Saturday, November 5, 2016
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
Kids are going missing in the tiny hamlet of Blackfield, Georgia, and nobody knows why except for Robin, the homeless young woman that just rolled into town last night. When she claims she knows who’s responsible, only 4th-grader Wayne Parkin and his schoolmates Pete, Amanda, and Juan believe her…but it takes a terrifying encounter with an interdimensional creature to spur them into action. Robin proves to be a formidable monster-hunter with strange supernatural powers, but a tragic setback reveals a secret organization and a centuries-old conspiracy. Can new friends and old enemies band together to save Blackfield from an unspeakable darkness?
Suggested by trdl and Bonnie Blair McPhee, Facebook.In 1922, on a small farm in what is now Germany, six people were mysteriously murdered with a mattock (a seriously dangerous-looking farming tool that’s kind of a combination between an axe and a pickaxe). The murders have never been solved, but that’s not even the creepy part: A few days before the attack, Andreas Gruber – the farmer at Hinterkaifeck – told his neighbours that he’d seen footprints in the snow in the direction of the farm from the nearby forest, but none leading back. Oh, and their maid had quit six months before the murders, because she claimed the place was haunted. Excuse me while I sleep with the lights on for the rest of my entire life.
Suggested by beco1296.On Christmas Eve in 1945, George and Jennie Sodder and nine of their ten children were caught in a fire that destroyed their home in West Virginia. George and Jennie managed to escape the fire with four of the children – and the bodies of the five remaining children were never found. The Sodders were convinced that the children had survived, even going so far as to put up a billboard offering rewards for any information, which remained up until Jennie’s death in the late ’80s. The case is surrounded by plenty of mysterious circumstances, but the weirdest turned up in 1967: An anonymous letter was sent to the Sodders, along with a photo claiming to be of one of the missing children, Louis, now grown-up. The only remaining member of the Sodder family – Sylvia – still believes that her siblings survived the fire, and does all she can to help the investigation of the case.
Suggested by ucftracy.Elisa Lam was a 21-year-old Canadian college student whose body was found in a water tank on the roof of the Cecil Hotel in LA in 2013 after guests complained that their water was oddly coloured and had a weird smell. Her body was found naked, but her clothes and possessions were floating alongside it, and coroners found no evidence to suggest she had been physically assaulted or that she had committed suicide. The creepiest part, though, is definitely the surveillance footage released by the police of Lam in an elevator at the Cecil Hotel on the day of her disappearance. It may just be the creepy mindset, but her behaviour in the video is seriously unsettling – and it’s said to have been Ryan Murphy’s inspiration for AHS: Hotel.
5. H.H. Holmes
Suggested by tammyclementso.Dr Henry Howard Holmes is said to have been one of the first documented serial killers. He ran a hotel – now called the “Murder Castle” – in Chicago in the late 19th century. Oh, and he designed it himself, specifically with the intention of murdering people. That’s some creepy shit. He confessed to 27 murders in total, but investigators believe that the real body count may be as many as 200. His Wiki page details all the different methods he used to kill, and it’s seriously some Saw-level stuff.
Suggested by jmc289.Elizabeth Báthory was a Hungarian countess who lived during the 16th and 17th centuries and holds a Guinness World Record for being the most prolific female serial killer of all time, because that’s apparently a thing. It’s said that she murdered over 650 girls and women in various gruesome ways. SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY. Her family name prevented her from trial, though, and she was just locked up in a castle until she died.
Suggested by cristaraineyb.There probably aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Black Dahlia case, but it’s always a good idea to brush up on your facts. Elizabeth Short – nicknamed the Black Dahlia – was 22 when she was murdered and her body mutilated. The story was sensationalised in the press, and a few days after her body was discovered, someone claiming to be the killer called the police, saying they were concerned that the investigation was “tailing off”. The killer was never caught, but over 50 people have confessed to the murder over the years – and there’s an entire Wiki pagededicated to suspects in the case.
8. Johnny Gosch
Suggested by Rose Wilson, Facebook.Johnny Gosch was 12 years old when he disappeared during his paper route on 5 September 1982. He was assumed kidnapped and his mother, Noreen, maintained that he was still alive – she said that he had been seen in Oklahoma a few months after he disappeared, when a boy was seen yelling for help before he was dragged away by two men. The creepiest part, though, happened 15 years later: Noreen Gosch claims to have been woken at around 2:30am one night in 1997 by a knock at her door. When she opened it, a 27-year-old Johnny was standing there with a man she didn’t know. They talked for around an hour and a half, and she never saw him again. Oh, and if you’re into documentaries, there’s one about this – it’s called Who Took Johnny?, and it’s on Netflix. You’re welcome.
Suggested by nicoler4931ad9fb.This is less of a creepy article and more of a starting point for the discovery of many, many creepy articles. This is a super comprehensive list ranging from more well-known cases, like the disappearance of Amelia Earhart, to some that are less famous. Sure, a few of them have some solid logical explanations, but you can’t tell me there’s nothing creepy about planes just disappearing off the face of the earth without a trace. I’ve seen Lost.
Suggested by dsw62.The Somerton Man mystery – also known as the Tamam Shud case – is considered to be one of the most mysterious mysteries to ever mystery in Australia. In 1948, the body of an unidentified man was found on a beach in Adelaide. It’s creepy because, even after all these years, the man has never been identified, but he left behind a whole bunch of unexplainable clues, like a weird, undecipherable code and the torn piece of paper found on his body that simply read “tamám shud” – Persian for “ended” or “finished”. Creepy.
Suggested by garbus.You’ve probably heard of Roanoke – after all, it ~was~ the inspiration for the newest season of American Horror Story – but if you haven’t, now is definitely the time of year to read up. Roanoke was a 16th-century colony in what’s now North Carolina and was led by John White, who was later elected governor. White left for England shortly after arriving at Roanoke, and when he returned, he found the colony abandoned – and the word “Croatoan” carved into the fence. There are a lot of theories (and a lot of ghost stories), but no one knows for sure what happened to the colonists. ~Spooky noises.~
Suggested by danahodges.Again, this article isn’t creepy in itself – but it’ll DEFINITELY keep you up all night. Here are hundreds (probably, I haven’t counted) of mysterious disappearances to read about all in one convenient location. Some of them are cool historical figures, like Theodosia Burr, daughter of US Vice President Aaron Burr, who was lost at sea. Then there was Percy Fawcett, a British archaeologist and explorer who disappeared on his mission to find El Dorado. Whoever you decide to read about first, there’s no doubt it’ll end in an hours-long wikihole. So, have fun!
Suggested by LordRoem.“What are you talking about, weirdo?” I hear you saying. “Why would the Wikipedia page for human be creepy? I AM a human.” READ. IT. As the commenter pointed out, it’s super unsettling because “it genuinely sounds like how aliens or some other form of life would describe a species under controlled observation”. And not only is it creepy as hell, it’s also really long and you’ll probably learn something about yourself. You’re welcome!
Season OneEpisode One In which Brian Foster plays the graveyard game, rides the bus and digs up a whole lot of trouble.
Episode Two Creepy clowns, first dates and just when you think things can't get any worse the Devil shows up.
Episode Three A tale of ancient blasphemy, necessary arson and tragic procrastination.
Episode Four Brian Foster goes to the hospital, then jail, then the morgue.
Episode Five Game over.
Burma Shave A meditation upon a scrapyard diary.
Al Bruno III
When they hoisted me up from the bottom of the well, I almost found myself mourning the silence and the darkness. The wooden cross I had been lashed to had long since rotted away but the weighted chains were still about my limbs. They rattled as my long dormant limbs shuddered and flexed; with each blink of my eyes my vision returned and became more precise.
There were four people in the basement of the abandoned Georgetown manor. The two closest to me were a tall woman and a little man. They wore pale blue hospital gowns, caps and surgical masks that puffed in and out with every word or breath. Rubber gloves covered their hands and thick, brown-stained aprons with pockets that hung heavy with the tools of their trade. They looked me over with clinical fascination and spoke as though I was some kind of long lost heirloom.
Which I suppose I am.
The two men near the door were tall, detached and statue still, they both had handguns hidden beneath their black suits. I recognized them as Agents of the Pharos project immediately but all that meant was that they were just new breeds of a very old kind of dog.
They always think I am helpless.
I let them examine me for a time, poking and prodding but all the while I could feel the trembling in my limbs weakening. An hour into the assessment put them to the test.
Rust and time had left my bonds weakened, with a single motion I pulled my right arm free. Links of rusted steel scattered everywhere, clattering on the floor and bouncing off the walls. The woman shouted, her surgical mask puffing out comically. My hands tore into the soft flesh of the little man's throat. Robbed of his voice he could only beg for mercy with his eyes.
And how he begged!
I tightened my grip feeling the blood well up around my fingertips. With a final pull the cartilage snapped and came away. I let the man’s body fall to the cellar floor, all the while leering at the woman.
The two Pharos Agents drew their weapons and fired. The woman was caught in the crossfire; bullets tore through her flesh to bury themselves in mine.
So many years, so many bullets.
Pulling free of the last of the chains I raised myself up to my full height. One of them bellowed for me to surrender. I made swift work of them, bending their bodies and twisting their limbs. I let one of them twitch for a while as I tried to assess what fresh surprises this new administration might have in store for me.
Then I made my way to the top of the stairs. The door was locked but it tore off the hinges easily enough.
A figure greeted me at the top of the landing; a tall, slump shouldered figure, with thick mismatched arms and undersized legs.
The head atop those massive shoulders was dracocephalic; with small close-set eyes, a nose broken beyond all hope of healing and a cruel line of a mouth. Everywhere there were scars, making the brutish figure seem as tattered and threadbare as the clothes it wore. Miss-set bones jutted at odd angles; thick, rope like veins bulged against yellowed skin.
Bringing both fists down I smashed the full length mirror; the monstrous image fragmented and collapsed in on itself. Broken glass cracked under my bare feet as I moved through interior of the empty house. I could still remember the expensive furniture that had once crowded every room and the elegant oil paintings that hung on every wall. Now was only dust. I felt myself begin to laugh.
Once a great and learned man lived here, a noted historian and a mediocre mystic; he had believed he could make a civilized being of me, that he could make me manageable with his soothing words and opiates. I toyed with him for months, aping the results he wanted, telling him just what he expected to hear. Then one day he came home to find I had escaped my bonds, dismembered his sons, smashed his wife's skull to fragments and raped his daughter.
How she squirmed beneath me as I whispered to her the secrets only I knew. The knowledge drove her mad…
The expression on his face however was mine and mine alone and I still treasured it. I like to think he might have tried to kill me had there not been Agents of the Pharos project there with him that day. No agent of any administration would ever allow me to come to harm; I can never truly be punished, merely imprisoned until I am needed again.
And I will always be needed, that is my power.
Laughter echoing off the bare walls I headed out into the dusk, keeping out of sight as best I could. The air was warm but heavy with the odor of chemicals. Cars moved in an orderly procession down the streets, lampposts flickered to life, and citizens walked to and fro, enjoying the summer weather. I marveled at how much Sussex County could change in less than a decade, at how much one nation could change.
My mouth watered at the thought of what other wonders might be waiting for me but I knew I had to move carefully. By now my captors would be aware I had escaped once more and they would be desperate in their panic.
They have to be subtle, afraid to let anyone know there are still giants in the Earth.
Concealing myself until I had the full cover of night I spent an hour searching until I found a man with proportions near to mine. He was jogging, his respiration steady his expression vacant. I dragged him off the street and killed him bloodlessly.
It felt good to have clean clothes against my skin, especially clothes that stretched so easily to accommodate my frame. I found my way to the railroad tracks and followed them south.
Hours and miles passed with ease but I knew that soon the constellation of Lyra would be in ascendance and I would be helpless. I needed security, and I needed nourishment. Opportunity presented itself in the form of a house just off the main road. I kicked in the front door, surprising the family gathered around the television set.
I am always hungry, even now.
The patriarch of the family challenged me. I struck him and felt his ribs splinter. Blood spilled from his mouth, staining my new clothes. His wife and four children screamed as one. I subdued them easily, crippling them but making sure they stayed alive.
I ate the patriarch, starting with the soft entrails and working my way to the marrow. His wife and children begged and pleaded but their cries only sweetened the meal. It had been too long since I had last eaten but it had been well worth the wait; this new generation of citizens had been raised like veal, protected and sheltered.
Even raw, the meat falls right off the bones.
With that sanguine desire sated I demonstrated my gratitude by teaching the woman the secret of how to foretell the future from spilled entrails.
By her third child she found the trick of it.
Clad in an ill-fitting suit and heavy jacket I left the house behind. I followed the tracks again until I found a train yard. I didn’t see any guards or fences so I climbed into the first abandoned cattle car I could find.
Even with the shadows drawn in close I couldn’t fully relax, a fluttering nameless suspicion nagged at me. I picked idly at the fresh bullet wounds while waiting for the stars to be right. Having tried to ascertain my future, I naturally found my thoughts returning to my past.
My life began under the stars, in 1784 in an open air laboratory designed and built by Thomas Jefferson. He was working from Ben Franklin's notes and those notes in turn were stolen from the royal mystics of France. Franklin had refused to aid in my creation; the memories of his own disastrous experiments still haunted him.
Thomas Jefferson did not work alone that night however. A series of ever more dangerous setbacks led him to commission Jedediah Orne to assist him in his endeavors. Orne was only too happy to visit the young nation and aid in translating and supplementing Jefferson’s incomplete transcription of The Talos Formulae. Jefferson was determined that the new fledgling nation would have an avatar on par with the articulate, wise and beautiful creatures that had advised the royalty of the world since the age of antiquity.
Orne however was determined to put some of his own more radical theories to the test.
No ash and copper wire for him! Or for me.
My original body was that of a long forgotten Egyptian Lord, shriveled and grayish but perfectly preserved. Once he had been a god king but grave robbers had ransacked his tomb and sold his remains as a curio. Jedediah Orne worked tirelessly in Jefferson’s laboratory, using The Talos Formulae more as a guideline than a gospel. Runes were carved beneath the mummy’s tongue, at the bottoms of his feet and most importantly on the underside of his skull. Where mechanical contrivances and ash had been called for, Orne used the flesh of the recently dead in combinations specifically chosen to create sorcerous fission.
The heart of a patriot. The blood of one a native. The brain of a traitor.
I came to life in a haze of alchemical smoke. Terrified and confused I kicked my way free of my glass womb. At first the cool air was an agony to my lungs. My muscles struggled to raise my misshapen head. Jedediah Orne rolled me on my back so his audience could gaze down upon me. My first sight was Vega at its zenith; its bluish white light filling my mind with knowledge and mysteries. Twelve of the nation's founding fathers stared down at me and I instantly knew their histories and potentials; I even knew how they might die.
The President of the United States in Congress Assembled, Richard Henry Lee, asked me a question. I wanted nothing more than to curse him but I was helpless. I had to answer in full.
The low drone of a helicopter startled me from my reminiscing, it sounded close. A spotlight swept over the train car, shafts of light insinuating between the gaps in the walls and the open doorway. I heard shouting voices and the barking of dogs.
I climbed up onto the train car’s roof and spied a dozen police officers and dogs moving in. The spotlight found me and an amplified voice ordered me to surrender. These were ordinary officers of the law and I wondered how much they had been warned to expect by the Agents of Project Pharos.
An animal sound stirring in my throat, I leapt down into the midst of them. The sight of me gave them pause but they kept coming, confident in their training and body armor. One leapt at me and I slapped him in the side of the face with all my strength. The snap of his neck sounded like gunfire.
A second one struck me across the knees with a baton, I caught him easily. My thumbs found his eye sockets, his head split apart like an overripe fruit. The high pitched keening of his voice panicked the dogs and slowed the other police officers’ approach.
The amplified voice from the helicopter cursed me, promising revenge. They released the dogs; the two beasts leapt as one, their teeth sinking into my forearms. Their eyes were small and frenzied with terror. I grabbed one of the dogs by its collar and tore it free not caring that a mouthful of my flesh came away with it.
I hurled the yelping animal at the helicopter. The spotlight shattered, the aircraft twisted in mid-air, fighting to stay aloft. The second dog let go and slunk away.
A high-powered rifle shot pierced my back, knocking the wind from me. I turned to see a woman, a Pharos Agent, methodically taking aim again. Another bullet caught me in the meat of my leg. I stumbled for her but the surviving police surrounded me.
They clubbed me, landing blow after blow. I fell to my knees clawing at my attackers. I knew if I could just get ahold of one of them I could take a hostage, I could bargain and delay.
Then Vega was at its zenith and my mind was on fire. I could only whimper as the rune carved into the underside of my skull reacted to the starlight. My mind is flooded with knowledge, everything I should know, everything I could know.
…allies that can become enemies… pragmatic motives… …enemies that might become allies… the Monarchs drawing ever closer to the world… …clever idealism… economic probabilities… …empty dogmas... …the dark gods still in hiding, waiting and playing at oracles. Does one of them see me now? …technological dreams… …cannibalistic nationalism… …emerging heroes and familiar scapegoats…
…and politics, always politics…
And then I knew how they had found me. I reached to the back of my skull, to the nest of scars and cysts and plucked out the tracking chip.
It took six of them to hold me down as I writhed, my mind boiling with stolen wisdom. The woman approached me, her rifle abandoned for a long bladed knife and in a moment I know her name and I knew what she had suffered what had been done to her. She hamstrung me with practiced efficiency.
The helicopter landed somewhere nearby. I tried to raise myself up with my arms and crawl away only to be brought back down again.
They manacled me with heavy chains, my arms and legs bound behind my back. A steel bar was jammed into my screaming mouth. I wanted to curse them, I wanted to tell them what they truly served and how little it meant.
Then a man with graying hair and a sour expression approached me, he was holding a syringe. Ridiculously over the din of the chaos he tried to speak to me of reassurances, promising me that it would all be all right. He even dared to call me Citizen Aslingan.
That name is a sick joke. A veritable slur. Do you know your Old English?
The hypodermic descended in a slow deliberate arc, burying itself in the corner of my eye, where an ordinary man might have a tear duct.
The drugs took hold and I slipped into fugue full of new memories and old dreams.
“Citizen Aslingan… all hail Citizen Aslingan… the Soul of a new nation…”
Of course you must understand now that I was unlike any other of my kind. The others had been built from known mystical and alchemical principals by nations at the height of their power.
The line began with giant Talos, made from bronze; he stood guard of the kingdom of Minos. The conquering Greeks brought Talos’ remains to wise Daedalus and he used what he discovered to create the nine clockwork muses, whose wisdom led a nation and whose beauty inspired a generation of artists. The Egyptians stole Daedalus’ notes and used them to create stoic Ptah, who would defend their empire for generations until he fled before the coming Romans, losing himself in the shadowy Husk Worlds. The world-conquering Romans had their own copy of what was now called The Talos Formulae and used it to birth Quirinus; so perfect in his features that his was frequently mistaken for a living man.
Quirinus’ fortunes would ebb and flow with those of the empire, some Caesars would take his council, some tried to have him killed, some took him in their beds. Mongol raiders captured him and studied him until they learned the secret of his creation. From that knowledge they created artificial concubines that served the emperors and Mandarins of China. The secret found its way to the wizards of that land and they used it to create the blasphemous Song of Tian-gou.
With the fall of Rome the secret of our creation was lost to the West. While it is true that Muslim scholars had copies of both The Song of Tian-gou and The Talos Formulae, there is no record of either ever being used. The same held true for Hebrew scholars.
It fell to Gerbert of Aurilliac to rediscover the secrets long lost. He created Meridiana from the purest bronze and last remaining sketch of the muse of hymns. Her wisdom guided him until he became Pope, then in an act of contrition he had her melted down in 1003. He died shortly afterwards.
Like a living thing the secret traveled to Britain where Gog and Magog were created to defend the city of London. By the time of the Renaissance each nation had its own avatar. In France there was a near perfect copy of Meridiana called Luxuria who never spoke but always taught. In Portugal winged Esibraeus sat at the side of kings. In Italy Demodocus spoke only in song but his advice was always correct.
By the year of my creation they all still lived but their faculties had begun to dwindle; Gog and Magog had become reclusive, Esibraeus had lost the ability to fly, Demodocus had gone blind. Did the fortunes of a nation dwindle with their avatar or did the avatar falter when a kingdom fell to disrepair?
The powers of this nation are all too aware of that question, which is why they never stopped trying to improve me, melioration upon melioration. Piece by piece the body of the old Pharaoh was stripped away and fine American flesh was put in its place.
This arm belonged to the assassin John Wilkes Booth. These legs came from an unnecessary amputation performed on a valiant soldier. Here and there are bits of slaves and madmen.
They have tried to make me handsome but my little excursions always leave such scars. They have tried to make me obedient with drugs, bribes and chains but they are always too careful. I am actually surprised they dared to put a tracking chip at the base of my neck.
When I awoke I found myself chained to a metal gurney, legs bound together arms outstretched.
How we Americans love our crucifixions!
A nest of machines clustered around me, measuring heart rate and brainwave activity. If you were to look at them you would see that they meet no human criterion. IVs and catheters pass fluids to and from me, bright lights shone in my eyes. My skull still rung with the roar of information the mystical circuit gave me. At that moment I was the most well informed being in the nation, perhaps the world. But even without that wisdom I would have been able to guess that I would not be able to escape this chamber easily. There were no visible windows, and a single air-lock like doorway.
The man that had called me by my old name was there and I could see now that his hair was more blonde than gray but that he carried himself like a man ten years his senior. I knew his name now just as I knew that he lead the Pharos Project as his father had before him.
And he knew that I could tell him how his father truly died. That I could tell him why there was a closed casket. He had only to ask.
He offered me a draught of water. I accepted. He took a damp cloth, held it far over my mouth and squeezed out a few drops. I wanted to ask him if he understood the symbolism of Project Pharos’ name.
He wanted to ask. He needed to ask. But he didn’t dare.
Everyone stopped what they doing at the hiss of the vault door opening. Two Pharos agents in dark suits, practically twins to the ones I had killed earlier in the day, walked into the room; a small, middle-aged man followed them. The agents of Project immediately began fawning over him, full of salutations, apologies and compliments. The President of the United States waves them off.
He wasn’t there to speak to them.
He was there to see me, but I could tell he’d rather be anywhere else. I disgusted him but he knew I would only truthfully answer the questions of the nation’s leader.
Like every other President in the last quarter century, he looked like a substitute pallbearer. His eyes were dull and collusive, his skin soft and pink. When he spoke his voice had an effected rural twang, “You stirred up a lot of trouble for us.”
“Mr. President.” I replied, “I serve at your pleasure."
“My pleasure would be that you stopped acting like a beast and started acting like a man. The trouble you’ve caused this administration… Witnesses have to be quieted down. Explanations created. You think that kind of stuff is easy?”
“I have my appetites. We all do.”
“When I read the reports about you – ”
“What do you want to know?” I cracked a smile, “Why did you have them pull me up out of that well?”
The President bristled, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“I know who I’m taking to.” I said, “And I know what you need. Ask your questions and stop trying to scold me like I am one of your errant children.”
For a moment he just scowled at me, and then he pulled a sheaf of index cards and a pen from his suit pocket and asked his questions. His administration wanted advice on finances and diplomacy; how best to reverse the current recession and how best to navigate the current brewing conflicts simmering around the world. He wanted to know which of his political allies was plotting against him and which of his enemies he could trust. His last question was about his wife’s fidelity.
The questions have changed so little in over two centuries.
When it was over the President thanked me, but from the expression on his face I could tell that he immediately regretted it. He slipped the cards back into his pocket, I glimpsed the notes he had taken; his handwriting was scrawling and child-like.
“Is it back to the well for me now Mr. President?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head, but his eyes were already on the door, “You’ll stay here. Special Agent Wight has some ideas about what to do with you.”
“Really?” I tried to watch him but the bonds and the drugs kept me from doing more than turning my head.
“Of course.” The President said, “There have been advances in science that even you would be amazed at. I'm sure you can be rehabilitated.”
I started laughing then, my voice mad and booming. The President flinched at the sound as Pharos Agents ushered him out the door. The gurney shook with my hysterics, the chains rattled. Special Agent Wight was ready with another of his syringes and injected an opiate directly into my IV tube.
The weeks became months, I could hear them as they performed fresh miracles upon me. Stem cells and skin grafts, bone marrow transplants and gene therapy; they re-sculpted me as though I were made of clay. They thought that if I ceased to look like a monster I would cease to be a monster.
Then all I had to do was wait for them to become trusting, to become complacent. This latest escape was the easiest of all.
If I am careful it will take them years to find me again, if ever. Perhaps even now I am reading the newspaper over your shoulder and as I decide whether or not to allow you to live I cannot help but chuckle at what has become of your nation now that its Presidents finally have to think for themselves.