Meet My Darkness

The darkness has always been there, silently existing in the background of my life. I had once believed it attached itself to me as a young child, but I’ve come to believe I brought it into this world with me.

I have many stories of the darkness. It has grown and aged with me, we are old friends. As much as I imagine life would be a bit easier without it, I can’t imagine being a complete person without my darkness. It’s affected me in so many ways, and one of us is always clawing for control over the other.

My darkness has given me many things; nightmares, night terrors, sleep paralysis, anxiety, depression, a morbid fascination with serial killers and occult crimes, as well as a deep love of horror movies and books. However, it has also taken many things away from me. It’s taken my sleep, my time, portions of my childhood, and at times, my sanity.

I hope this is a place where I can share the darkness, and maybe, just maybe, it will give you a moment of entertainment, and give me a decent night’s sleep.

“Hello, darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.” – Paul Simon


Beyond Death

They roam the earth like zombies.

Heads hung low,

Limbs dangling at their sides,

Barely lifting their feet as they walk,

They don’t know that I can see them.


I started this journey as most do.

I saw something as a child that I cannot explain.

This memory spoke to me often,

Haunting my adult brain.

At first this was a hobby,

Something to pass the time.

Soon it would be an obsession,

It would be my lifeline.

But now I can see them,

Those sad, sorry souls,

Marching through eternity,

Unseen and alone.

My camcorder,

It can see a new spectrum of light.

It allows me,

To witness their plight.

Each one passes another,

Completely unseen.

I watch as they shuffle,

I see their sad and angry faces,

Mouths drawn into an eternal scream.


Is this what awaits us in death?

A lonesome march through eternity?

They cannot see each other,

They cannot see me.

I wonder what this looks like to them.

This empty earth they are cursed to roam alone.

behind glass

Those who stole the fates’ scissors,

To cut their own life line,

If they only knew the truth.

Whatever horrors in life,

They are nothing compared to those waiting in death.

Mankind is forced to roam the earth,

To see empty spaces,

Where they once saw loving faces.

I wonder if I should share this fate,

If showing the world is a big mistake.

Existential dread is common,

Even in those who dream of gold streets,

Of heaven for them,

And of hell for the rotten.

If they all knew the truth,

How far would we make it?

How far would we fall?

I must keep this secret,

For the sake of mankind.

Let them continue to dream,

Of heaven and the divine.

Meanwhile I know the truth,

No matter what life we led,

We are destined to join them,

The billions of dead.


I will destroy my camcorder tonight.

I will smash it to pieces with delight.

I have solved the oldest question,

I have looked beyond death.

While I am cursed to know the truth,

It’s a burden I will carry to my grave.

Mankind is flawed,

But some are kept in line by holy law.

I will let them continue to believe,

While I try to forget.

What really comes next,

The truth of the horror,

That is beyond death.


You’re not alone. Confidential help is available for free.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline


The Curse

It started out as a normal day. I woke up, brushed my teeth, went to work, and on the way home I stopped at the grocery store for a frozen pizza and some beer. I felt a little uneasy as I pulled into the drive way, parked, and exited the car, however nothing seemed out-of-place. The door was still locked, there weren’t any broken windows, so I figured it was just my brain playing tricks on me. I went inside and turned on the living room light.

As soon as I turned the light on, before I had a chance to close the door behind me, I felt two hands hit me in the back, giving me a violent shove forward. I stumbled forward, losing my balance, and dropped my groceries. However, I managed to get my hands in front of me so they hit the carpet before my face did. Heart-pounding, confused, angry, and with a fresh shot of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I began to get up so I could confront my attacker. Before I could get my feet under me, everything went black.

When I awoke I found myself in the living room, facing the couch, tied to one of my kitchen chairs. The lights were on, but I couldn’t see or hear anyone else in the house. My hands were tied behind me, and my legs were tied to the legs of the chair. As I tried to come to terms with what was happening, I struggled against the ropes, but they wouldn’t give. I glanced over at the clock and saw it was after 8:00. I had left the grocery store around 5:30, so I had been out for a while. As I glanced around the room, I noticed a rock by the front door and wondered if that was used to knock me out.

Just as I started to think maybe I was alone in the house, my assumed attacker walked into the living room. There wasn’t anything particularly menacing about him. He was about my height, around six feet tall, of average build, and probably no older than forty-five. He had sandy brown hair, brown eyes, about three days worth of stubble on his cheeks. He wore a black hoodie, black pants, and black shoes. He had a beer in his right hand and a piece of pizza in his left.

He stopped about six feet away from me and just stared at me. I think he was trying to look menacing, but was missing the mark. I didn’t think it would help to scream. I live in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of town, and although I do have neighbors, this house is new and well insulated. I knew I was going to have to either fight my way out or talk my way out. Since my arms and legs were secured to the chair, I was only left with one option.

“Hello. I’m Steve. Can you please help me understand what is happening?” I said, trying to sound genuine. That’s all it took, and his menacing facade was broken. His face relaxed, his shoulders slumped, he took a few steps forward and plopped down on the couch facing me, setting his pizza down on the end table.

“I can’t do this,” he began, wringing his hands in his lap. “I don’t have a choice. I HAVE to do this, but I also CANNOT do this!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking. He looked very distraught. I thought maybe he was having some kind of a psychotic break. If that was the case, I thought maybe I could actually talk my way out of this, but I had to be careful.

“What can I call you?” I asked, “I don’t need your real name, I don’t want any information that would allow me to identify you to law enforcement.”

“It doesn’t matter, nothing matters. I thought I was a good person, but that must not be true,” he paused long enough to finish his beer in one long gulp, tossing the emptied can across the room. “Why else would I be here? Why else would this be my fate?” he responded, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“I still don’t understand. Is there a way that I can help you? You can talk to me, I’m sure we can figure something out that keeps us both safe” I lied.

“No-no-no-no-no-no. It’s too late. I need to explain this to you,” he said sitting up, “I don’t know that you will believe me. In fact, I don’t think you will believe me in the slightest,” he said as he reached into the back of his pants. “Ah! Here, that will help,” my eyes widened at the sight of the revolver that he freed from his waistband. It now sat on the couch next to him. “You can call me Carrie. That is my real name, but no one will ever find me by it,” he added.


“I’m still very confused Carrie, I’m listening if you want to talk about what’s going on,” I said carefully. I didn’t want to sound condescending, but Carrie is obviously disturbed, I knew I was treading on thin ice.

“I drank all of your beer. I was hoping it would take the edge off, that it would be easier to do what I need to do. Spoiler alert, it didn’t help at all. Oh well, anyway, my full name is Carrie Henderson. I see you cringe at knowing my real name, but don’t worry, it doesn’t matter,” he said, standing up and handing me a small piece of paper he pulled from his pocket. I flipped the paper over and saw that it was actually a photo. The woman in the photo was very beautiful and probably no older than thirty-five. I tried to make a mental note of her features in case I did escape. I want to give the cops as much information as I possibly can.

“Who is this?” I ask, handing the photo back to him.

“I will tell you, but please let me get through this whole thing before you interject or flip out,” I nodded in understanding, so he continued, “That photo is of Carrie Henderson. It is a photo of me. A few days ago I went to a party with some friends. It was at an old friends house, and we were there pretty late. I took an Uber home alone around two o’ clock in the morning. I remember walking into my apartment, then everything went dark. When I woke up I was on the couch, my legs duct taped together, my hands duct taped behind my back. There was a man sitting in the recliner across from me. He and I had a conversation almost identical to the one you and I are having.” As he spoke, I was trying to focus on what he was saying, as well as trying to figure out what I should say to get myself out of this situation.

“This man explained his predicament to me. He said that he was cursed to be a murderer. He said his name was Thomas, he was nineteen, and he was going to kill me. I didn’t understand because he looked like he was in his forties. I didn’t really understand until after he killed me,” he paused, I can only assume to make up more nonsense or to listen to the voices in his head. It was obvious at this point that he was completely insane. Unfortunately that wasn’t going to help me get out of this situation.

“So,” he continued, “Thomas told me he was murdered. He was shot in the head, right between the eyes. The last thing he saw was the man standing over him, pressing the gun to Thomas’ head, and quietly sobbing. The next thing Thomas knows, he’s standing in front of his now lifeless body. At first he thought he was just a spirit, seeing his body as he moved on to whatever is next. That was until he looked at his right hand and saw he was holding a revolver. In fact, it was this very revolver,” he said as he held the revolver up for me to see, then set it back down next to him. I was starting to panic. The closer he got to finishing this insane story, the less time I had to escape.

“He went and looked in the mirror and saw his murderer’s reflection staring back at him. A few weeks later he followed me home from a coffee shop. I left later that night for the party, and he waited for me to return. He murdered me, Carrie Henderson, and when I opened my eyes, they were no longer my eyes, they were Thomas’ eyes,” he paused, gauging my reaction.

“I’ll admit it Carrie, I’m still confused,” I said, feeling the minutes slip by, I am barely keeping my panic at bay.

“You probably won’t really understand until you die. The simplest way I can explain it is by calling it a curse. I’ll call it the Serial Killer Curse. Thomas was murdered by a man. After he was murdered he regained consciousness, but he was no longer Thomas, he was in the murderers body. Thomas killed me, Carrie, I’m a woman by the way, and when I regained consciousness I was in my murderer’s body. Tonight I will kill you and you will come back, but in the body of the mid-forties man you see before you. You will then murder someone and they will take your place, and so on and so forth.”

“If I’m understanding you correctly, the body sitting in front of me, the one you are in, is a constant,” I began, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice, “The body is used to murder someone, and the victim’s soul is placed into this body. What happens to whomever is in the body before? What happens to you when I take your place?” I ask, trying to buy myself time.

“I get to move on to whatever is next. I’ll be free from this prison, from this torture. Once I kill you and you wake up in this man’s body, don’t waste time. You need to kill someone as soon as possible. You have no money, no phone, no contacts, no job, and there will be no rest until you do what needs to be done. If you try to continue to live in this foreign body, you will regret it. Each day that passes the voices get louder. It’s like the screams of every victim taken by this body are screaming in your ears at all times. The longer you go without taking a life, the louder the voices get. It’s maddening. Not to mention that I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, it doesn’t feel right. It’s like an itch you can never scratch. There are lots of other unpleasant things, but that’s enough for now, we need to get on with it. Any questions?”

“What if once I’m in that body, I kill myself? Will that stop the curse?” I ask. I hoped this hadn’t dawned on Carrie, and that he would turn the gun on himself instead of killing me.

“No, Thomas tried that a few times. I even tried it once myself. This body is truly cursed. I put this revolver to my temple and pulled the trigger. I didn’t die, but I blew a hole in the side of my head and I felt the pain of that gunshot wound. It was excruciating. I spent a few days lying in an alley, hidden under garbage while the body regenerated. The same thing happened each time Thomas tried to end it,” he said sadly.

“So, once you kill me I will take your place in the body. I cannot kill myself, and continuing to live in the body will be torture and drive me insane. If I kill someone, I will be allowed to move on because my victim would take my place. Did I get that right?”

Carrie picks up the revolver and stands up. “Ya, you got it dude. I’m sorry that I’m doing this, I never would’ve hurt anyone in my real life. Religion has always been very important to me, and I don’t know if I’ll be allowed into heaven once I do this, but I don’t have a choice. I can only hope that God forgives me. I hope you will forgive me too.”

I had no choice but to beg, “Please, Carrie, please do not do this! Maybe we can find a solution together. There has to be a way to break a curse! Just give me a few days, I’m sure we can sort it out. We could end this forever,” I beg, tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.

Carrie leaned down and pressed the nose of the revolver to my forehead. “You’ll soon see why that’s not possible. I’m sorry,” and with that everything went dark.


As I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the smell. It smells like rotting flesh. Once my eyes are able to focus, the first thing I see is myself, tied to a kitchen chair, with a bloody hole in my forehead. This has got to be the worst nightmare ever. I lift my hands to rub my eyes, and see that the revolver is in my right hand. I set it down on the couch and head to the bathroom to splash some cold water in my face. Maybe that will trigger me to wake up.

Looking in the mirror I see what I do not want to believe. I’m Carrie, well, I’m in the body that murdered me. There is no way that Carrie was telling the truth, it’s impossible. I splash some cold water in my face and head back to the living room.

My body is still there, tied to that chair, the same hole in my forehead. I can’t take this, it feels like my mind wants to just shut off, it’s too much to process. I decide to try again to wake myself up, just in case this really is a dream. I walk over to a lamp that is on an end table near the couch. I lift it up with my right hand, and bring it down hard onto my left. I let out a yelp, the pain is blinding, but I haven’t woken up. I walk back over to the couch and sit down, being careful not to hit my injured hand on anything.

This isn’t possible, yet I do feel as though I’m in a stranger’s body. Everything looks and smells different, I feel out of it and uncoordinated. I feel like I need to crawl out of my own skin, except it isn’t actually my skin. I wonder who he was, this skin suit I’m wearing. Since it can’t die, how old is it? Am I in the body of a famous serial killer that was never captured? I’ve always been fascinated by serial killers. Maybe it’s Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac Killer, or both? I remember watching a documentary on the Zodiac Killer in which they showed a sketch of him. If I threw glasses onto this body it looks pretty close. I guess I’ll never really know.


I really hope that rotting flesh smell isn’t coming from me. What am I going to do? Should I call in sick to work tomorrow? Or call 9-1-1 and report my murder? Whatever happens next, right now I need to calm down. I’m spiraling out of control. I lean my head back against the couch cushion behind me and close my eyes. Now that I’ve quieted my mind a little bit, I can hear them. The screaming, it’s soft and distant, but very distinct.

I wonder if there are no true serial killers. Maybe there or more cursed people out there. I wonder if any serial killers have been executed or imprisoned who haven’t actually committed a crime, but the body they are stuck in has killed many. I guess it really doesn’t matter, nothing really does anymore. Even in the few minutes I’ve been sitting here, I can hear the voices getting louder.

I only have a couple of choices, either murder someone now, or wait until I cannot handle the screaming in my ears anymore, and kill someone then. Either way I end up having to take a life, I end up pulling a new soul into this curse.

Then it dawns on me, I can choose my victim. Just because Thomas and Carrie chose random people, doesn’t mean that I have to do the same. There is a man who lives around the corner from me who is a registered sex offender. I know this because he had to knock on everyone’s door to tell them when he moved into the neighborhood last July. I looked him up after that to see if he hurt some kids, or if he just got caught having a drunken piss too close to a school at three o’clock in the morning. It turns out that this guy is the real deal, he has hurt three little children in ways from which they will never truly recover. He is perfect for the task at hand.

I stand and stretch, then place the revolver in my waistband. I don’t want to be a murderer, but since I have no choice, I’m going to simultaneously free myself and free the world from one more monster. I’m on my very own kamikaze mission.

I head to the kitchen to grab some duct tape and a flashlight from under the sink. If I need to knock him out, I can hit him in the back of the head with the flashlight and secure his arms and legs with the duct tape. I haven’t quite decided yet if I’m going to talk to him before killing him, or just let him figure it out on his own. Maybe a few weeks stuck in this body, in this weird purgatory, will be a fitting start to his eternal punishment.

Once I have the items I need, I notice my pizza sitting on the counter. I grab a slice and wolf it down. It’s not the best last meal, but I’m glad that Carrie made the pizza. It’s better than nothing.

I walk over to my body as I lick the pizza grease off of my fingers. It’s so strange to see my own dead body. It doesn’t even look like me anymore, it really is just an empty shell. I want to leave a note for my family, but I was very obviously murdered, so it wouldn’t make sense to leave a note. Maybe once I cross over to whatever is on the other side, I will understand how I can help them through losing me.

I am understanding more and more how Carrie felt about being stuck in this body. It’s like all of the murder and evil committed by it is trying to strangle me. I need to get out as soon as possible. My injured hand has already begun to heal itself, so I’m glad I didn’t try the suicide route.

Revolver, duct tape, and flashlight in hand, I head out the front door. The pedophile only lives a few doors down, so I decide to walk over. It’s hard enough walking around in this foreign body, let alone trying to drive a car. The fresh air is nice, and for a brief moment it makes me feel almost normal.

It’s around ten at night, and I’m surprised to see that his house is already dark. His car is in the driveway, so he must be home. This should make it easy. I walk up to the door and use the flashlight to break the small window nearest to the doorknob. This makes it easy for me to reach in and unlock the door. Once I’m inside I stop and listen, but I don’t hear anyone moving around.


I head upstairs and quickly find the master bedroom. The house is a mirror image of my own, so navigating it is pretty easy. The door to the bedroom is cracked, so I carefully swing the door open and step inside.

I can hear the steady sound of sleeping breath and notice an orange spot in his left ear. He must be wearing earplugs, it’s like he’s trying to make it easier on me. I can feel instincts kicking in, not my own, but those belonging to the body I’m wearing. It is as if the kill memories are stored in its very cells, in its DNA. This body is a killing machine.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve jumped onto the bed, straddling him and pinning his arms under my knees. I reach down and rip his left earplug out as his eyes fly open in fright. He seems too stunned to struggle, but he starts yelling immediately.

“Get off me! Who the fuck are you? Get the FUCK off of me!” he screams.

I chuckle to myself and lean forward to whisper in his ear, careful not to get close enough for him to bite me. “This is for the children. This is the beginning of your punishment. Whatever happens next, just know that you deserve it. You deserve every single second of it.” And with that, I place the nose of the revolver to his forehead, and with a grin, I pull the trigger.


Be Mine

“Be mine?” he asked, cornering me by the coffee machine and holding out a Valentine. I accept it and notice it’s the kind of Valentine that kids put in shoe boxes at school. This one has cupid on the front, preparing to shoot a heart-shaped arrow at some poor unsuspecting soul.


“Thank you Curtis, Happy Valentine’s Day!” I respond. I try to walk away but he’s blocking my path. “Can I squeeze by you? I have some work waiting for me at my desk,” I say with a smile.

“Be mine?” he repeats, his face absent of emotion. I thought this was all in good fun, but I’m beginning to think he’s serious. Curtis has only worked here for a short time, so I don’t know him quite well enough to read him yet.

“I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone,” I answered. I thought for sure he knew I was seeing someone. I’ve worked in this office for the last ten years, eight of which I’ve been with Peter. The entire office knows Peter. Curtis just started here a few weeks ago, however I thought he saw Peter come in to bring me lunch the other day. Our desks are right next to each other and he was sitting in his at the time, maybe he thought Peter was just a friend or a family member.

“That someone isn’t here, are they? Be mine?” he pleaded.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Be mine,” he said.

“For the third time, no, and don’t ask again!” I spit. I’m done being nice.

“Be mine!” he demanded.

“Over my dead body!” I exclaimed. He’s being too pushy. I’m glad we are at the office surrounded by other coworkers, not that any of them are paying attention.

“Fine,” he sighed as he stepped back to let me pass. As I walk past him I swear I hear him whisper “slut”. However, I can’t be sure that’s what I heard, so I keep moving. It was a strange interaction, and he has me a little spooked. I think I’ll keep my distance for now. If it happens again I’ll go to HR, but everyone seems to like Curtis, so I don’t want to rock the boat unless it’s absolutely necessary.

* * *

Lying in bed I can’t help but think I should’ve seen this coming. He never really spoke to me before today. Our interaction at work was strange and unsettling. Holidays do weird things to people, they stir up all kinds of emotions. I thought maybe he was just lonely and frustrated, not that it excuses harassing me.


None of that matters now. He must have been in my room before I got home. It wasn’t until I laid down and turned off the lights that he emerged from the closet. I think he thought I was sleeping, but wearing an eye mask makes it hard to tell. I know he’s standing over me. I heard the closet door open, followed by soft footsteps approaching the bed. I think he’s just standing over me now. I am so afraid to take my eye mask off, to move, to breathe.

I feel the movement of air as he kneels down next to the bed, his lips getting dangerously close to my ear.

“Be mine?” he asks.

I don’t know what to do. Maybe if I hold still he will think I’m asleep and change his mind.

“BITCH, I know you’re awake! You will be mine. I own you! You start right now,” he yelled.

Slowly I lift my hand to my head and pull off my sleep mask. There he is, once again standing over me. He looks so much bigger and truly terrifying in the dark. There’s wild look in his eyes, and he’s wearing black from head to toe.

“That’s more like it! Now, BE MINE!” Before I can respond he jumps on top of me, straddling me at the waist and closes his large hands over my windpipe. I try to fight him but it’s no use, he outweighs me by at least fifty pounds. The lack of oxygen is stripping my muscles of their power. No matter how much I fight, things slowly go dark.

Upon waking, I see that I’m in my bathtub. My neck hurts from laying at such an awkward angle. Even more disturbing, I’m naked from the waist up. As I slowly come out of the haze I see that he’s sitting on the toilet lid a couple of feet away, eyes closed. I shift in the tub to straighten my neck and his eyes immediately open.

“Welcome back my dear, now the fun can begin,” he says mid-yawn. I cross my arms across my chest, trying to cover myself up. I feel so vulnerable and exposed, it’s awful.

“I don’t understand what’s happening. Why are you doing this?” I ask. He shifts on the toilet lid, turning to face me. His elbows rest on his legs as he leans toward me.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he asks, his wild eyes darting back and forth from me to his hands.

“What? What does that matter? I don’t know, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything terrible,” I manage to squeak out.

“Sounds like you aren’t thinking hard enough. No one ever does, they always like to think they’re good people. You think so too, don’t you, that you’re a good person?” his grin is unsettling and it’s making me incredibly nervous.

“I’m apparently oblivious. Please tell me why you’re doing this and what you plan to do. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sure whatever is going on can be worked out.” I’m trying to keep my cool but desperation finds me and gives itself away by the tremble in my voice.

“A couple of months ago you made a mistake, a big, giant, whopper of a mistake. It was the kind of mistake I find offensive. I gave you a great gift and you’re just throwing it away.”

I wish I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I do. I don’t know how he could possibly know, I haven’t told a single person because I’m so ashamed. I can feel the tears trying to fight their way out of my eyes, but I must try to stay calm and collected.

He takes my silence as a reason to keep talking. “You had a special relationship with the person I replaced at the office. From what I understand, your mistake is why he quit his job. I’m also here because of your mistake, understand?”

I can’t help it, I feel the tears as they spill down my face. “I still don’t understand what’s going on, but you’re right, I did make a mistake. I made the biggest mistake of my life. The whole office went out for drinks while Peter was out-of-town seeing some relatives. I had an inappropriate moment with your predecessor.”

“Ah, ya, you made a mistake all right. Calling it an inappropriate moment is an insult to everyone effected. While your husband was away seeing family, you brought home a coworker. You little worthless slut! You brought him here, to the home you share with Peter, and you let him bend you over the couch. You have defiled this entire house,” he says, disgusted.

“I know! I would do anything to take it back! I don’t know what came over me,” I sob. “But I still don’t understand why you care. What does this have to do with you?”

“You can’t take it back, but you can pay the price. When you and Peter were born, I marked both of your souls. That’s my job, to match souls. My mark led you to each other, you’re true soul mates. I put in all of this hard work to match you up to your perfect partner, and you throw it in my face.”

I don’t understand what he’s talking about. I thought he was crazy before, but this is a whole new level. I don’t know what to do besides sit and cry.

“My primary function is to match souls. However, I’ve found a pet project over the millennia that keeps things fresh for me. Since you have disgraced the gift I gave you, since you’ve broken Peter’s heart, even though he doesn’t yet know it yet, I am here to collect the fee. Your heart is blackened by this deceit, so I am here to collect it,” he paused, his eyes boring holes through mine. Slowly he reaches behind him into a bag I hadn’t noticed before. His hand re-emerges wrapped around the handle of a scalpel.


“No! No! NO!” I scream, I’m losing my wits. There’s nowhere to run. He’s between me and the door. I know I won’t be able to fight him off.

“You broke Peter’s heart,” he says with a grin, “so I’m here to take yours,” his grin widens as he recognizes the horror in my eyes.

“I’ll be better, I swear! I’ll make it right, I’ll tell Peter! I’ll tell him he deserves better than me! Please don’t hurt me, please!” I plead.

Before I can react, he lunges forward and shoves a syringe into my neck. Within seconds my arms have gone slack, once again exposing my bare chest. I try to lift my arms back up but I can’t. My body feels like it’s made of lead, it’s so heavy I can’t move. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I’m trapped in my own body. He tosses the syringe aside, and scalpel in hand, he kneels next to the tub.

“Settle down my dear,” he begins to sing. “Don’t fight it, don’t delay, for Cupid’s bow is on its way. I’ve found you a lover who is precious and kind, the kind that loves you for body and mind. But you threw it away for some booze and a good time. Now Cupid is back, to collect his fee. Now heartless, you will always be,” and as he sang the last few words he touched the scalpel to the left side of my chest.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t move, but I can feel. I can feel the tub, cold against my skin, the pain in my neck, the hunger in my belly, and the scalpel  blade resting on my chest. He gives me one last grin and presses the scalpel into my flesh. All I can feel is searing pain. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

“That’s correct my dear, you can’t move nor speak, but you sure can feel. This is how Peter would feel if he found out about your betrayal. He has always been good to you, so I will save him from that fate. Instead he will think you left him. I’ve left a note on the TV. I promise,” he says while removing the flesh on the left side of my chest, directly over my heart. Things are starting to get hazy. The pain is more than I ever imagined possible.

I wanted to plead for my life, to fight back, to run, but it’s useless. I see him reach into the bag behind him once again. He pulls out a bone saw, and when he turns it on, the sound of the bone saw is too much. Everything begins to go dark again. I’m floating somewhere between conscious and unconscious, feeling pain and hearing him whistle to himself as he goes about his gruesome task.

“Okay my dear, I think you can still hear me. I have your heart exposed. I’m going to cut it out now, and add it to my trophy case. I’ll dispose of your body. Before I take your heart, I want to read you the note I’ve left for Peter. No one will ever know what actually happened to you, not even your family. This note is your legacy to the ones you care about, it’s the last contact you will ever have with them.”

Peter –

I can’t believe I’m writing this note, I never thought it would come to this. I’m unhappy, I have been for quite some time. I don’t want to give you the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, but it’s the truth. I’ve been planning this for a while, you won’t be able to find me. Please do not try, it will be a waste of your time.

I’ve moved out-of-state and I am starting over somewhere new, where nobody knows me. I hope you find happiness, find love, and forget about me.


I can feel the tears streaming down my face, they’re making my vision fuzzy. I’ll never see Peter again, my parents, my sister, my friends, they will never know what happened to me. They will all think I abandoned them.

I don’t see an escape, so I give up, I let go. The world begins to fade to black as I feel him reach into my chest cavity. The last thing I hear is him whistling while he cuts my heart from my chest.



My Friend, My Enemy

They call you by many names.

You are my life long friend,

my first and final enemy.

Your fingernails scratch at my skull.

Your icy cold breath tightens my shoulders and neck.

You are the whispers in the wind,

the itch that will never be scratched.

You turn opportunity to obstacle,

mundane to sensory overload.

You can twist time to move too fast or too slow.

You take but almost never give.

You reap but never sow.

You turn brilliant minds to dust,

and fill creative minds with thunderous doubt.

There is no cure for you,

old friend. My very first enemy.

Only tablets to ease the incessant screeching,

the tears and paranoia.

We can muffle your cries,

but never cut your throat.

My life long companion, my true enemy,

in the end it’s just me.

Me and my anxiety.



Tortured Sleep – My Journey with Nightmares

I usually write short stories, but I wanted to get a few thoughts down about the source of my darkness. (Trigger Warning – violence, sexual assault, loss)

What makes a nightmare, a nightmare? Does it only count if you wake up from a dead sleep, drenched in a cold sweat, tears streaming down your face? I don’t believe that’s the case. Nightmares are nightmares because of the experience, because of the way they make you feel.

The first nightmare I remember, I had when I was in the third grade. If you are intrigued, I’ve written a blog post on this nightmare titled, The First Nightmare. Since that night, they’ve never really stopped, they’ve only taken short breaks. The majority of the dreams I’ve had in my life have been nightmares. As I’ve gotten older I’ve found certain medications and night-time routines that lessen the chances I will have a nightmare, but it’s always a temporary reprieve, their return is inevitable.

When I am able to quiet the nightmares, what takes their place isn’t necessarily a good dream, just a bad dream that isn’t as bad as my most recent string of nightmares. It’s been many years since I’ve woken up and thought, “Wow, it’s too bad I’m awake. I want to finish that dream!” It’s more often that I wake up and think, “That could’ve been worse.” I guess I can call these my Medium Dreams. What are my Medium Dreams usually about? Here are a few examples:

  1. I get a call or letter from my High School. They’ve found a discrepancy in their records and it turns out I was a few credits short of graduating. In order to keep my high school diploma, I must return to school for a semester. I end up stuck back in high school, never able to find my classrooms, and I always forget to do my homework. I usually only manage to find the class when there is a big test or presentation, and I’m always completely unprepared. Near the end of the dream I suddenly realize that I’m thirty years old, married, own my home, and have a full-time job. I am always flabbergasted that I put up with this nonsense as long as I did. It’s always right after this realization that my alarm goes off.
  2. I am stuck back in an old job because it turns out I had one shift left of my two weeks notice that I didn’t complete. If I don’t come back and complete it, they will sabotage any new job prospects by saying they would never rehire me. I always spend that shift behind the customer service desk yelling insults at customers all day.
  3. I’m late for an appointment. Every mode of transportation is horribly slow and I end up very lost.
  4. I lean forward and all of my teeth fall out.

Medium Dreams: Not horrible, not great, if given the choice I would choose not to dream.


The rest of my dreams I classify as nightmares. It’s rare that a nightmare will wake me from a deep sleep. Often times my alarm is my savior. I believe this is somehow linked to the sleep paralysis I’ve had since I was about five, the insomnia throughout my teens and early twenties, and the night terrors I’ve begun having the last few years.


The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli

In addition to the nightmares, I seem to have developed a rather disturbing habit that I believe is related. When someone wakes me up, I wake up screaming. My husband will try to gently wake me and I immediately start screaming. Before my eyes open, I wake suddenly to the sound of my own screams. I’m not a professional, and I have no basis for this reasoning beyond my own experiences, but I believe it’s because of the nightmares. I haven’t found any way to stop doing this, but if anyone has any suggestions, I’m open to them. My poor husband and our dogs find it quite disturbing.

My nightmares vary, but I’ll give a few examples of their content:

  1. I’m being murdered over and over again. I feel the pain, the fear, and I see the injuries, but I am cursed not to die, just to live to be murdered again and again.
  2. I am being raped or I’m forced to watch as a friend/loved one is raped. I’m powerless to stop it.
  3. My husband is a horrible person that is cruel and disgusts me. His personality changed instantly. I find out he has a second life I didn’t know about, each new clue opens another door to a dimly lit room full of more horrible secrets.
  4. Demons are coming for me. They either want to kill me, drag me to hell, or possess me.
  5. There’s an apocalyptic event and no matter what I do I can’t get my family to safety.
  6. I drown over and over again.
  7. I’m on the run. Someone wants to kill my dogs and I have to keep them safe. The dog I had to put to sleep in June of 2017 is there, but now that she’s gone, she always gets killed in my dreams. Sometimes I can save the others.

When I was a child, like many people, I had lucid dreams. This often helped me get out of the nightmares. At some point I would realize that I’m dreaming and simply imagine a way out. I could go somewhere peaceful while I tried to wake myself up. I am unable to do this as an adult, however I know there is a lot of information out designed to help adults learn to have lucid dreams.



I’ve thought about actively trying to learn to lucid dream again. However, I see a couple of draw backs. When I had these dreams as a child, sometimes I would be absolutely terrified, but unable to wake myself up. I would sit in my room (in the dream) and scream and scream for my mom to wake me up, hoping I would scream so hard I would scream outside of the dream as well as in. I don’t need to relive that feeling of being trapped.

I’ve also read that people have negative experiences lucid dreaming and advise against it. Whether it opens doors in our brains we may want to leave shut, or if you believe you can get mixed up with evil spirits or entities, it might not be worth the risk.

That’s enough on my sleep experiences for now. Thank you for reading. It means so much to me that there are people who are entertained by my ramblings.

I would love to hear from you in the comments section: What is the subject matter of your nightmares? Do you have any sleep conditions? Can you have lucid dreams? If so, would you recommend it to others? Why or why not? What does nightmare mean to you?


The Phone Call

I’ve been feeling quite odd lately. Wherever I go I feel like someone is watching me. When I’m alone it’s almost unbearable, although regardless of how many times I search the room or vehicle I’m in, there’s never anyone else there. My husband James thinks I’m being paranoid. I always feel a little out of sorts when her birthday comes around, but this time is particularly difficult.

I usually take great pleasure in doing my ‘I-told-you-so’ dance when I’m right and my husband is wrong. This time is different. This time I can’t put into words how much I wish I was wrong. I would do anything to be wrong.

Today is her birthday, she would’ve been eighteen. It’s been ten years since she died. This morning as I made coffee for myself and James I couldn’t help but watch the hands on the clock as they ticked closer and closer to 9:20 AM. James was watching me carefully as I poured too much coffee into his mug and spilled it everywhere. “You have to watch what you’re doing Susan! You burned the hell out of your hands!” He was right, but I couldn’t look away. As he cleaned up my mess I was transfixed by the clock. I kept thinking that once we were past 9:20 AM, the exact time I gave birth to our Hannah, everything would return to normal.

Finally the clock ticked over to 9:20 AM. That minute came and went without pageantry. I tried to breathe a big sigh of relief, however something still didn’t feel quite right. As James was warming up for his ‘I-told-you-so’ speech, the sound of Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” began to roll from the speaker on my cell phone. I was frozen. James froze mid sentence, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. I felt the icy claws of truth drag their way down my spine.

‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ was Hannah’s favorite song, it was her final favorite song. I don’t have it on my phone, I don’t use it for a ring tone. Whenever it comes on the radio I change the channel. The sound of that song is like daggers to my heart.


James and I stared at the phone in disbelief, slowly processing each letter of “Unknown Caller”. “Are you going to answer it?” James asked. With trembling hands I carefully picked up the phone, it felt heavy and fragile in my hands. Just as Fergie crooned, “It’s time to be a big girl now” I tapped the green icon on my screen and held the phone to my ear.

The sound on the other end of the phone line sent shivers down my back. She was laughing. This wasn’t the laughter I remembered, the laughter of a small child. This was the laughter of a woman, a mad woman.

James ripped the phone out of my hand and hit the speaker button. I waited for the laughter to subside but it did not. Finally I interjected, “Hannah, honey, is that you?” It felt crazy to say out loud, but I don’t know who else this could possibly be. We uprooted our lives and started over after she died. No one here knows our history.

The other end of the line went silent for a few moments. “Hannah?” It was at this second acknowledgement of her name that she began to speak.

“Mother dearest, what can I say?

You slowly drank your life away.

Father Dearest, what will you do?

Likely nothing, the typical you.

I was a child, innocent and sweet.

You made sure, the end of my life I did meet.

Take it from me, your daughter dearest,

You can run and hide, whether farthest or nearest.

I’m coming for you, as you came for me,

Cutting off my branch, of the family tree.

You did it with poison, a knife, the sharpest blade,

I’ll do it slowly, with dull blades, be very afraid.

Time to pay your debts, to right the wrongs,

After completing your task, I’ll send you to where you belong.

That’s all for now dear mother, dear father,

I’ll come for you soon, and lead you to slaughter.”

She let out one last chuckle and the call disconnected. Silent tears had begun to fall from James’ eyes, I hadn’t even noticed that I was sobbing. The phone dropped from James’ hand, landing face down on the floor. We stood in silence, tears falling faster and faster.

I picked up my phone and walked to the living room, plopping down on the couch, hands trembling. James joined me and we sat in silence for at least ten minutes. It was James who first broke the silence. “How do we know that was even her? It’s probably a prank.”

“James, don’t be ridiculous. We left that life behind, no one here knows our past. Everyone that does know our past is unable to find us. We changed our last name and moved across the country. I also just checked to see if that song is set as a ringtone, but I can’t find it anywhere in my phone.”

“Then try calling the number back. I’m sure it was a prank. It can’t be her, she’s been dead for ten years.”

I scroll over to my call history and try to call the number back. On the other end of the line is the familiar error message that states this number has been ‘disconnected or is no longer in use’. “Now what? Do we Google the phone number?” The words had barely left my lips before James had grabbed his laptop from the coffee table and searched the number. “There…are…zero results. None. Zip. Nada. I’ve never Googled something and had zero results.” The color had drained from his face.

“Maybe our time is up, maybe we got a solid ten years in and now we pay our debts.” I posed. James simply nodded, holding his face in his hands, he was pale and visibly shaken. “What now?” I added.

Lifting his head from his hands James answered, “Susan, I think it’s time we get our affairs in order. I think we should also write our side of the story. If we are gone and someone ties us to our old identities, I want them to know why we did what we did. I don’t want to be remembered as a monster. It would destroy our loved ones back home.” James croaked.

Our Story – To Be Read Upon Our Deaths

You are about read the story of a family who was broken and confused and in pain. Whomever is reading this, please understand that we did our best. We hope that history has mercy on us. We don’t know how much time we have, so we must keep this pretty short.

We struggled to have children. We tried for years, saw specialist after specialist, but nothing seemed to work. We were both in perfect health and all of our testing came back normal. We had undiagnosed infertility. By the end of this letter you may ask why we didn’t adopt. We didn’t adopt because we didn’t know that we had the skills and resources to help a child that came from a troubled home. We wanted to provide for our children and we felt the best way to do that was to have our own biological child. It wasn’t until much later that we realized we were wrong, very wrong.

We were both in our mid-thirties when we became pregnant with Hannah. It was a total surprise and we were elated. Once Hannah arrived things immediately got weird at home. We thought the house might be haunted. Items moved around without explanation, we heard doors closing and opening throughout the night. We had the house blessed and cleansed with sage and the activity seemed to calm down. It never went away, but we learned to live with it. Nothing violent had ever happened and we loved our home, so we felt it was best to ignore it and move on with life.

We had a fairly peaceful few years. Everything changed when Hannah turned six. The activity in the house picked up practically over night. Furniture would move itself around, doors would lock and unlock, the electricity would fluctuate, we would hear scratching, tapping, and low growls coming from within the walls. One night we checked on Hannah after she had fallen asleep. We found her hanging above her bed, upside down, ankles crossed with her arms out straight, as if she was hanging on an invisible inverted cross. Her eyes were open but lifeless. We pulled her down as quickly as we could and brought her into our room to sleep the rest of the night. We each awoke several times that night to the sound of Hannah whispering to herself in a fast, fluid, foreign language.


From that moment forward Hannah was different. She was distant and despondent. She no longer played and ran and sang. She would only sit and stare. When she wasn’t sitting and staring she was either sleeping or coloring. However the she would only use the red and black crayons, nothing else. Sometimes she used a coloring book, but sometimes she would sit with her black and red crayons and draw monsters, demons, sometimes writing in foreign languages. Most often she would draw the same symbol over and over again. Neither of us recognized the symbol, but it appeared to be a bastardization of the yin and yang symbol. They were drawn in red and black, with inverted crosses where the small circles usually resided within the symbol.


We took her to doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and everyone in between. No one had anything useful to say, simply that she would likely grow out of it. We were told to stop letting her watch scary movies, which we never allowed anyway. People were quick to handout useless advice. We finally resorted to taking her to see a priest. Neither of us are religious but we were out of options. The priest was concerned she may need an exorcism, but wouldn’t do so without the permission of the church. By this time she had been like this for well over a year. We were approaching her eighth birthday.

The church declined our request for an exorcism. The fact that we were not members of the church definitely didn’t do us any favors. The priest told us in confidence that he was quite worried about Hannah. It had been almost two years since we had seen any sign of our Hannah beneath the cold stoic facade. The priest said usually there was a bit of give and take between the individual and whatever is possessing them. He was worried that Hannah was buried so deep that she would never be able to return, if she was still there at all.

This was the hardest part to hear, that Hannah might already be gone. We spent the next few months researching the exorcism ritual and trying to coax Hannah out from the depths in which she was lost. Unfortunately we never again saw any sign of our Hannah. We even tried to exorcise her ourselves at one point. She just sat there staring into space. After thirty minutes we gave up, we were defeated.

Defeat brought up a question neither of us wanted to ask. If Hannah isn’t even there anymore, then what do we do? Do we allow this shell of Hannah to continue to live in our house, harboring who knows how terrible a being? Or do we discard her shell now that she is gone?

This was the hardest decision we had ever made. We searched for cures for two years, but there were none to be found. Nothing in life could have ever prepared us for what we would need to do next.

On the day of her eighth birthday we killed our Hannah. We tried using rat poison in her food that day, but for some reason as we sat and waited, she got sick, but not sick enough. When she fell asleep that afternoon we sat and watched her as she slept. We finally scraped together some courage, although covered in tears and heartache, and together we plunged a long kitchen knife in between Hannah’s ribs and into her heart.


We each expected an overwhelming sadness, but it was different from what we had imagined. Hannah had already been gone for two years, this was just her body. It was a horrifying task for parents to take on, but it was necessary. We dismembered her in the bathtub and disposed of her body in dumpsters across town, and all of her identifiable parts (finger tips, head) we dropped into Lake Michigan.

We reported her missing the next day. Luckily for us we had enough family and friends that had witnessed Hannah’s strange behavior, along with doctor testimonies, that we were cleared as suspects right away. People assumed she wandered off before we woke up and was promptly grabbed by someone on the street. The police didn’t find any clues and the case has since gone cold.

After a year we changed our last names and left in the night. No one knew we were leaving. We left a note that we were fine but couldn’t live here without Hannah and that we moved and do not want to be found. In the last ten years we have managed to make a life for ourselves. Hannah’s memory has haunted us everywhere we go, and we both take lots of pills that are designed to ease the burden of her death. In reality, nothing really eases that burden, it’s likely nothing ever will.

We want those who read to this to understand that we did everything we knew how to do to help her. Killing her was awful, and there’s not a single day that we don’t relive those moments. We truly believed we were only discarding Hannah’s shell, and not Hannah herself. We were afraid of whatever it was that lived behind Hannah’s eyes.

I’ve written out our side, it’s brief, but I don’t know how much time we have. I’ve named the document “Our Story – To Be Read Upon Our Deaths” and it’s the only thing on the desktop of the computer. Hopefully someone will find it when we are gone.


It is dark where I am, but I like the dark. The darkness has always been there for me. When I was a Hannah I remember the darkness coming at night. My room was the darkest room in the house, it was like walking into a void. I would lay in the darkness, feeling it move and pulse around me. It whispered to me while I slept, slowly wrapping me in its icy embrace.

I don’t remember much from my actual childhood, but that’s because I was born before the earth, I am one of the oldest beings in existence. I do remember becoming Hannah. I had been exiled to the outermost layers of hell. I’ve taken joy in hunting creatures of the light and of the dark. While Lucifer was happy to have me hunt creatures of the light, he turned his back on me when I hunted those of the dark. I believe he was afraid I would surpass him and take his throne. He put me on earth as Hannah to punish me.

I lived as the human child, Hannah, for six years. It was miserable. I had watched humans for so long that although it wasn’t difficult to put up the facade, but it tore me to pieces to waste my talents for so long. That’s why on Hannah’s sixth birthday I made a decision to use her body to continue my hunt. I wanted it all for myself, hell, heaven, purgatory, and the human realm as well.

Since I was busy planning my takeover I didn’t have the time to be Hannah. This is when the humans noticed Hannah wasn’t exactly their little girl anymore. They’re so stupid! Hannah doesn’t even exist outside of flesh and blood. She really was just a shell, and once I stopped giving her personality, they were stuck with a husk.

Lucifer thought it would be a fitting punishment to make me live as a human. In reality he had given me time outside of the watchful eyes of the heavens and hell to make my plans.

I never imagined that the humans would kill Hannah. They thought she was their child! Humans are great, they are the only beings that come into this world with both pure light and pure darkness at their essence. This makes them unpredictable, which really makes it more fun for me. When they fed Hannah poison I tried to repair her, but when her physical body gave up to sleep, they managed to plunge a knife into her heart.

Without a vessel I was snapped back to hell. I had to figure out a way to get back to earth, where I would be free of watchful eyes. It’s taken ten years to really cement my plans. I started with gaining strength by consuming the essence of any dark creature or entity with which I crossed paths. In my home, the outermost layer of hell, it’s common to find the recently deceased and lower level demons wandering about. I consumed all that I found while I continued making plans.

I have a clear path now to taking over all realms, but there is a score I must settle first. The humans that killed the Hannah vessel set me back from the progress I had made in my plans. They must pay. Once they are dead I will consume their darkness and I will finally be strong enough to execute my plans.

The phone call to them was really just theatrics. The more scared and angry they are when they die, the more darkness there will be for me to consume. I will take them as they took Hannah, at four o’ clock the afternoon of her birthday, which is coming up here in the next hour or so. I really hope they scream! I better get to making last-minute preparations.

Susan & James

“James, I think that’s about all we can do. We have left our story and made as many arrangements as we can make on a Saturday.”

“You’re right, but we don’t actually know when this will all end. Maybe we have some time still.” James said, his face betraying him. They both know time is almost up.

“It’s three o’ clock. I would bet my life she will come for us at 4 o’clock, when we stopped her heart ten years ago.” Susan said solemnly.

“Then we spend the next hour like it’s our last. We spend it together.” James replied.

They spent the next hour looking at family photos, including those of Hannah. They remembered their wedding, how they fell in love, recounting twenty-five years of memories. As four o’clock approached they held each other closely, exchanging what they believed could be their last words.

At four o’clock on the dot, the front door flew open. There she was, Hannah, but also not Hannah. Susan and James squeezed each other tighter as they took in the sight before them.

Hannah was an adult, around 5’6″ with jet black hair down to her shoulder blades. She wore a bloodied version of the denim overalls and pink t-shirt she wore the day she was murdered. She wasn’t wearing shoes and her skin and clothing were caked in dirt and blood. There were big ugly scars all over her body, scars left from when her parents had dismembered her. Hannah’s once hazel eyes were black with glowing red pupils. Her head sat at a strange angle, as if it wasn’t sewn on properly.


“We are so sorry baby girl. We would’ve done anything for you. We thought you were gone! We thought it was just your body and whatever evil lived inside, we never would’ve hurt you on purpose!” Susan cries. James is transfixed by the sight of his dead daughter. His mouth hangs open, tears streaming down his face, but he can’t seem to make a sound.

The thing that is and isn’t Hannah opens its mouth into a terrible grin, revealing yellow pointed teeth. When she speaks it’s a low gravely sound. “Time to pay your debts, to right the wrongs. After completing your task, I’ll send you to where you belong.” the Hannah thing hisses, tilting its head from the left to an equally unnatural angle to the right.

“Please, we can be a family again. Please Hannah!” James pleads. Just as he finishes his sentence, the Hannah thing lurches forward, its legs moving as if its missing its knee joints. Susan lets out a small scream and buries her head in James’ shoulder.

The Hannah thing’s lips peel back to reveal an unnatural Cheshire Cat-like grin. “That’s all for now dear mother, dear father. I’m here for you now, to lead you to slaughter.” Just as it gets the last few words out it lunges at Susan, closing its fingers around her neck. The smell of rotting flesh and decay fill Susan’s nostrils. She understands that this is what she deserves for killing her child. This is her penance.

James tries in vain to loosen the Hannah thing’s grip from his wife’s throat. Upon realizing he can’t move a single one of its fingers, he slumps backwards into a heap of sobs and screams. Susan reaches out and grabs his hand just in time for the last of her life to slip from her lips. James feels the life leave his wife’s body and becomes hysterical.

The Hannah things head rotates on its shoulders until it is looking James dead in the eye. Taking a step back it motions to Susan’s lifeless body as if to say, ‘this one is yours’. The thing that was once Susan turns to look at James, neck purple from where the Hannah thing had crushed its windpipe. The Susan thing reaches its hands out towards James’ neck, he screams through his sobs, the last traces of sanity slip away from him.

The Susan thing closes its fingers around James’ neck while the Hannah thing looks on with its deadpan yellow grin. When the last of life slips from James’ body, the thing that was James stands to join the Hannah thing and the Susan thing.

The true Susan and James have been swiftly delivered to the circle of hell dedicated to those parents who commit filicide. They will relive murdering their daughter as themselves, each other, and as Hannah, for the rest of eternity. Their bodies are left to the thing that never really was Hannah, who promptly sends them to recruit more followers. The thing that was Hannah is very old and very powerful. Each person the James thing and Susan thing kill will become property of the thing that was Hannah, growing its hive until it has taken over everything, every place, and everyone.


It’s so much better when they are afraid. Their essence, their souls, everything tastes better with fear. Now that I’ve dispatched the humans I can use their bodies to progress my agenda. I will send the James vessel south and the Susan vessel north to collect more bodies. Through consuming so many when I was in hell, I’m once again strong enough to control an endless number of empty vessels. My reach will be far and wide, I will conquer all of the heavens and the earth and everything in between.

I’ve sent my vessels to wait until night fall. Once the humans are asleep they are to collect vessels right from their beds as they sleep. If you wake to a grinning mouth full of pointed yellow teeth, do not fight it, it’s already too late. Your fate is sealed.

Hannah never existed. However, there will be those who dare ask who I am. To those brave souls I will simply say, they call me Legion, for we are many.

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Prepare yourselves, for tonight you may be awoken by yellow teeth and black eyes. By the time you see that wicked grin, it will already be too late. We ask not that you join our number, but we demand that you surrender your vessel as you make your journey to the underworld.

Beware, for we will come for you soon, and lead you to slaughter.



Tuesday, January 16th, 2018

Nephilim, the abomination that results in the union of man and demon. One would think they would be few and far between, if they ever existed at all. However, here I am, living and in color. I look like everyone else, but a bit better, like I’m in high-definition. I tend to get what I want, I can be very persuasive. It’s made for an easy life,

I don’t think I’m immortal, although I seem to age very slowly compared to humans. It’s my centennial birthday and I don’t look a day over thirty. For humans one hundred years is a long life, for me it has been short and fast, and plagued with the death of my human friends and family. It’s hard watching those you love age and die. Today I held the hand of my oldest friend as he blinked out of existence. I’ve decided this is the last dying hand I will ever hold.

I used to think that being a Nephilim was the best of both worlds. I had the gift of persuasion, good looks, charisma, outstanding health, and longevity from my demon half. My human half gave me the ability to love, be creative, have compassion, sympathy, empathy, and the motivation to improve and grow. Unfortunately I’ve grown tired of the sadness and pain that comes along with my human half. I’ve lived one hundred years with both sides working as one, but that’s over now. It’s time to spare myself the pain and anguish that goes along with my humanity.

I started looking into this process forty years ago. However, I hadn’t really wanted to pull the trigger until I learned my oldest friend was dying. I also didn’t know which path I wanted to take until now. I have four choices. I can either remain as I am, try to find a way to kill myself, remove my demon side, or remove my human side. I’ve been how I am for one hundred years and that’s quite enough for me. I’m not suicidal, I don’t know that the afterlife would be kind to a Nephilim. I’m also not a hundred percent sure I could kill myself if I tried. If I remove my demon side, I have to replace it with something. I’ve already been half human, I can only imagine that being entirely human is even worse.

My demon side has always been my cool side. The side that always fit in and made friends, that is confident and so sure of itself. It was an easy decision to decide to remove my human side, this way I can lose the pain and gain more of my fun demon traits. The thing about removing half of myself, is that I have to replace it with something. Otherwise I would probably end up some weird drooling vegetable. It took a bit of research to figure out how to replace my human side to match my demon side, but I think I have it sorted out now.

I’m sitting here at the desk in my Manhattan apartment writing this on my over-priced Mac. I decided I should write everything down in case I screw up and blink out of existence. Even though no one will ever read this, it still feels like I’ve left a part of myself here, just in case things don’t go as planned. It’s ironic that once I remove my human side, this will probably seem really ridiculous.

I have everything ready to go. Sitting in the chair behind me is another Nephilim. His name is Franklin and I found him on Craigslist, no joke. He feels differently about his Nephilim life than I do about mine. He would rather remove his demon side and become completely human. It’s the perfect trade, we both get what we want.

This process requires a demon, not a half-demon, but a real fallen-angel type. I had to visit many dark alleys and grease a lot of palms before I found Leviornim. Leviornim, believe it or not, Levi for short, will assist us with our little trade on one condition. I must pledge to help Levi collect souls for the next two hundred years. After my debt is paid I will be free to go. I figure this first one hundred years flew by, two hundred as a demon will be nothing.

Franklin has agreed to step into a recently vacated pastor position for a large church in Alabama. He will pay his debt by spending at least his first twenty human years spreading fear, hate, lies, and paranoia from the podium. Levi says this will only drive the parishioners to betray each other and continue to spread fear and hate, thus making it easier for demons to fool humans into trading their souls for something stupid.

Levi has arrived so we must begin our journey. Franklin has already drawn the pentagram on the floor, Levi has begun chanting incantations in Latin. There is one more sacrifice I must make in order to complete this process. The sacrifice of a soul is required. I will sacrifice my human soul to make this work.

I guess that’s all for now. Maybe I will add to this, but more than likely no one will ever read this. Wish me luck, hopefully living as a demon will be everything I am hoping it to be.

Wednesday, January 17th, 2018

I always found blood rather repulsive, but the feeling of it dripping down my body, the coppery taste, the smell, it’s invigorating. More on that later, for now I’m happy to report that my little plan worked, I’m no longer cursed by the weakness that was my human side.

We did run into one little hiccup. Sacrificing my soul wasn’t enough. Apparently half human means I only had half a soul. Luckily when it came time to solve this little problem, Levi held my half soul in his hands, which meant I was free to think as a demon. The solution was easy, I reached into Franklin and ripped out his half soul. Problem solved. Franklin is now just a meat suit crumpled up on my living room floor.

Levi has left for the moment, off to pick up a nearby soul he was promised. He told me to get my affairs in order, but I really don’t have anything I need to do. I’m not sure why I was so attached to this apartment, to things, to people. Now I can see my human side for what it was, weakness. I feel so strong now, so free.

The one benefit of being half human for a hundred years is that I know how they think. I think I’ll be quite fantastic at collecting souls. Maybe I’ll even do it longer than the two hundred years I’ve promised.

As a half human this might have frightened me, but the meat suit that was Franklin is now standing behind me. Levi told me he was going to send out the word that there was a meat suit up for grabs. She said her name is Myanil, she’s very old, driven into swine and run off a cliff kind of old. I can learn so much from her, from Levi. I can’t wait to start my adventure.

I think I’ll keep this journal, log, whatever you may call it. I don’t know that a demon has ever kept records like this, maybe I’m the first.

Friday, January 19th, 2018

In-fucking-vigorating. That’s the only way to describe what it’s like to collect a soul. Getting a human to trade their soul for something stupid like money is easy, the real thrill is collecting the souls.

Earlier today I collected my first soul. She had a name, but who cares what it was. She was old, in a retirement home, in a room covered in crosses and other religious icons. She thought she could hide from us! Humans are quite arrogant.

I found her so easily, even with the wards she had protecting her room. She had traded her soul for her singing career. She wanted to be famous, and for a time, she was a household name. When I appeared before her she begged me not to take her soul. She wanted to give it all back, to undo the deal, go back and live a life without her career in exchange for keeping her soul. I just smiled and laughed. That old bitch knows that isn’t how it works.

I sat on the edge of her bed, placed my hand on her chest, and as slowly and painfully as I could manage, I took her apart. I used a knife to slowly peel away her skin. I had planned to really drag this one out, I wanted to really enjoy my first collection, to savor it. Unfortunately the old broad’s heart stopped after about ten minutes, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I had planned.

Those ten minutes were the by far the best thing I’ve ever experienced. I silenced her screams by first removing her vocal cords. Those golden cords that she wanted so badly, I have them in my pocket now. I think I’ll keep them awhile as a reminder of my first time.

Levi is breathing down my neck, it’s time to go. I think I might keep a record of my travels. I’ll be like a traveling blogger, only instead of reviewing restaurants and tourist attractions I’ll review my own collections and trades. Throw in some avocado toast and I’m a damned Millennial. I’ve decided to keep my given name, so I will be Jack, the traveling, blogging, Millennial, soul-collecting, demon. It’s ridiculous and perfect.

Next on the schedule is a single father of two. He traded his soul to spend ten more minutes with his dying wife. That was five years ago and he’s been trying to find a way out of the deal ever since. We wouldn’t usually collect until he was nearly dead, but he’s become a nuisance. I wonder what it will be like to collect from someone so young. He’s only thirty-eight, maybe he will even put up a fight. I can’t wait! I think maybe I’ll take his eyes out first, and feed them to him as he sits in the dark listening to the screams of his family. Yes, that sounds quite perfect.

To be continued…




The Day They Rose

The day we met she thought I was mean.

She was all legs at seventeen.

I was scared and afraid,

So many mistakes could be made.

Somehow I caught her,

She and I and all that we were.


Our love grew more each year,

That journey brought us here.

I stand over her empty grave,

I swear her voice calls to me, “Dave”.




The day they rose out of the sea,

was the same day they took my baby from me.

Rotting flesh and drooping eyes,

We would have run if we were wise.


The dead have no mercy,

That day they were thirsty,

For her sweet voice and melody,

Called to them out at sea.


They pulled her from my embrace,

Panic and fear flooded her face.

She had escaped death’s clutches once before,

But what happened once will happen no more.




Today I will go to our spot and sit on the sand,

In hopes that one day she returns to land.

Until that day comes I will pray every day,

When death comes for me come what may,

It takes me in its icy embrace at last,

I will finally wave goodbye to the past.


I will meet my baby in the shallows,

She will take me to her land of hallows.

We will dance together in deaths long night,

Two ghosts entwined in loves pure light.


Last Chance

I look in the mirror,

And what do I see?

A bitter old woman,

Staring back at me.

With yellow eyes,

And leathered skin,

She never found wisdom,

In her bottles of gin.

images (1)

Tonight is the night,

Her bags are all packed,

Soon to catch a flight,

Her youthful spirit intact.

Old age happens fast,

It catches you off guard.

Putting yourself last,

Has never been that hard.

But now is the time,

To right the wrongs,

To finally go where,

She really belongs.

She boards the plane,

And says a quick prayer.

She hopes that he,

Will still be there.

images (2)

She searched for her long-lost love,

But found his headstone instead.

Engraved on the front,

“I once was alive,

But now I am dead.”


He always had a charming wit,

The sweet memory of him,

Makes her sick.

With liver failing,

She will soon join him.

And with death’s final shove,

If it isn’t too grim,

Maybe she can find her true love,

And spend eternity with him.


Happy New Year

As far as I’m concerned, 2017 can go fuck itself. Matter-of-fact, so can 2016, 2015, and really every other year going back to 1987. You see, my life has been nothing but a series of bad years.

While the world was transfixed by Glenn Close boiling a rabbit, and Regan demanding that the Germans, “Tear down this wall!”, my mother fell pregnant with the waste of space that is me. While the world learned that “no one puts baby in a corner”, my mother learned the hard way the true cost of child-bearing. Her life blinked out of existence as mine blinked in, which was not a fair trade in the slightest.

My father couldn’t handle the darkness that followed her death. I imagine he looked at me with disgust and hatred. He should have just drowned me when he had the chance. He was a grieving widower, he could have made it look like an accident, no one would’ve suspected he choked the life out of me with his bare hands. Had they understood what a complete waste of space I would be, they probably would’ve given him award for getting rid of me.

Instead my father became an alcoholic, leaving me in the care of his sister and brother-in-law. This is where therapists have told me that at least I was still with family. They say horrible things can happen to children that go into the foster care system. The truth is, horrible things can happen to anyone that has contact with me. I’m a walking omen, a bad omen. Instead of fearing black cats who cross ones path, it should be me who is feared. If they knew how terrible I am, rooms would clear when I entered. But, alas, they don’t understand what I am, who I am, or what I bring with me.


I was born in the blood of my mother, and that is when the devil claimed me. He marked me forever, making me a bulldozer of all things good and happy and pure. I grew up as a millennial, although we did not yet have the term. I always felt different from those around me. I was quiet and withdrawn. I didn’t collect Pogs and Pokemon cards like the other kids. The doctors said it was the trauma that made me so…me.

When I was four years old, my aunt tripped over my toy fire engine and fell down the stairs in our home. I remember hearing her tumble-down the stairs. I was too afraid to move. There wasn’t anyone else home, and when everything was silent, when I didn’t hear her getting up or yelling out in pain, I went to check. Her neck was broken, her head spun halfway around on her shoulders, I still dream of her twisted body each night.

My uncle blamed me for her death, they had told me a thousand times not to leave that damn fire engine out. He spent the rest of his days punishing me for the death of his wife. I feel I paid my penance each time he had his special playtime with me. I was only four, but I knew what he was doing was wrong, on the other hand I also knew that I had killed my mother and my aunt, and driven my father to drink. I deserved it.

The devil continued to watch over me. When it was still I could hear him whispering in my ear. He told me things I already knew, things that were my fault. On my eleventh birthday I had finally had enough special playtime for an entire lifetime. When my Uncle locked me in his room, I slipped a large kitchen knife out of my waistband. I didn’t remember putting it there, but the devil whispered in my ear and told me what to do. I was seated at the edge of the bed, my uncle standing in front of me, working his dick out of his pants. Once he pulled it out, I sank my knife into it. He screamed and retreated as blood sprayed my face and chest. I didn’t stop there. I stabbed him 42 times. I don’t remember much of it.


In the legal proceedings I was found to have acted as an abused child, as it was obvious what was happening. It turns out my uncle’s best friend and his wife knew what he had been doing to me all of those years. They didn’t think it was their business until he was dead. It’s because of them I ended up in a psych ward for kiddos. When I got older I found out that they had only lived another month before leaving this world via murder-suicide. My Uncle’s best friend slaughtered his wife and child before disemboweling himself in their living room.

I spent the next seven years of my life surrounded by other children who were also damaged. No matter how much medicine they gave me, how many therapists and psychologists I talked to, the devil was still there, whispering in my ear. He’s the one that told me I should have my way with the catatonic girl in room 301. “She’s not even there”, he said. “She won’t even know it’s happening, not like you always knew exactly what was happening.” I don’t know whether he was right or not, but I fucked that comatose girl for 5 years. Eventually she died, they said it was as if that last flame of hope had flickered out.

I killed time in the nut house by reading and sometimes by making friends with the staff. There was a nice woman, her name was Tanya. She truly thought I was a victim, that I did what I thought I had to do to my Uncle. She didn’t see a single shred of evil in my eyes. I think she was under the impression if she was a positive person in my life, that maybe she was helping me. I liked talking to her. As time went on she would tell me more and more about her life. One night she shared with me that her husband had left her. That night we sat together while she cried and I whispered in her ear, just as the devil whispers in mine. The next morning they found her hanging from the ceiling fan in her office.


When I turned eighteen they kicked me out on my own. It’s been a bit of a struggle, but the devil has always been with me, whispering wisdom and guidance in my ear. In my time as an adult I’ve tried to make a few friends. My first friend worked at McDonald’s with me, he ended up face first in the fryer after a long chat we had one night. The second friend was a homeless man who slept nearby the shelter I stayed in. He told me stories of his life before the street, of his time overseas fighting in some pointless war. He told me of his family, his children, his wife, and of the PTSD that kept them all away from him. The devil whispered wise words in my ear, and I whispered them in my friend’s ear. Later that night he simply stood up, and stepped in front of a bus.

When people get close to me, they tend to have accidents, so I stopped trying.

Just when I thought I was destined to live my life only in the company of my whispering devil, along came Michelle. We met when we were both hired to do seasonal work at Macy’s. When we met she was all love, light, and laughter. She understood me and didn’t mind the devil that I carried with me. I don’t think I’m actually capable of loving someone, but I felt as strongly for her as I am able. I even moved out of the shelter and into her apartment. She would cook for me and sing songs as she busied herself around the house. When I was with her the devil was quiet, I could drown out the whispers.

I told her I was a virgin, since I had never had sex with a willing participant, I thought it was an accurate description. She was kind and gentle in leading me into what seemed like a normal life. For the very first time in my life, I had a home, a partner, and as always, I still had the devil.

Michelle made it the longest. She was a trooper. I lived with her for about two years. Her downfall was listening to me talk in my sleep. I had tried not to repeat the devils whispers to her, as I was always afraid she would leave me all alone in the world, just as all the others had done. She told me about a week ago that I had started talking in my sleep. She said I told strange stories and sometimes spoke in what sounded like another language. I told her not to listen, to wear ear plugs, leave the room, wake me up, whatever she needed to do. Just do not listen to what I whisper.

She didn’t listen to my warning, she only listened when I slept. She didn’t see the monster in me. This morning I woke up and she wasn’t in bed with me. I found her on the couch, sitting upright, her head leaned back and resting on the back of the couch. Her eyes were empty, the pupils rolled back her head. Her skin was cold and beginning to stiffen. There was a bloody steak knife in her left hand, and carved into her right forearm were the words “he speaks”. She wore white shorts, now blood-soaked, from carving the name of each of my victims into her legs. They were all victims simply because they knew me. There were twelve names in all, some of which I didn’t know were my victims. It seems I left a putrid cloud of misery and death everywhere I went.

I sat next to her on the couch, tracing each of the names with my index finger. My father was among those names, he had managed to drink himself to death before my eighteenth birthday. Carved into her lifeless body, was my body of work. Each death of people who were once good and pure, until they knew me. The mark the devil left on me is contagious. Its flames spread to everyone I meet. I tried to hold it back with Michelle, but it doesn’t matter, the devil finds a way.

Here I sit, it’s been twelve hours since I discovered her body. I’m holding her hand, but it’s cold, and not comforting as it had once been. Earlier I gathered the shotgun she keeps at the back of her closet. I never thought I would go out this way, but it’s become apparent to me that I am the poison in this world. The devil knows my intentions and he is angry. His whispers turn to screams bouncing off the walls of my skull.


It’s New Years Eve, the time is 11:58 pm. We were supposed to go to a party. I guess Michelle and I will have a two person party, well, three including my passenger. I have the gun ready to go, butt resting on the carpet, muzzle in my mouth, left finger on the trigger, right hand holding Michelle’s left. The lights are off, but the t.v. is on. This year’s ball drop is going to rid the world of me and my whispers. Thirty years is more than long enough for me to plague this earth. I don’t know where I’ll go when I die. I assume I will be sent straight to the devil himself, but as I sit here with the business end of the shotgun in my mouth, I think maybe it’s not the devils whispers that I hear, but my own conscience.

The countdown is beginning, 10…9…8… an uncontrollable laughter rises up from my belly, 7…6…5…, drool runs down the barrel of the gun, 4…3… I finally understand that it’s me, I am the devil, 2… and I’m not dying, I’m just going home, 1.