4 true scary stories about strange creatures

4 true scary stories about strange creatures

 The moment I awoke to  discover Ava, my girlfriend,   had vanished was akin to a sudden splash  of icy reality on my face. Initially,   I speculated she had embarked on an early  shift at the downtown Eldridge diner,   a quaint town known more for its annual fall  fair than any extraordinary occurrences. Oddly,  

My phone lay dead, though I distinctly recalled  plugging it in the night before. After scavenging   for a charger and restoring some life into it,  the date on the screen sent a chill down my spine. February 17, 2024. That couldn’t be accurate.  The previous night was firmly February 16, 2023.

I stumbled out of bed, my heart racing,  fingers dialing Ava’s number, only to   be met with the disheartening  tone of a disconnected line. The streets mirrored my confusion and  silence. Neighbors, some teary-eyed, others   wearing a dazed expression I likely mirrored,  wandered about. Ava was not the sole absence.

“We’re doing everything we can,” reassured  the sheriff at the press conference,   his eyes hollow, reflecting a  year of unanswered questions. The police investigation sowed more confusion  than clarity. The sole common thread was the   last memory anyone shared: an ominous  fog that had consumed the town entirely.

Hours turned into days, and  with each passing moment,   the weight of our collective amnesia pressed  heavier. Then the visions commenced. Initially   dismissed as nightmares, fragments of a  subconscious grappling with the nonsensical,   I realized they transcended personal  demons. Mrs Henderson whispered   about the shadows she’d witnessed in her  dreams, revealing a collective experience.

In the subsequent days, an impromptu support  group emerged, a fellowship of the bereaved,   each missing a fragment of their lives,  desperately seeking answers in a town bereft   of them. Our gatherings unfolded in the back  room of Eldridge’s library, a space graciously  

Provided by the librarian, Sara, who, like the  rest of us, was missing her husband and children. Initially convened to share information,  to uncover leads overlooked by the police,   these meetings evolved into something darker.  Under the sterile hum of fluorescent lights,   we broached the subject of the visions.

As the sessions unfolded, a  shared narrative materialized,   woven from the fragments of those huddled in the  dimly lit back room. It was a tale too surreal,   too otherworldly to be mere fabrications of  a town gripped by loss and confusion. Yet,   the details were too uniform,  too vivid to summarily dismiss.

Every account converged on a singular scene:  a clearing in the woods, veiled in a fog so   dense it seemed alive, almost sentient.  None of us could recall reaching there,   yet the place felt eerily familiar, as  if it had always been a concealed part of  

The town’s landscape. At the heart of this  clearing stood a substantial stone altar,   ancient and weathered, its origins  obscured by the passage of time. In the labyrinth of memories, fractured like  shards of glass reflecting elusive fragments,   a collective revelation unfolded among us. The  obscure puzzle began to take shape as we exchanged  

Experiences, and a chilling awareness settled  upon us: a shared moment standing in a circle   around the ancient altar, our hands interlocked  in a pact shrouded in unfathomable comprehension. As the discourse delved into the abyss of our  shared memories, my words spilled forth without  

Premeditation, my voice an unfamiliar echo in my  ears. “It was the sole recourse,” I found myself   uttering, “the only means by which the enigmatic  fog would release its hold on the town.” A   profound quiet blanketed the room, the weight  of my revelation hanging palpably in the air.

Then, breaking through the silence from the back,   Tom, my neighbor, posed a haunting  query, “Can you still taste them?” Those four words acted as a key turning  in an unnoticed lock. A floodgate of   memories surged forth, accompanied by  an overwhelming, undeniable truth. I  

Stood once again in the clearing, the  chilling touch of the fog on my skin,   holding in my hands flesh—cooked human  flesh. The horror of realization gripped me,   but even as my mind recoiled, my senses betrayed  me. The taste, the texture, gruesomely vivid. Observing the scene through an  almost detached perspective,  

I witnessed myself take a bite, the act  both barbaric and painfully familiar.   Then it struck me—the remnants  of a tattoo on the charred skin. The revelation hit with the  force of a speeding truck,   hurtling me into a nightmare from which awakening  seemed impossible. The words “Ava Loves Hunter”  

Etched on the charred forearm were undeniably  hers. My stomach churned, and I doubled over,   expelling the contents of my gut onto the  library floor. My world not only spun;   it capsized, submerging me in a  dark sea of guilt and disbelief.

Struggling for breath, the air thickening around  me, Sara’s anguished screams shattered the eerie   silence of the library. Her cries, raw and  filled with an agony beyond verbal expression,   reverberated off the walls. She  crumpled into a heap on the floor,  

Her body convulsing with sobs that seemed  to shake the very foundation of the room. “I consumed them… My God,  I consumed my children!” Embarking on an adventurous camping journey,  I’m known as K, a 22-year-old gentleman,   cherishing moments of joy and companionship  with my friends—E (23, female), J (20,  

Male), B (22, male), and C (19, male). Our intricately planned expedition, meticulously  crafted over months, commenced with a meet-up at   the parking lot, followed by a two-hour trek to  our designated campsite. We moved cautiously,   paying heed to any signs or warnings to avoid  unintentional encounters with authorities.  

About an hour into our expedition, a curious  sight captured our attention—a taped note,   appearing to be a playful prank by youngsters  to startle hikers. Despite refraining from   delving into its contents, the  note’s distinctive appearance—a   darkish-gray outline and a completely black  center—suggested a potential hostage note.  

After a trek lasting around two and a  half hours, we reached our campsite,   only to discover that B had left his tent  in his trunk, leaving us with only two. In an effort to accommodate everyone, E and  I chose to share a tent, not just due to  

Its limited capacity but also because of our  longstanding friendship since middle school   and the fact that both of us had significant  others. With the unpacking completed, I grabbed   my stainless steel axe to gather firewood.  After an hour of chopping logs, a feeling  

Of déjà vu hit me as I stumbled upon the same  note. Initially brushing it off as a backtrack,   I soon realized it wasn’t the same location.  Darkish-gray outline, full black center—the   hostage note persisted. Despite its recurrence, I  opted not to read it, uttering, “Fucking kids,” as  

The wind intensified, signaling my cue to  gather what I could and make my way back. Returning around sunset, an uncanny hush  draped over the camp. While arranging firewood,   a sudden splash to my right seized my attention.  Venturing through the lush green surroundings,  

I stumbled upon the edge of a cliff, my  friends gesturing from the water below.   “COME ON K,” B exclaimed, urging me to  undress and take a lively plunge. Hours   drifted by as we lingered in the pond, but as  we geared up to depart, a subtle plop in the  

Water caught my focus. Initially brushing  it off as a product of tired imagination,   I couldn’t shake the feeling that  something lurked beneath the surface. Basking in the warm glow of a campfire,  we engaged in sharing ghost stories while   roasting marshmallows. Amidst the camaraderie, C  noted, “K, you seem a bit unsettled. Everything  

Okay?” With a sigh, I recounted, “Remember  that paper in the woods?” Their nods affirmed   recollection. “I stumbled upon it again while  chopping firewood,” I added. E chimed in,   “Come to think of it, I saw the  note too, exploring the campsite.”  

A collective unease settled in, prompting  us to retreat to our tents for the night. At dawn, a rustling near the campfire stirred me.  Investigating, my eyes widened in disbelief—it   was the same disconcerting note affixed to a tree.  “What the…” I audibly gasped. This time, I chose  

To delve into its contents. “NEVER WANDER 15 FEET  FROM CAMPFIRE. YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’S OUT THERE.”   My assumption of it being a prank by mischievous  kids wavered as I spotted a shadow moving through   the leaves and foliage in the distance. Concerned,  I called out to J, B, and C from the tent.

“We must depart, immediately,” I urgently  whispered, awakening everyone. “Why?” E questioned   skeptically. Laughter erupted, assuming I  orchestrated a prank. “I’m dead serious, guys,” I   insisted, met with somber gazes. “Alright then,” J  said, and they swiftly began packing up the tent. In the final moments of packing, a  blood-curdling shriek tore through the air,  

Emanating from E. A chilling scene unfolded—  a man, towering at an imposing six feet,   wielding a butcher’s knife. Swiftly, he swung,  slicing E’s eye. Reacting instinctively,   I grabbed my axe and hurled it  at him. The aim was imperfect,   striking his upper-right chest, provoking  a scream as he recoiled. Driven by fear,  

We sprinted as far and as fast as possible,  reaching the safety of the parking lot. Hurrying to the hospital for E’s treatment and  a check-up on the rest of us, we learned that   the man had succumbed to my axe, and E would  be forever blind in one eye. My therapist  

Encourages sharing this chilling tale as a  means to cope with PTSD. The lingering fear   of what could have unfolded had I missed my axe  throw remains a haunting specter in my thoughts.  ”Why the rush at this ungodly hour?” Thus commenced the unraveling of my  nocturnal odyssey. Emerging from a  

24/7 diner, I had sought solace in its  restroom. The clock mercilessly ticked,   marking my 36th hour of consciousness,  vodka shooters dwindling in my pocket.   Hoping a splash of water would jolt my senses,  I faced my fatigued reflection in the mirror,  

A cruel reminder of my impending ordeal— bidding  farewell to my kneecaps in a mere 12 hours. The loan shark’s enforcer, a relentless specter,   doggedly trailed me, relishing our twisted  game. Unconcealed, he reveled in each moment,   tapping his watch across the street, a sly  chuckle accompanying my hastened steps.

“No time to chat, sir,” I murmured to an old man,   cradling a steaming cup of  coffee, warming his hands. “Oh, I believe you can spare a moment,” he  replied, scratching his liver-spotted head,   “He doesn’t have you on too  tight a leash, does he?”

Surprised, I stammered, “How’d you—?” Noticing  the old man’s gaze fixed on my stalker,   reveling in a cigarette’s glow, I understood. “Been in your shoes a time or two,”  he chuckled, pointing at the spent   lottery tickets peeking from my coat pocket,  “Besides, subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

Intent on leaving, I turned toward the diner’s   exit. “Can’t waste time here.  I’ve got better places to be.” “Actually, I think you’re exactly where  you need to be,” the old man asserted,   producing a bulging billfold, seemingly ready  to shower the diner in hundred-dollar bills. I hesitated before questioning,  “What’s the catch?”

With a hand twisted by severe arthritis, the old  man gestured for me to join him in the booth,   the unfolding night holding  secrets yet to be revealed. “No strings attached,” he responded, savoring a  sip of his coffee, “I just want to offer you an  

Exit strategy from your predicament,  the same way you stumbled into it.” “So, a wager?” I remarked, easing  into the seat across from him. “Exactly, but I’ll be selecting  the stakes,” the old man stated,   meeting my gaze for the first time, a spark of  vitality contrasting his otherwise fragile frame.

“You’re aware I’m strapped for cash,   so what’s on the line if I lose?” I  questioned, suspicion narrowing my eyes. “Let’s play it by ear,” the old man proposed, a  slightly too-wide grin breaking across his face. A chill ran down my spine, a subtle voice  urging me to flee. Almost heeding it,  

The bulging billfold on the table held me captive. “Okay, what’s the bet?” “Whether he hits a double or a  single,” the old man gestured   behind him to the wall-mounted TV  broadcasting a Dodgers game rerun,   “You win, and you pocket the cash. I  win, and I walk away with your shoes.”

The prospect of trudging back into the cold,  rain-soaked night in the same predicament,   now sans shoes, seemed grim. Yet, the allure of  the money on the table rekindled my interest. “Fine, I’m in,” I declared,  fixing my gaze on the screen,   assessing number 35 stepping up to  face the pitcher, “He’ll hit a double.”

“A single,” the old man countered, that  unsettling grin accompanying his lean back   into the booth’s cushion. Rather than witnessing  the bet’s outcome, he kept his gaze fixed on me. Suppressing the chills induced by his stare,  I focused on the screen. The pitcher unleashed  

A fastball, met expertly by number 35, sending  the ball soaring into left field. 35 sprinted,   rounding first base and fixing  his gaze on second in record time. A rush of excitement surged through me  as the camera angle shifted, capturing  

The outfielder’s throw to second base. Number 35  intensified his sprint, gracefully diving into a   slide. His foot touched the base just before the  ball nestled into the defending player’s glove. “Safe!” I exclaimed, a  triumphant swell in my chest. With a restrained smile, the old man slid  the billfold my way. Snatching it eagerly,  

I swiftly counted at least 5,000$.  Stuffing it into my coat pocket,   thoughts raced about turning this windfall into  20,000$ at the casino just a few blocks away. Before I could rise from the booth, a  hefty thud echoed from the tabletop,   seizing my attention. The old man unveiled  10,000$ in crisp hundred-dollar bills,  

Neatly bound with a band, as  if plucked from a bank vault. “Another round,” he declared, eyes gleaming  with manic joy, his smile stretching wide. Swallowing hard, I realized the  dryness in my mouth, “Alright,   I won’t refuse free money. What’s the bet?” “See her?” The old man nodded toward the waitress,  

Who just fetched a fresh pot of coffee, “I  bet she’ll spill on that suit over there.” I craned my neck to observe  the man in the corner booth,   a Wall Street aura emanating from his dark  grey, impeccably pressed 3-piece suit. “What’s on the line?”

“You win, the cash,” the old man said,  eagerly tracking the waitress approaching   the suit for a refill, “I win, and I get  that last scratcher you’ve been saving.” Even bundled up in layers, beads of cold sweat  formed on my skin. My hand instinctively sought  

The scratcher tucked away as my last hope. Deep in  my pocket, it remained concealed from prying eyes. “How did you kno-” “You in or not, Alex?” The cacophony of metal gears grinding into  dust echoed in my mind as I hesitated.  

The old man’s tap on the stack of  bills snapped me back to reality. “Fine, she won’t spill,” I croaked,  my mouth parched like a desert. Turning, I observed as the waitress approached  the suit’s table. The pounding of my heart drowned  

Out their conversation, but the man nodded to  the waitress. She poured coffee into his cup,   a moment passing without incident. My  hand reached for the stack of bills. “Wait,” the old man reprimanded, a tone  of parental correction in his voice.

A crash erupted from the corner booth as the  pot slipped from the waitress’s grasp, cascading   scalding liquid onto the man’s lap. His expletives  drowned out the thunderous beat in my ears. “Ah, that’s too bad, Alex,” the old man  offered his platitude with a hint of sarcasm.

He slid the stack of bills off the table,  extending his other hand palm up. Dumbfounded,   I fished out the scratcher, placing it into  his awaiting hand. Placing the scratcher   on the table, the old man produced a large,  ancient-looking coin from seemingly nowhere. “How the hell do you know my name?” I demanded.

The elderly gentleman uttered no words,  merely extending a single finger,   signaling for my patience. With a coin in hand,   he diligently rubbed away the surface of  the scratcher. As the seconds dragged on,   he finally presented the scratcher to  me, leaving my jaw hanging in disbelief.

The ticket revealed a win of 30,000$, a sum  more than sufficient to settle my looming debt. “Well, what do you know?” The old man smirked,  deftly sliding the scratcher out of view. Growing weary of this strange  game, the alarm bells in my head,  

Momentarily quieted by the cash, now roared  louder than ever. I pivoted to exit the booth. “We’re not done here, Alex,”  the old man’s smile faded. “The hell we aren’t,” I retorted. As I rose, aiming for the exit,  my breath caught. Silently,  

The other patrons and staff in the diner,  even the coffee-stained suit, stood in unison,   fixated on me. Not a blink or breath among  them. The thundering returned to my ears. “Our game isn’t over, Alex,” the  old man’s voice echoed behind me. Ignoring him, I took a tentative  step forward. In response,  

They all seized the sharpest  objects within reach—a fork here,   a kitchen knife there. Their unyielding stares  and the absence of a single blink convinced   me that attempting my luck would result in  leaving the diner riddled with new openings. “Have a seat,” the old man commanded,  capturing my attention, “please.”

Slowly, I eased back into the booth,  my gaze fixated on the crowd that had   moments ago poised themselves for a threat. As  I settled, time seemed to resume, the patrons   stowing their makeshift weapons, returning  to their routines as if nothing had occurred.

“What do you want?” I queried, involuntarily  pressing myself against the seat,   maintaining distance from the enigmatic old man. “I told you, I’m offering  you a way out,” he responded. Silence lingered as I scrutinized him, sensing an  unsettling discrepancy. Was it a newfound mole,  

Or perhaps a few misplaced wrinkles? The  details eluded me, but something was amiss. “Speaking of which,” the old man continued,   “how about a chance to handle your  persistent follower out there?” I glanced out the window, observing the  unflinching silhouette of the man beneath  

The streetlight, still engrossed in his cigarette,  seemingly oblivious to the diner’s recent turmoil. “Alright then, what do you propose?” I inquired,  suppressing the fear constricting my throat. In response, the old man produced a die,  ancient and crafted from an unfamiliar   material. Yellowed and cracked, its dimples  irregularly sized, perhaps made from bone.

“Even or odd,” he murmured, gently shaking  the die in his gnarled hand. “You win,   and your outside admirer becomes a distant  memory. I win, and I claim your ring finger.” “My wha-,” I attempted to  protest, interrupted as a robust,   calloused hand seized my right  hand, slamming it onto the table.

The cook, a silent behemoth, materialized  at my side. With his left hand, he pinned   mine to the table, wielding a butcher’s  cleaver in his right. My struggles and   protests proved futile; his gaze, distant  yet fixated, honed in on my ring finger. In a surreal twist of fate, the  elderly gentleman seized my focus,  

Vigorously shaking a clenched fist  containing the die right in front   of my face. “Even or odd?” he inquired,  his voice cutting through the tense air. My hand quivered beneath the unyielding grip  of the cook, my gaze alternating between the   menacing blade poised to sever my finger  and the dice game unfolding before me.

“Odd!” I stammered out, my voice strained. “Odd it is!” The old man’s eyes  gleamed with satisfaction as he   released the die onto the table. The die danced unpredictably, traversing  the surface before finally settling. Three   inky dots faced the ceiling, a verdict  etched in the very fabric of chance.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I muttered, the  cook loosening his grip and returning   to his culinary duties as if nothing had happened. “Congratulations, Alex, as promised,”  the old man gestured toward the window,   directing my attention to the  figure beneath the streetlight. Rubbing my sore wrist, I observed my former  stalker retrieving another cigarette. Initially,  

The scene remained unchanged, with him  surveilling the old man and me. Then,   from the shadows emerged another figure in a  dark hoodie, exuding the jittery energy of a   desperate soul. A brief conversation unfolded,  culminating in a dismissive wave from my stalker.

Yet, the hooded figure halted, producing something  long and shiny from his pocket. In an instant,   he thrust it into my stalker’s neck. Dark  rivulets of blood painted macabre patterns   on the pavement as he crumpled  to the ground, life extinguished. “What the fuh-,” my words caught in my throat as I  

Turned back to the enigmatic  companion across the table. The old man had metamorphosed into the most  exquisite woman, her dark curls framing an   angelic face. Emerald eyes, brimming with  longing, reignited a dormant flame in my   heart—those same eyes that had captivated me  when I first met Grace all those years ago.

Those eyes, unseen for years since the  bitter finalization of our divorce,   reappeared, casting aside the veil of  time. Grace sat in the very spot recently   occupied by that enigmatic old man. Before the  dissonance could fully settle, she greeted me. “Hello, handsome,” Grace’s smile,  etching dimples on her face, was a  

Familiar sight that once stirred my heart.  The implausibility of her presence faded,   washed away like a sandcastle claimed by the tide. “Hi, Grace- umm, how um,” I stumbled over my  words, my mouth parched, “how are you here?” “What do you mean, baby? You  asked me to meet you here.” “No, no I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did, dummy. You said  you wanted to talk things out,   and I’m so glad you reached out, Alex.” “You are?” “Yes, baby. Honestly, you’ve been  on my mind… I’ve missed you.” “I’ve missed you too,  beautiful. More than you know.” “You can have her back, Alex.”

That same sadistic glint manifested in Grace’s  eyes, twisting and perverting them. Her smile,   once comforting, morphed into something cruel—a  mockery of everything I’d ever been or done. “What are you?” The façade crumbled.  The warmth evaporated, replaced by icy   anger. Anger at the entity donning Grace’s  visage, toying with me in this surreal game.

“It doesn’t matter what I am,” she sneered,  “What matters is what I can do for you.” I averted my eyes, unwilling to gaze  upon this distorted imitation of Grace   any longer. The façade crumbled,  revealing the glaring cracks.   The entity masquerading as Grace  spoke again, seizing my attention. “10 years, Alex.”

“10 years of what?” “Your life.” I straightened in my seat. The absurdity of the   proposition paled in comparison to the  conviction in her words. She continued. “I win, I get 10 years of your life,”  hunger now burned in her eyes, “you win,   and she’ll be yours again, the real Grace.”

“Deal,” the words rushed out of me. The bizarre  nature of the arrangement didn’t matter;   I instinctively knew that this entity  could claim those years if I lost. Yet,   it didn’t matter. I’d willingly  offer up 50 years for her. “Call it,” she said, producing  the ancient coin once more. “Heads!.”

She flipped the coin, and I watched as it  soared in the air for what felt like an   eternity. Finally, it descended back to earth.  She snatched it with alarming speed, covering it   with one hand. The hunger in her eyes intensified,  becoming an inferno. Then she revealed the coin. “Ah, sorry, Alex.”

Barely registering the sight of the coin’s tail  side, a razor-sharp pain erupted in my chest. It   felt as if a dozen ice picks had skewered my  heart from every angle. Cold sweat broke out,   and my vision swam. Before I knew it,  my face collided with the tabletop.

“Grace…,” I choked out between rasping breaths. After a few more excruciating moments, I  mustered the strength to lift my head. What   unfolded before me left me utterly  bewildered. The diner had vanished,   replaced by the interior of a car navigating  a dark, winding road flanked by trees. In  

Stunned silence, I surveyed the vehicle. It  was unmistakably mine from five years ago,   an old, worn-out Lincoln. The shock lingered,  and I barely registered the upcoming turn.   Gripping the wheel, I swerved to the left,  narrowly avoiding careening into the trees. “You okay, Daddy?” a small  voice called from the back.

The hairs on my neck stood on end,   and I slowly raised my eyes to the rearview  mirror. There he was, seated in his car seat,   clad in Elmo pajamas. Luke. Grace’s eyes, my  hair—the most beautiful thing I had ever lost. Tears welled up, “Yeah, buddy,  Daddy is okay. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, Daddy, can we stop for ice  cream? Let’s get some for Mommy.” His words cut deep, invoking a painful  memory. Familiar with this road, Route 45,   I knew what awaited at a turn half a mile away. “Sure, buddy. Of course, we’ll get her favorite.”

“I want cookie dough!” he beamed, a  gap-toothed smile lighting up his face. I assured him we’d get cookie dough as my  foot sought the brake pedal. When I found it,   I pressed it into the floorboard. Nothing  happened. Desperation set in as I repeatedly  

Pressed the brake to no avail. The  car showed no intention of stopping. “You can’t change what happened, Daddy.” I turned my eyes to the rearview window.  Luke was still there, but his pupils now   glowed with a hunger I couldn’t comprehend.  I stared, slack-jawed, as he continued.

“But I can get you the one that took me away  from you, what would that be worth to you?” “Anything,” tears now freely flowed down my face. He held up that same coin again, looking enormous  in his tiny hand, “I win, and I get your soul.” “Anything,” I repeated with a cold resolve.

“Your call,” he said as he flipped the coin. “Heads.” The coin fell back down, and he caught  it between his hands. I glanced ahead,   that turn was coming up fast. “It’s been fun, Alex.” I turned around to look directly into the backseat  and saw Luke presenting the coin to me. Heads  

Side up. Before I could say anything more, the  interior of the car lit up from the headlights   of the car approaching us. Speeding toward us in  our lane. The car that took my son away from me.  

The car that fled from the scene as I held his  limp body. The car that ended my marriage and   life as I knew it. The light continued to build  until it blinded me, and I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was no longer  in the car. Or the diner. I was on my back   in the drunk tank of a police station.  Staring at the fluorescent light on the   ceiling. My head screamed in agony, but I  brought myself to my feet and called one of  

The officers over to ask what happened. He  said a patrolling officer found me slumped   outside a dilapidated diner and assumed I was  drunk, so he brought me here to sleep it off. I, of course, asked to be let out, but since it  was the weekend, I was out of luck and would be  

Waiting till Monday. That’s alright though. At  least I’ve got company. My only other cellmate and   I got to talking. He told me he’d been picked  up for drunk driving earlier in the night. I suppose he’s still got a good amount of alcohol  swirling in his system, judging by how talkative  

He’s become. He shared a tale with me, recounting  the time he skillfully evaded responsibility for   a crash he caused on Route 45 approximately  5 years ago. His boastfulness was apparent as   he narrated how he cleverly abandoned his car,  leaving no traces for anyone to track him down.

No, I’m not vexed about spending the weekend in   this situation. It seems I’m  precisely where I should be. It all commenced with an isolated,  elderly man on the outskirts of town,   known as Patrick Hanes. Practically a recluse,  he seldom engaged with the external world,  

Dwelling in his run-down house on a modest  piece of land surrounded by overgrown weeds   and remnants of discarded cars  scattered across his property. In my youth, I undertook a paper route, cycling  every morning before school to deliver newspapers.  

The cold and darkness embraced the world like a  noose as I reluctantly awoke. I often found myself   trapped in nightmares, envisioning beautiful  high school girls transforming into alluring,   demonic succubi, luring unsuspecting  guys into gruesome scenarios. These   dreams reached a climax where heads  were severed during intimate encounters.

Abruptly, my alarm clock pierced the silence  with a shrill cry, jolting me awake. I let   out a soft shriek, still enveloped in sweat  and fear. For a moment, the dream world and   reality intertwined into a horrifying tapestry.  I blinked rapidly, dispelling the lingering haze.

“Good grief, I need to cut down on those  horror movies before bedtime,” I muttered   while getting dressed. The macabre sounds  of succubi beheading their male companions   lingered in my ears. I recalled attempting to  cry out as they presented the decapitated heads   before me, mouths gaping wide before  devouring them. At least, this time,  

I hadn’t awoken with a scream, a departure  from the recurring pattern of the past week. In the nicotine-stained kitchen,  my mother chain-smoked, fixated   on 24-hour news channels. Beneath her eyes,  heavy bags told a tale of sleepless nights,   a consequence of her attempt to break free from  alcohol. She confined herself to the house,  

A daily routine of staring blankly at the  TV, resembling a zombie. Dad had already   departed for work, his presence  fading away amidst the demands of   seemingly endless work hours. The specter of  significant financial woes loomed over us. “Off to deliver the papers?” Mom rasped, her  vacant gaze piercing through me. Nodding,  

I hastily grabbed a bowl of cereal and some milk. “Yeah. If I don’t leave now, I won’t  have time,” I expressed wearily,   deliberately avoiding eye contact with  my mother. “Mom, are you OK?” Slowly,   she blinked before drawing  deeply on her cigarette.

“I am not OK, Bobby. I feel like I’m losing  my mind,” she whispered, draped in exhaustion   and bathrobe. “But I think the worst has  passed. I’m not hallucinating anymore.” “Is that AA stuff helping?”  I inquired. She shrugged. “They’re right about everything, but it doesn’t  mean they can help me,” she replied sorrowfully.  

“I think I’m too far gone sometimes. Even if I win  for a day, how can I fight against this monster   for the rest of my life?” Leaning close, urgency  etched on her face, she spoke directly to me.   “Addiction runs in your family, Bobby. Don’t ever  become like your grandfather and uncle. Don’t ever  

Become like me. Drugs and alcohol are just a way  of slowly committing suicide, like a coward would.   It takes a piece of your soul every single day,  until there’s nothing left but a scarred husk,   an empty shell of misery and weakness. And once  you’re in, there is no way out. No way out…”  

She repeated it slowly and methodically,  like a sacred mantra. “No way out…” I pedaled through the quiet streets, the  autumn wind unleashing its fury, scattering   dead leaves and debris in my wake. Harville,  our small town, home to a few thousand souls,   offered limited pastimes—hiking, shooting, and  swimming. The bare trees adorned the rolling  

Hills like a dense, brown rug, and the lights  of scattered houses punctuated the landscape. Swiftly, I tossed the papers as I zoomed  on my bike, eager to complete the task and   escape the chilling night. Moving away  from Main Street, the houses thinned,  

And the woods grew denser and darker. Patrick  Hanes’ residence marked the endpoint of my   route. Still pedaling with urgency, I glanced  at his humble abode while tossing his paper. A sight caught my attention—the door wide open,   all lights extinguished. A smeared trail of  blood stained the front steps. Halting my bike,  

I set it up in the tall grass of his front  yard, a blade of dread piercing my heart. “Mr. Hanes?” I called loudly, cautiously  approaching the ajar front door,   its hinges mangled. “Oh, shit,” I  whispered, surveying the damage. “Please…” a feeble voice echoed from the  depths of the darkened house. “Help me… Help…”

“Mr. Hanes, do you need an ambulance?” I  inquired, but there was no response. Shivering,   I entered. The lights were out, and the  heat had ceased. Zipping up my jacket,   I braced myself. Every instinct urged me to  leave. I cursed my parents for not providing  

Me with a cell phone, but logic prevailed.  There was no reason to flee. Perhaps,   the old man needed immediate assistance. Unless,  of course, there was still an intruder lurking   inside—the voice not Patrick Hanes but a  malevolent force waiting in the shadows.

“Goddamn it,” I murmured, hesitating.  The dilemma of stepping into the house or   returning to my bike tugged at me. Considering  seeking help from another neighbor to call an   ambulance and the cops crossed my mind. However,  a sharp, agonizing wail shattered the silence. “Oh God, that hurts!” Patrick Hanes  bellowed. Swearing under my breath,  

I fumbled through the house toward  the anguished cries. The moonlight   provided some illumination,  revealing a new obstacle. The entire house resembled a scene from a  hoarder’s documentary, accompanied by a pervasive   odor of decay—rotting food, decomposing garbage,  and mold permeated the air. Dishes towered in the  

Sink, ancient newspapers formed stacks in the  living room, and black garbage bags littered   the space. Passing through the kitchen, I glimpsed  an overflowing ashtray on the counter, next to a   lighter. I snatched it, flicking it on and holding  it aloft to dispel the encroaching shadows.

With the added light, the place appeared  even more nightmarish than anticipated.   Cockroaches scurried away, and the sinister  glint of tiny rat and mouse eyes stared   back at me from every corner. Meanwhile, the  agonized gurgling of Patrick Hanes had ceased. Navigating back toward the source of the  crying, I encountered a closed bedroom  

Door. The handle felt sticky and repulsive  under my grasp, covered entirely in blood.   Suppressing a gag reflex, I pushed the  door open, wiping my hand on my blue jeans. “Mr. Hanes?” I whispered as the door creaked.  The bedroom surpassed the kitchen and living  

Room in disarray. It resembled a  fusion of a flea market and a dump,   as if an explosion had scattered knickknacks,  bags of trash, water-damaged books, and empty   prescription bottles everywhere. A narrow  trail cut through the towers of garbage,   reminiscent of a deer trail  weaving through thick brush.

From the rear of the room, I caught  the sound of groaning and strained,   raspy breathing. Navigating through precarious  piles of clutter, my concern grew that they might   give way at any moment. Turning the final corner,  I held the lighter aloft, a symbolic talisman  

Against potential dangers. In the recesses  against the back wall, there lay Patrick Hanes. He had ensconced himself in a  colossal, brown cocoon. Delicate,   hair-like tendrils wove an oval shape,  extending into the walls themselves.   Cracks resembling spiderwebs adorned the  sheetrock where the tendrils penetrated.

Patrick Hanes lay partially emerged from the  cocoon, having torn through some of the brown   filaments. He stood, hunched and unclothed,  his lower body enveloped while the upper half   protruded, akin to a grotesque, oversized  infant navigating an alien birth canal. “What happened to you?” I exclaimed. He  raised his face, and I instinctively recoiled,  

Colliding with a tower of books and newspapers.  Familiar features of Patrick Hanes mingled with   an unsettling alienness. His mouth extended  six or seven inches, narrow and fanged like   a crocodile’s. While his eyes retained  the pale, watery blue of Patrick Hanes,  

His nose had decayed, replaced by a blackened  crater of necrotic tissue. Every strand of   hair seemed to have vanished from his body, and  tattered remnants of clothing hung around him. His skin underwent a grotesque transformation,  resembling something insectile. It gleamed in  

The dim light, chitinous and black, reminiscent of  the exoskeleton of an enormous beetle. Extending   from both sides of his body were numerous  tapering, pointed appendages, each a few feet   long and as thin as a pencil, reminiscent  of the sharp legs of a house centipede.

“It hurts…” Patrick Hanes groaned, shedding  flakes of pale, white skin from his scalp   and face. “Oh God, what’s happening to me?  I feel… strange. Hungry.” His crocodilian   mouth snapped shut with a sound akin to a  pistol shot. The corners of that strange  

Mouth curled into a grin. “Oh, so hungry…”  He began pulling himself out of the cocoon,   tearing it open with a noise  resembling trampled hay. I remained silent in the presence of this  eldritch creature that was once Patrick   Hanes. As I gazed into his blue eyes, witnessing  the amalgamation of agony, fear, confusion—and  

Hunger—something within me snapped. I turned  and fled the house without a backward glance. “What the hell, what the hell…” I repeated  in a hushed whisper as I pedaled vigorously   across the dark streets. The nearest house  was only about a two-minute bike ride away,  

But fueled by adrenaline and terror, I believe  I reached it in half that time. Trees blurred   past at incredible speeds, yet I didn’t slow  down. The only thought consuming me was the   image of that creature tearing its way out  of the cocoon. And what would it do next?

The white colonial structure emerged on my  left, a sight that prompted a sigh of relief   as I cycled across the meticulously trimmed  yard. Glancing at my watch, I noted that the   sunrise loomed approximately twenty minutes away,  a beacon of hope for some inexplicable reason.

Dismounting from my bike, I  sprinted towards the front door,   pounding on it with all my strength, the  side of my fist colliding repeatedly. “Hello?” I shouted. “We need police and  ambulances here! Your neighbor is… hurt,   or something. Can you please call the  cops?” My cries and forceful knocks echoed,  

But no lights illuminated the house. Just as  I contemplated moving to the next residence,   the front door slowly creaked open, seemingly  of its own accord. Heavy, labored breathing   emanated from within, prompting me to extract  the lighter, flicking it to cast light.

A scream tore from my throat as the gruesome  tableau unfolded in the hallway. Mutilated   bodies lay strewn, their throats savagely  torn. Blank, sightless eyes gazed upward,   revealing an entire family, a mother,  a father, and their two daughters,   brutally mutilated. Something had voraciously  devoured their stomachs, even wrenching out  

The heart of one of the girls, leaving her  chest cavity exposed like a macabre void. Beyond the tragic scene, a glimpse of  something black and shiny caught my eye,   resembling an enormous centipede lurking in the  shadows. It hissed, a shrill, piercing sound that  

Shattered the silence. The air was thick with the  scent of blood and my own sweat. Reacting swiftly,   I slammed the door shut, turning on my  heel and sprinting back toward my bike. Just as I reached it, the door exploded  outward as if propelled by a cannonball.  

Another of those insectile, humanoid  monstrosities darted out, its shrill,   raspy hissing resonating through the night. Swiftly mounting my bike, I pedaled away  with urgency, refraining from casting a   glance behind. The house perched atop  a gentle hill, and a lengthy descent  

Awaited me towards Main Street. Never in  my life had I cycled with such velocity,   propelled by the need to escape the pursuing  creature. Diseased growls and hisses echoed,   its thudding footsteps persistently  haunting me across the town. At times,  

The proximity was so unnerving that it  felt as if its fingers could graze my back. My house loomed ahead on the right, Dad’s  truck stationed in the driveway. He stood   on the sidewalk’s edge, wielding a 12-gauge  shotgun. Spotting me, he flashed a grim smile.

“Dad! Help!” I cried, pedaling frantically towards  him. Witnessing the monstrous entity in pursuit,   he raised the shotgun. Ducking on  the bike, I aimed to minimize myself   as a target. The thunderous echo of the  gunshot reverberated through the night. A slug whizzed past, and the  creature emitted a tortured gasp,  

Collapsing onto the concrete with a resounding  thud. Bringing my bike to a halt, I trembled,   my heart threatening to burst from my chest.  Glancing back at the creature, I recognized the   familiar crocodilian snout, the chitinous  shell, and the centipede-like appendages.

Dad rushed to me, enveloping me in  a hug, pulling me off the bike. Mom,   pale and trembling, stood in the front door. “He’s alive!” Dad exclaimed. “It’s started, but  he’s alive, and we’re together as a family again.” “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”  I inquired breathlessly. “I mean,  

Thank God you’re not, but…” “When I got there, I found my boss in his office,   wrapped up in a giant cocoon,” Dad revealed,  casting a peculiar glance at Mom. “Once I saw it,   I knew what it meant, and I raced back here.  When I realized you weren’t here, I thought…”

“We thought you were dead! Eaten!” Mom cried,  tears streaming down her face. “But come inside,   come inside. It’s not safe here  anymore. Not until it’s all over.” “It’s something in the water of Harville…  something in the air. Every hundred years,   this starts happening,” Dad explained.  A cry of relief escaped Mom.

“Oh God, it’s finally time,” she wailed, hair  askew, her visage a portrayal of madness. “We   can go to sleep and wake up without this  burden of our humanity. No more pain,   no more thoughts.” Dad nodded, turning to me. “Don’t you feel it, son? The first creeping  fingers of the sleep, the metamorphosis? I  

Can feel it… like ice water in my veins.  The tiredness. The sleep of the dead.” I   attempted to argue, to say no, but my mind  felt blank, my body cold. I could only nod. “Then it’s time,” Mom declared,   bringing us together in a hug.  “It is time to start the change.”

The story unfolds as the protagonist, waking up to find his girlfriend missing and the town engulfed in confusion, becomes entangled in a series of inexplicable events. A mysterious fog and shared visions lead the bereaved townsfolk to form a support group. As they piece together their fragmented memories, they uncover a shocking pact involving an ancient stone altar in the woods. The revelation of consuming human flesh, including loved ones, unfolds, plunging the characters into a nightmarish reality they cannot escape. The story explores the dark consequences of a town gripped by amnesia and bound by a chilling pact with an enigmatic force.

Feel free to share the details or context of the terrifying tale you’d like an introduction for. Whether it’s a spine-chilling narrative, a true scary story that sends shivers down the spine, or a hair-raising horror story, I’m here to craft an engaging introduction. If your story is meant for ASMR enthusiasts, rest assured that the narration will be delicately tailored to create a uniquely immersive experience.

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