Jeramie M
I'm looking for a few good halloween scary stories that will give adults (age ranges 25 through 35) the willies. Any websites will be apprieciated. The more twisted the better, nothing is taboo, and this group is impossible to offend, so give me the goriest and/or twisted stroies you have found on the net, videos, blogs, etc all welcome!
umm sadly single, I'm not trying to have people believe them, there just scary stories not reality, you know for halloween fun, no one is taking these as facts.
Answer
love this is a very long one to read you mite want to print it out in read it :)las08
By myself, with my thoughts, still alone. Almost.
Lightning split the night sky without a sound, illuminating the skeletal trees outside. The old Victorian house shook to its very foundations once the peal of thunder rumbled hatefully across the shimmering, tempestuous lake. Illuminated also were the figures at the window staring in at me. I suppose they were staring, it was hard to tell, since they never appear to have eyes.
From inside a blurry, detached tunnel vision, I saw my trembling hand reach for the nearly empty decanter of scotch on the living room table. A dribble of the amber liquid spilled onto the table, vanishing without a trace. I could smell ozone in the room, overpowering the scent of age and mildew. The atmosphere was definitely electrically charged, and it wasn't only a result of the storm.
One thing about it, you can't drink away these visions. I have tried. And tried.
Awake for going on sixty hours, hallucinations would be a given. But these apparitions are real -- too real -- individualized nightmares custom tailored just for me. I can't go to sleep because they talk to me, inside my head mostly, whispering unimaginable things about loss, suffering and death. And they touch me with icy, whispery fingers -- not physically exactly -- it's much worse, from the inside out. They want me to suffer a long, slow demise. Not that they did. Lucky? I suppose not, but anything had to be better than the languid, torturous free-fall into a sleep-deprived madness exacerbated by a constantly gnawing, blinding fear.
The visitations first started in a driving rainstorm forty thousand feet above Phoenix, as I was preparing for final descent. I turned to acknowledge my co-pilot's approach vector and autopilot setting to descend at 1500 feet per minute, when I observed a dull luminescence hovering outside the starboard side cabin window, an impossibility at just under 550 knots. Slowly, the moon-shape became more distinct, and yet it was hard to envision fully, as if it had been glimpsed out of the corner of one's eye. But I knew (in my thundering, rampaging heart, perhaps?) that it was the beatific face of a young girl, the streaming rain on the window giving her the appearance of weeping, even though there was absolute blackness where the eyes should have been.
"Ross . . . ?" my co-pilot spoke urgently.
The girl's face was mouthing words, words I could not hear, but instead feel. She was calling for her mother, in a soul-wrenching, desperate ' voice' that was emoted to me, at once searing my soul, and sending icy shards stabbing up my spine. Horribly, she reminded me of my own daughter, in the custody of her mother after a long and bitter divorce.
The apparition vanished without preamble, and hands shaking, I quickly rejoined the busy routine of preparing a Boeing 747-400 for landing, just before final approach. I couldn't tell my co-pilot about what I had seen -- what I thought I had seen . . . I would surely be grounded.
The landing at Phoenix International went without further incident, in spite of the unusual rain storm seemingly isolated in a small area around the airport. Once the wheels touched the runway, the rain seemed to vanish altogether. I initially dismissed the occurrence in the cabin as the aftermath of a bad burrito dinner, but found I could not shake off the overpowering feeling of depression and loss imparted to me by the little girl.
I was grounded after that, however, not due to the incident over Phoenix, but because of the ongoing investigation into a "near miss" event one month before.
The supernatural sightings increased in frequency after that, as did my further decline into depression, paranoia and insomnia. It was nearly always the same, the obscured little girl just outside a window -- any window -- beseechingly crying for her mother's comfort, or perhaps begging to get in. Finally, I attempted an escape to my late father's old Victorian on Lake Pontchartrain in Louisiana.
In time, a very short time, she began making her appearances outside the windows at night. No matter if I shuttered them tightly, the vague iridescent figure beckoning to gain entry appeared askance, finally turning to face me, ripping out my heart and freezing my soul with her palpable sadness and longing. Worse still, she was slowly being joined by others; eventually, I counted eighteen distinct personalities, male and female, assorted ages. I could hear murmurs, whispers, grousing, (all in my head, I think) questioning, cajoling, and condemning. A conflicting whirlwind of strong emotions hammered my psyche, seeding the poisonous germ of guilt --about what, I was not sure. Despite a state of paranoia-fed fear and near constant panic, I found I could not muster the courage to leave the house.
The violent hurricane had blown in from the Gulf of Mexico, fortunately downgrad
Will someone review the rap I wrote?
j_post2129
not my favorite but it works. It's horrocore. If you don't know what horrorcore is about, don't criticize the content. Just because it's dark doesn't mean it's not rap.
Take a walk behind my eyes, on one track of time,
to the back of my mind, letâs see what I find, I run
And I hide from my darkest of sides, itâs beside me
How violently the gears are grinding deep inside. I
Writhe and cry as the cyanide through my veins keeps
The nightmares alive. Theyâre right there inside, they
Connive the knives into the sides of my mind. The temples
Of time, I climb to the top, then fall in the slime. Waiting
In the line of fire to step on a mine, an explosion of rhyme.
It must be a crime, to be so sick in the mind, take some meds,
Youâll turn out just fine. On the highway to heaven I forgot
How to drive, swerved off the path, how screwed up am I?
Rewindin back through my brain, the storyâs the same, brought
A sword on a chain, my sanityâs slain. No dragon to tame, just
These horrors that keep screamin my name. âNevermoreâ from
The raven, he sits on the frame of my brain where he plays his
games. The doctors of plagues Injects a syringe of deception into
my reflection, I step in to a life of rejection. No question, Iâve
Answered to the cause of this mess, I need a second to rest cause
I canât catch a breath so instead, ill take a sector of weapons to
Fend off the vectors bringin questionable gestures. My cortex is more
Or less Infected and restless, restin inside a mental obsession thatâs
Reckless and hectic. I need a section of heaven to keep me from
Getting upset when I get breathless, air taken outta my chest by
The illness Iâm blessed with. A definite mess when it sets in.
And with this sickness, comes cold stillness. I numb myself so I cant
Feel this screwed in my temple, nailed in my mental
State of mind when I pick up a pencil, hammerin bars
With a flow from no stencils, draw my own picture which can
get kind of wicked, twisted into a frenzy of
Sentences with sentiments filled with torturous
Instruments, forget this, I canât remember the last time
My heart was warmer than December, coldness
Swarmin my innards, makin me shiver from my chest
To my liver. Iâm chillin with lizards and worms that wanna
Have me for dinner. Dead bodies around me, the victims of
Killers. Built up pain, Iâm takin in pills, filled with images
Of getting me killed.
Answer
This is horrorcore?? Its good 8/10.
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