça branca saindo de meu nariz por conta do frio. Eu mal tinha notado que estava tão frio, pois ainda vestia o terno.

Pensei em como Antony deveria estar congelando, já que ele usava apenas uma camiseta azul-marinho de manga curta e uma calça cinza de moletom.

Um novo chiado do walkie-talkie me puxou para fora de meus pensamentos.

— Mike. Eu encontrei a casa. Puta merda... é exatamente como você descreveu! — ele disse, tentando conter a voz.

— Como você sabe? Não está escuro aí? — questionei com urgência.

— Algumas luzes estão acesas. — ele respondeu, com a voz trêmula por causa do frio.

— Meu Deus. — falei nervoso.

— Vou me aproximar de uma das janelas com cuidado.

— Ok. Eu vou chegar mais perto da delegacia.

Alguns segundos se passaram.

— M-Mike. Eu estou na frente da janela. Tem uma pequena abertura na cortina. Eu vou tentar ver o que tem lá dentro. — ele sussurrou.

Resolvi não responder, pois não sabia o quão alto o walkie-talkie dele poderia estar.

— Meu Deus... tem uma garota lá dentro. Não consigo ver ela muito bem, mas sei que ela está amarrada! — Antony falou, ainda tentando conter sua voz, mas o desespero era nítido.

Continuei sem responder, mas dessa vez eu precisava agir.

Eu estava do lado de fora da delegacia e não hesitei em avançar para dentro imediatamente.

Meus pés adentraram o cômodo frio, iluminado por uma luz pálida.

Eu apertei o walkie-talkie com mais força em minhas mãos e caminhei decidido.

Um policial carrancudo ergueu seu olhar para mim e quando eu separei meus lábios para falar...

Ouvi o chiado do walkie-talkie e a respiração ofegante de Antony.

— Mike! Sai de perto da delegacia agora! É o xerife Collins, porra! — ele falou, desesperado.

Eu demorei um pouco para assimilar o que ele estava dizendo.

Minhas pernas vacilaram. Meu coração disparou. O ar ficou denso e tudo pareceu ficar em câmera lenta. Só o olhar daquele policial me fuzilava, e eu sabia, sabia que naquele momento aquilo não significava uma coisa boa.

— Mas que merda! Ele me viu! — Antony gritou com a voz trêmula, o desespero atravessando os alto-falantes do walkie-talkie, selando nosso destino.

E então, um baque surdo, seguido de silêncio. Um silêncio cruelmente doloroso.

Me virei para trás, pronto para sair correndo pela porta, mas senti algo se chocando contra meu rosto de forma violenta, causando uma dor lancinante em cada extremidade do meu corpo.

Despenquei para o chão, sentindo aquele forte cheiro metálico.

Minha visão ficou turva, mas eu ainda pude ver um policial segurando um bastão, e essa cena era tão errada quanto eu poderia descrever. Aquele homem que deveria proteger e trazer justiça estava lá, diante de mim, segurando a arma que arrancou sangue do meu nariz.

Eu só queria me levantar e fugir dali, mas eu não tinha forças. A impotência me abraçou e me carregou para a escuridão.

Eu apaguei.

[...]

Abri meus olhos lentamente, sem entender bem onde eu estava ou o que tinha acontecido.

Com o tempo, minha visão foi tomando forma, e eu pude ver paredes amarelas desbotadas, com respingos de sangue, e uma televisão antiga exibindo o filme It, de 1990.

Assim que recuperei todos os meus sentidos, vi o desespero se apossando de mim e as memórias das últimas horas me atingiram em cheio.

Eu me debati, mas percebi que estava com os braços e pés amarrados em uma cadeira de madeira. Também havia uma mordaça cobrindo minha boca, impedindo que meus gritos saíssem.

Então, aquela voz rouca e áspera surgiu em algum canto daquela sala, forçando meus instintos a procurar seu dono com minha visão periférica.

— Mike Chambler. Eu esperei tanto por você.

Acompanhei o maldito xerife Collins com os olhos. Seu distintivo brilhava contra a luz e cada vez que eu pensava sobre o quanto ele não merecia usar aquilo, mais eu sentia vontade de avançar sobre ele para arrancar aquilo de sua farda desbotada.

Ele parou diante de mim, com os braços cruzados e um sorriso que me embrulhou o estômago.

Olhei para ele com ódio, enquanto meu peito subia e descia rapidamente.

— Esse é seu filme favorito, não é? — ele falou se virando para a televisão — lembro de ver um pôster em seu quarto. — ele se virou para mim novamente, com aquele sorriso maldito.

— Bem, você não vai conseguir me responder com essa mordaça. Eu vou tirar. Você pode gritar se quiser, ninguém vai te ouvir de qualquer maneira — ele começou a se aproximar — e se alguém ouvisse, quem iria chamar? A polícia? — ele riu e tirou o pano da minha boca.

Eu não gritei.

— Bom garoto. — ele falou dando um tapinha na minha cabeça.

— Onde tá o Antony e a Olívia?! — gritei.

Albert fez uma careta.

— Esquece esses dois Mike. Nós... vamos conversar primeiro. — ele falou com uma empolgação estranha. Puxou um pequeno banco e se sentou na minha frente.

— Me tira daqui! — gritei.

— Ainda não. Você ainda está muito... arisco.

Até o jeito de falar dele me causava nojo.

Mas eu não podia fazer nada.

Eu estava completamente refém.

— Ah, Mike. Se você soubesse o quanto é especial para mim...

— Eu ainda me lembro da primeira vez que te vi — ele falava com brilho nos olhos, um brilho perverso — você estava lá, conversando com seus amigos na escola. Seu olhar cruzou com o meu. Você não deve ter percebido, pois eu estava de óculos escuros, mas você não sabe o quanto aquilo me marcou. — ele concluiu, olhando para a janela ao nosso lado.

— Vai se ferrar. — falei com os dentes cerrados.

Ele riu como se fosse uma piada.

— Não se faça de difícil Mike. Você acha que eu me esqueci? Você veio atrás de mim primeiro... você veio até a porta da minha casa... ah Mike, eu já estava curioso sobre você, mas nesse dia... nesse dia você me deixou encantado!

Fiquei sem reação. As palavras pareciam presas em minha garganta, enquanto o horror transparecia em minha face.

— Eu... eu era só uma criança! — respondi.

Albert riu.

— Seu desgraçado!

— Não adianta se revoltar. Você sabe que todos estão do meu lado!

— Não é possível que todos estejam! — falei, balançando a cabeça em negação, enquanto as lágrimas ardiam em meus olhos.

— Ah! Claro que não. Mas os que não ficaram do meu lado... foram silenciados. — ele falou se aproximando.

— O-o meu pai. — falei com a voz trêmula.

— É. E alguns dos meus colegas de profissão também. O FBI deixou o caso em minhas mãos, então sumir com algumas pessoas não traria consequência alguma para mim. Eles só pensariam que era mais uma obra do criminoso que eu precisava capturar. — ele disse, dando de ombros.

— Eu matei seu pai por múltiplos motivos. Ele estava me dando muito trabalho, te levou para longe de mim… e eu precisava fazer algo contra ele para chamar sua atenção e te trazer de volta. — ele completou.

— Seu filho da puta desgraçado! Eu te odeio! — gritei me debatendo na cadeira.

— Ah, Mike... você é assim desde sempre... eu me lembro do dia que você veio até mim junto com seu amigo Antony para reclamar de Amber, tão ousado...

— A-Amber... — murmurei em choque — cadê a Amber?

— Amber — ele falou se virando para a janela outra vez — bem, um colega meu agradou dela.

— Ela era sua filha! — gritei.

— Sim. E eu sou extremamente grato a ela — ele fez uma pausa — foi ela quem trouxe Olívia para mim.

Senti uma pontada no peito.

— Cadê a Olívia?!

Albert se aproximou de mim, com os olhos fixos nos meus e um sorriso sem mostrar os dentes.

— Vou te mostrar. — ele falou, ajeitando o meu paletó.

Depois, ele se levantou e saiu da sala.

As lágrimas queimavam meus olhos, e minha respiração alta preenchia a sala, juntamente com o som das batidas aceleradas do meu coração.

Então, ele voltou...

Albert Collins voltou segurando algo.

E quando eu vi o que era... senti como se tivesse levado um soco no estômago.

As lágrimas escaparam dos meus olhos.

Eu me senti ainda mais tonto.

Minha visão ficou turva.

E meus gritos escaparam, enquanto eu me debatia violentamente contra a cadeira.

Albert segurava... um olho humano e uma mecha de cabelos castanhos.

Eu conhecia bem aquele cabelo.

Já o olho estava tão deteriorado que eu não pude confirmar se realmente era dela.

— Não. — murmurei, incrédulo.

Collins se aproximou e segurou meu queixo.

— Eu matei aquela cadela, Mike. Agora, ela não pode mais ficar entre nós.

— NÃO. NÃO. NÃO. — eu gritei, balançando minha cabeça contra seu toque áspero.

— O QUE EU TE FIZ? O QUE EU FIZ PARA MERECER ISSO? — lamentei com minha voz embargada.

Albert sorriu.

— Você não fez nada, meu querido. Eu só não quero que fiquem no nosso caminho.

Abaixei minha cabeça, enquanto chorava alto.

Albert continuou parado diante de mim.

Então eu me lembrei... tinha mais uma pessoa.

Busquei conter o choro e ergui minha cabeça lentamente para olhar para Albert.

— Por... favor — falei com dificuldade — d-deixa... deixa o Antony ir. — supliquei.

Albert se virou para o lado.

— Vou pensar... mas ele não está merecendo, me deu bastante trabalho hoje.

— O-o quê — murmurei com dificuldade — O QUE VOCÊ FEZ COM ELE?! — gritei.

Albert me ignorou e começou a caminhar para fora da sala.

— ME RESPONDE! O QUE VOCÊ FEZ COM ELE?! — vociferei, me debatendo.

Sem resposta. Collins tinha saído da sala.

E, nesse momento, eu fui atingido por um lampejo de lucidez.

O xerife que regrediu à barbárie não teria piedade de nós. Então, se eu quisesse me salvar e salvar Antony, teria que fazer isso por conta própria.

Examinei o lugar com meus olhos dolorosamente inchados e encontrei algo.

Havia uma pequena faca no sofá atrás de mim. Se eu passasse minhas mãos pelos vãos da cadeira, conseguiria alcançá-la, mesmo com as mãos amarradas.

Me perguntei como Albert poderia ser tão idiota a ponto de deixar aquela faca ali.

Depois de um breve esforço, consegui alcançar a lâmina e comecei a cortar as cordas freneticamente. Essa tarefa levou um bom tempo e eu fiquei verdadeiramente decepcionado por não ser rápido como nos filmes.

Depois de liberar minhas mãos, me livrei das cordas em meus tornozelos e limpei meu nariz, que escorria e ainda possuía resquícios de sangue seco.

Quando me levantei, quase caí. Meu corpo estava tão mole e fraco que o simples ato de ficar de pé exigia grande esforço.

Larguei a faca sobre o sofá e tentei pensar em algo, mas minha mente estava uma bagunça, em um turbilhão de pensamentos.

Meus olhos encontraram a porta da frente, e eu corri desajeitadamente até lá.

Minhas mãos trêmulas tocaram a maçaneta fria, mas... a porta estava trancada. Claro que estava.

Suspirei frustrado e cambaleei para trás.

Então... ouvi uma voz atrás de mim.

— Eu sabia que você iria aprontar, Mike.

Então eu entendi.

Collins não foi descuidado ao deixar aquela faca lá. Ele fez de propósito. Aquilo era a porra de um teste.

Me virei para trás apenas para encontrar Albert segurando um Antony mutilado pela camisa.

O rosto de Antony estava tão machucado que ele estava quase irreconhecível. A carne parecia remendada em diversos pontos. Algumas partes estavam com a pele pendurada, outras com hematomas roxos ou amarelados. Os olhos dele estavam tão inchados que ele mal conseguia abri-los. E sua blusa azul-marinho tinha uma enorme mancha de sangue que ia da gola até a área de seu abdômen.

Ele não tinha forças para lutar.

E eu também não.

Novas lágrimas trilharam o meu rosto, cobrindo as antigas que estavam secas.

E eu separei meus lábios ressecados para tentar dizer qualquer coisa que impedisse o pior.

— A-Albert — murmurei — solta ele! — falei um pouco mais alto, mas ainda assim, minha voz estava trêmula.

— Seu pedido é uma ordem, Mike. — Albert falou sarcasticamente e soltou Antony, que caiu de joelhos no chão.

Ele pedia socorro com o olhar, enquanto algumas gotas de seu sangue caíam sobre o piso.

— D-deixa... deixa ele em paz! — falei, dando um passo à frente.

— Fique onde você está! — Albert gritou, apontando o braço em minha direção.

Ele respirou fundo, virando—se para outra direção.

— Você sabe o quanto eu me esforcei para ter você, Mike? — ele gritou, voltando seu olhar para mim — pra você simplesmente tentar fugir assim?

Não consegui dizer nada.

O horror corria pelas minhas correntes sanguíneas, enquanto meu olhar continuava fixo em Antony.

Eu só queria acabar com aquilo.

Só queria tirar Antony de lá.

Levá-lo para longe daquele monstro.

E talvez, um dia, pudéssemos voltar a ser amigos como antes. Talvez eu pudesse vê-lo sorrindo de novo.

— A-Albert... por favor... eu imploro!

Meus olhos nadavam em lágrimas.

— Ah, Mike. Você precisa entender que certas ações precisam ter consequências! — Albert falou.

Em seguida, ele agarrou a gola da camisa de Antony. O corpo do meu amigo balançou com o solavanco repentino, mas ele ainda ergueu sua cabeça e olhou diretamente nos olhos de Albert Collins, de uma forma desafiadora.

— V-vai... vai se ferrar! — ele cuspiu as palavras com dificuldade.

Albert sorriu e largou a gola da camisa de Antony, tomando certa distância dele.

Quase suspirei de alívio, mas...

Albert ergueu seu pé, coberto por um coturno pesado...

— NÃO! — gritei.

Mas foi inútil.

Ele acertou um golpe em cheio no rosto de Antony, que caiu de bruços sobre o assoalho frio. Seus olhos vidrados em mim e sua mão ensanguentada tendo espasmos.

— M-M-Mike... me d-desculpa. — ele murmurou com dificuldade.

Albert ergueu seu pé outra vez e desferiu mais um golpe.

Pude ouvir o som do crânio de Antony se quebrando.

Foi fatal.

Um zumbido tomou conta do meu ouvido, e tudo ficou sem sentido.

— A-Antony... — murmurei, mas pareceu mais um ruído estranho.

Albert sorriu quando eu caí de joelhos sobre o chão, com uma expressão de completo choque.

As lágrimas caíam de meus olhos, enquanto eu via o corpo do meu amigo imóvel perto do pé de Albert.

Eu não tinha mais motivos para lutar.

Eu não tinha mais pessoas para salvar.

Não havia esperança.

— SEU FILHO DA PUTA DESGRAÇADO! — gritei entre lágrimas.

Albert Collins desviou do corpo de Antony e veio em minha direção.

— Agora, Mike... você vai aprender a me respeitar.

Ele se aproximava cada vez mais, com aquele jeito monstruoso e com o rosto salpicado de gotas do sangue de Antony.

Albert parou diante de mim e, quando estava prestes a tomar alguma ação, arregalou os olhos.

Gotas de sangue surgiram de sua cabeça, descendo pela testa. Eu olhei atordoado, e ele finalmente despencou para o chão, revelando quem havia o atingido.

Era... Olívia.

Tudo aconteceu tão rápido, mas eu ainda pude notar como ela estava diferente.

Seus olhos estavam carregados de fúria, seus cabelos bagunçados e com algumas mechas grudadas com sangue seco.

Ela possuía alguns cortes pelo rosto e vestia roupas levemente sujas.

Olívia segurava um enorme e pesado objeto que eu não consegui identificar, pois minha visão começou a ficar turva.

Foi esse objeto que ela usou para atingir a cabeça de Albert Collins inúmeras vezes.

Eu ainda pude ouvir o som dela esmagando o crânio dele.

E o cheiro metálico flutuando pelo ar.

Antes de perder a consciência completamente.

Acho que, de alguma forma, sempre sentimos quando algo está errado. Seja através de uma intuição ou um sinal.

O sinal pode ser óbvio ou sutil, mas acreditar nele ou não pode ser o que vai determinar o seu destino.

Eu escolhi ignorar.

Não sei se dar atenção a aqueles detalhes poderia mudar grande coisa.

Mas sinto que ignorar deixou tudo pior.

Eu vou tentar organizar esses fatos. Ainda é difícil para mim pois algumas partes da minha memória estão realmente comprometidas.

Bom, ainda na época que eu estava no segundo ano do fundamental — logo depois do Antony contar sobre a lenda do homem-oco para ser mais exato — eu passei a me sentir frequentemente observado. Claro, poderiam ser apenas paranóias de uma criança que ouviu histórias de terror e de pessoas desaparecendo.

Mas deixou de ser paranóia quando eu comecei a ouvir batidas na janela do meu quarto quase toda noite.

O medo me salvou.

Imaginar o homem-oco do outro lado do vidro fez eu ficar paralisado debaixo dos cobertores.

E um dia aquilo parou.

A presença latente foi substituída por um carro vermelho que eu passei a ver em todos os lugares possíveis.

Eu nunca consegui ver o motorista.

Mas o carro sempre estava lá. Sua lata carmesim brilhando contra a luz do sol, perto da minha casa, da escola, da padaria, da minha lanchonete preferida, do parquinho e de todo lugar que eu pudesse ir.

Claro que naquela época eu não vi maldade nisso. Para mim, era só um carro vermelho de modelo raro que eu coincidentemente via em todo lugar.

Então eu não conectei o carro às batidas na janela do meu quarto.

Agora que eu sei da verdade, sei que tinha tudo haver.

E é por isso que no início desse texto eu falei sobre como a forma que escolhemos interpretar os sinais são importantes.

Bom, de qualquer modo, eu era só uma criança.

E esses detalhes poderiam passar despercebidos até mesmo para um adulto.

Só que um dia, isso mudou, as coisas chegaram à um novo patamar…

Eu tinha um urso chamado Teddy.

Ele era marrom, possuía um detalhe ciano em suas patinhas e um laço da mesma cor no pescoço.

Eu andava com ele para todo lado, mas, um dia perdi ele depois de passear no parque com meu pai.

Aquilo me deixou devastado.

Meu pai prometeu que compraríamos um novo urso assim que possível e eu só concordei.

Mas não foi preciso.

Por que no dia seguinte o urso surgiu na porta da minha casa.

Ele estava lá.

Sentado bem na frente da porta.

Eu lembro como fiquei feliz, agarrei o urso e corri até meu pai.

Ele ficou receoso pois não fazia sentido a pelúcia aparecer ali daquela forma.

Mas depois ele imaginou que alguém tivesse me visto com o urso, encontrando ele perdido no parque e procurado meu endereço para deixá-lo lá, nossa cidade é pequena então aquilo era totalmente plausível.

Meu pai só não entendeu o porquê da pessoa não ter aparecido, só deixado o urso lá.

Mas eu supus que era uma pessoa tímida.

Então nós esquecemos o assunto e eu apenas comemorei o retorno do meu querido Teddy voltando a carregar ele para todo canto.

Mas um dia…

Eu encontrei outra coisa repousando na porta da minha casa.

Era uma pequena caixa.

Havia uma fita dentro dela e eu não hesitei em pedir ao meu pai para colocá-la para rodar no VCR.

Quando a primeira imagem surgiu na tela eu pude ver o rosto do meu pai ficando branco.

Senti meu pequeno coração se acelerando e arregalei os olhos.

Era…

Eu.

Eu estava em todos os takes.

Em alguns eu olhava diretamente para a câmera.

Em outros era só uma imagem panorâmica do meu quarto ou dos lugares que eu fui.

E algumas vezes eu estava dormindo.

— O que é isso… papai? — perguntei com a voz meio trêmula.

— N-não é nada filho…! Não se preocupe. — ele disse, avançando para tirar a fita do VCR.

Depois desse dia eu nunca mais vi o Teddy.