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The Hallowe'en 2020 Scary Thread

Started by Cassia, September 14, 2020, 10:13:55 PM

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Mike Cl

Quote from: Unbeliever on October 01, 2020, 09:56:32 PM
Have you ever seen Hawk the Slayer? A good archery movie. That elf is fast!
Not only haven't seen it, I'd not heard of it.  Have to look it up.
Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?<br />Then he is not omnipotent,<br />Is he able but not willing?<br />Then whence cometh evil?<br />Is he neither able or willing?<br />Then why call him god?

aitm

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 30, 2020, 06:34:51 PM
Home alone, part II (of presumably III)


With Rover still whimpering in the background, Miles had turned his focus to the blue modern art painting by the thick wall that separated the living room from his study. In one fell swoop he tore it from it's nail and cast  it aside. The small hidden vault now plainly visible. His fingers shook as he pushed the digits; messing up the order twice before getting it right. His eyes no longer strayed to the mist surrounding his glass abode for fear of what he might see.

When he reached in and pulled out the wooden box, his quivering hands failed to grasp it well. Along with a few shady documents and some old pictures, the small container fell to the ground. The lid broke off and a few of the bullets inside scattered across the ground. He bent down quickly and tried to grab some shells before they rolled too far off. The bulldog revolver now too saw the light of day. It took him several tries before he could fit six rounds into the weapon. Only then did he dare to rise back to his feet and look about him.

There were no dark shapes in the fog. No piercing eyes looking back at him. No taunts or sounds. No growls. No laughter. Nothing. He knew shouting wouldn't do any good. If anyone was standing there, hidden in the banks of mist, they could plainly see him holding the gun. And the walls were thick and isolated enough so that they would not be able to hear his words. Still, because it made him feel better to disrupt the constant stream of emptiness, he did.

“I'm armed!” He shouted. “I'm not afraid to use this!” He continued.

And that much was true, at least. His fear did not stem from the weapon in his hand. Quivering; not only because of the cold sweat on his bare back and neck. He gingerly made his way over to the kitchen and placed the broken box on the counter. It still had about a quarter of the shells in it. It brought him closer to the glass wall. Standing less than five feet from it, he peered beyond the translucent reflection of himself. To his right, he could just about make out the general form of the Mercedes. He wondered if he could make it. Perhaps if he turned on the fog-lights, he could find his way back to the river. The drive over would be mostly straightforward, his chances of crashing were little. And whoever or whatever was out there, probably wouldn't be able to catch up to him. Driving through the river would prove either difficult or impossible, however. The water wasn't as high as it had once been. And perhaps if the current wasn't too bad, the car would manage. But it was a tough call. And in no way, shape or form would the car be able to take him all the way to the nearest town, after going through that.

No. It would be better to wait. Both for this fog to die down and for the river to return to normal in a few days. He could do that. He was safe here. He might not be able to see far out. But this place was pretty much a bunker. And he would see it if anyone did try to get in. They could see him, but if they came close enough, he would be able to see them. Realizing that made him feel a little better. He might be able to be scared and get surprised, but he wouldn't be able to be taken off guard. There would be no sneaking into this place. He could see everything, just as much as he could be seen.

He saw something now. One of the dark shapes, perhaps a little farther away than the car. And at least a few yards to it's left. The figure moved at a walking speed. Miles followed it with his eyes, unaware that his fingers grasped the handle of the gun so much that his fingers turned white. When turning his head no longer cut it, he moved to follow. Step by step, he walked around the open interior of the loft-like building. Never taking his eyes of the unwanted guest. He was already in his study when he lost sight of it.

That's when he heard the rattle at the door. Violent shaking. Intense. Perhaps desperate. Or impatient. He could not tell. He heard and saw Rover bolt up the staircase, off to the master bedroom.

“Go away!” Miles cried out as he moved around the thick wall that housed his safe. He stepped over the discarded painting and held his arm outstretched. The short barrel pointing at the door. The door-handle continued to shake and sputter. Shaking almost as hard as his outstretched hand.

He neared, shouting for it to go away. Knowing full well the outside world was deaf to him, but feeling the need none the less. His heart pumped relentlessy and frantically. Untill it almost seemed to crash-stop when he saw her appear.

The blond woman was distraught beyond description. Her formerly well-kept, shoulder-high hair now unkempt and laced with dirt. She clutched the bloodied and muddied sheet, clinging to her breath-taking voluptuous form, as she finally left the doorhandle alone. Now she focused her attention on the glass wall beside it. Her blood-covered fist smashed into it repeatedly as he could see her cry. Without hearing the words he knew she was begging to be let in. Pleading. When her eyes fell on him, they went from utter fear to a terrified form of frustration. The hopeful desperation shaped her resignated shade of anger into a disserviced wrath. This was not the Moxxy he knew. Not the sweet and sensual girl: always in control. Gone was that cocky smile on her full lips. That knowing glance in her blue eyes. Gone that grace, as she nearly chipped her long nails and smeared blood across the glass in the process, as she tried to be let in.

He moved for the door instinctively. Even with shaking hands, her reappearance given him purpose. He managed to undo the first lock. She was still heaving outside, next to the door, watching him anxiously as his free hand moved for the second lock.

But he hesitated. A brief check-up on her… The smallest of glances… It took him off guard. It was only a hint. And it was only there for a brief second. But it was unmistakeable. She was no longer shaking with fear. No more did she appear terrified. Only  impatient. And in those eyes, for a mere flicker… He saw a hunger unlike any other.

It threw him off. Like some dark reflection into a nightmarish world, he saw the prositute before him, one part of his mind telling him there was no doubt it was her, another screaming madly that she only nearly was. Something was missing. Or added. Or just wrong. Moxxy was Moxxy. And she wasn't.

In moment the haunted surprise, he turned slightly and took a step backwards. He felt the carpet underneath his feet, but he didn't take his eyes off of her. The hairs on his back crawled upright. This was wrong. All of it.

The moment he did. The flicker returned. Unabashed. She cocked her head and closed her eyes slowly, seemingly focussing on some other sense. Her body swayed slightly, as if she'd been out partying, the buzz starting to flow just right and some slow song came on and seduced her to the floor. With the flick of a wrist, the dirtied sheets fell to the ground.

He could see now her beautiful body covered in patches of blood. Some still wet. Some dried. Her naked form before him turned into a horrific mockery of itself. It was still there. Still Moxxy. Still perfect. But not right. Perhaps too ideal in shape now. And so very repulsive, both in its flawlessness as well as because of the caked stains.

And he could see now. As she thwirled slightly, dancing to a tune beyond his hearing: None of the blood… None of it… came from her. There were no gashes or bruises. No wounds at all. Not on her front, nor her back. Not under her arms, as they rose up when she brushed her red fingers through her hair as she bit her lip.

Her eyes opened again as she pressed her the front of her form to the glass. The stains began sticking to the outside of the wall. She seemed to mouth his name as she smiled darkly and drunkly at him. A slight moan seemed to escape her breath as she gently pushed her chest away from the glass. And suggestively her hand trailed from her bellybutton on her flat stomach up to her right nipple. The excess blood on her index- and middle-finger she used it to smear a message on the see-through wall.  Miles watched the letters appear in mirror writing.

“Stop Hiding.” It said.

Miles had absent-mindedly backed up further, all this time. He was crying now. The tears flowing freely as all courage seemed to leave him. Already he was in the middle of the living room, the back of his leg already bumping into the coffee table by the time he finished writing.

Last he saw of her, she pressed her soft lips to the glass, leaving a perfect imprint in a mixture of blood and red lipstick, next to the message.
Her tongue ran of it hungrily, before she returned her gaze to him one last time. Her eyes piercing him; nailing him to the ground where he stood. Without turning and without taking her eyes off him, she walked backwards. And in less than five paces, the mist had engulfed her completely. Leaving him only with the dirtied sheets and her blood-stained imprints.
Good stuff. Course....bitches be crazy. 😁
A humans desire to live is exceeded only by their willingness to die for another. Even god cannot equal this magnificent sacrifice. No god has the right to judge them.-first tenant of the Panotheust

Cassia

The incident angle of the Autumn sun is shifting fast and I noticed this timely lampshade.


Baruch

Ha’át’íísh baa naniná?
Azee’ Å,a’ish nanídį́į́h?
Táadoo ánít’iní.
What are you doing?
Are you taking any medications?
Don't do that.


drunkenshoe

(I know he is warming up to post something that is going to move suddenly.)
"science is not about building a body of known 'facts'. ıt is a method for asking awkward questions and subjecting them to a reality-check, thus avoiding the human tendency to believe whatever makes us feel good." - tp



Cassia

Origin of the “Jack O'Lantern"
Or what happens to atheists, LOL

Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name, Stingy Jack didn’t want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form.

Jack eventually freed the Devil, under the condition that he would not bother Jack for one year and that, should Jack die, he would not claim his soul. The next year, Jack again tricked the Devil into climbing into a tree to pick a piece of fruit. While he was up in the tree, Jack carved a sign of the cross into the tree’s bark so that the Devil could not come down until the Devil promised Jack not to bother him for ten more years.

Soon after, Jack died. As the legend goes, God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. The Devil, upset by the trick Jack had played on him and keeping his word not to claim his soul, would not allow Jack into hell. He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip (or a pumpkin in the New World) and has been roaming the Earth with ever since. This ghostly figure in known as “Jack of the Lantern,” and then, simply “Jack O’Lantern.”

the_antithesis


Baruch

Lasagna is made from people!!  Soylent Garfield.
Ha’át’íísh baa naniná?
Azee’ Å,a’ish nanídį́į́h?
Táadoo ánít’iní.
What are you doing?
Are you taking any medications?
Don't do that.

drunkenshoe

"science is not about building a body of known 'facts'. ıt is a method for asking awkward questions and subjecting them to a reality-check, thus avoiding the human tendency to believe whatever makes us feel good." - tp

Baruch

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 14, 2020, 03:59:18 PM
He is inside his stomach isn't he?

Topologically wrong, Garfield's head would be on the outside.  But nightmares don't care.
Ha’át’íísh baa naniná?
Azee’ Å,a’ish nanídį́į́h?
Táadoo ánít’iní.
What are you doing?
Are you taking any medications?
Don't do that.

Hydra009

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 14, 2020, 03:59:18 PM
He is inside his stomach isn't he?
Worse.  It's implied that Garfield ate the entirety of the interior and exterior of the house - making Jon the only thing within the house not inside Garfield's stomach.

drunkenshoe

Quote from: Hydra009 on October 14, 2020, 04:40:26 PM
Worse.  It's implied that Garfield ate the entirety of the interior and exterior of the house - making Jon the only thing within the house not inside Garfield's stomach.

LOL, I see. Can't use the word 'hate' because it is blasphemous in my faith concerning the feline species but I really don't like Garfield, and lions. I have no idea why. I mean I can't help but love Greebo?
"science is not about building a body of known 'facts'. ıt is a method for asking awkward questions and subjecting them to a reality-check, thus avoiding the human tendency to believe whatever makes us feel good." - tp