Monsterbloodbath - Monster Blood Bath

Terror

Disclaimer: This story is completely fictional. It's a semi-horror story but doesn't contain any violent or graphic content. I was inspired by a Let's Player who played a horror game where someone was buried alive.

Terror: extreme fear.

His eyes open, and all he sees is black. A horrible headache is gradually becoming noticeable. He asks himself, "Where am I?" right away. The air is thick, and his surroundings are damp. He moves his hands carefully in an attempt to sense his surroundings. Immediately he realizes how narrow the space he’s in is.

His fingertips touch a wall, the contact sending a shiver down his spine. It was a strange sensation. He presses his palm flat against the surface. “Wood… that feels like wood,” he thinks. Just where exactly is he right now?

He tries to remember what happened before he woke up in this strange place…

He was in the city in the late evening, had just grabbed a coffee from Starbucks, and was heading to the park. When he went into the park, he noticed it was strangely empty. He lives in a big city, so even around 9 the park was very crowded with various people. He went to sit on a bench near the center, but then he noticed something strange. There were eyes in the bushes. He wanted to stand up and leave as he got a bad feeling about this, but suddenly he heard a loud thud behind him, and then everything was black. That’s the last thing he could remember. 

He shifts and moves again, trying to turn, but to no avail. Eventually he recognizes the shape of the space he’s in. It resembles a casket. A casket. Immediately he tries to push open the lid, but something very heavy is covering it.

As realization dawns on him, he starts to panic. Is he really underground right now? This has to be a bad dream. How did he even get here? Was he falsely declared dead? What happened after that loud thud?

Suddenly he starts screaming. He screams his lungs out, calling for help. Minutes pass, and eventually his voice is hoarse. No one heard him; he’s 1.8 meters underground. There’s no way anyone could hear him when he’s buried that deeply. 

Everything feels so surreal. Of course he heard of the scenario of being buried alive, but that was in movies, video games, or history books informing about stories like that centuries ago. He read about how there used to be bells attached to coffins because the people back then often mistook the living for the dead, and a falsely buried person could just ring the bell to signal they’re alive.

When he first read about this, he thought it was stupid and unnecessary, but oh, how he wished for one of those safety coffins with bells right now. He could just pull a string and ring a bell, and someone would get him out of here, but no. He’s completely sealed with no hopes of being dug out. He’s stuck and will either die of oxygen shortage, starvation, or dehydration.

Mentally he has already given up. There was nothing he could do. As he lies there, he notices he’s lying on something uncomfortable. The realization that he’s wearing the exact same clothes he wore before waking up dawns on him. As he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, he realizes what he’s lying on. A lighter. Whoever buried him didn’t empty his pockets. 

Something feels strange about it. Why would he be buried with all that stuff? He reaches into his jacket and sees that he even still has his cigarettes. Then he reaches into the other pocket he has on his jacket. Jackpot! His phone. Maybe he could call for help? Text someone to tell them where he is right now?

He hurries and unlocks his phone. With incredible speed he opens his calls and clicks on the first contact that shows up - in this case, his mother. He looks at his phone screen, watching as the phone tries to call his mother. It drives him crazy to see the word “connect…” repeat over and over again, just for the phone to automatically hang up after 30 seconds because it didn’t find a connection. He should’ve expected that. There’s no way he can reach anyone on the surface like this. 

Right now, however, he was desperate, and while his rational mind was telling him it wouldn’t work, he still tried to text everyone he possibly could. Even if he expected it, it was still disappointing to see that an error occurred on every single message.

With nothing else left to do, he turns on the flashlight of his phone to inspect the casket he’s lying inside. It’s nothing special, just dark wood. But then he sees something. On his left side something small was carved into the wood.

“Keep Still” 

How strange… But beneath that, something else is written. 

“Not Alone”

A shiver runs down his spine. Is this some kind of joke? A mistake? Someone carved that into a casket, and that someone knew that the person that’ll be inside this casket will be alive. Nothing makes sense. Not alone? He’s not alone? And why should he keep still? Is this other person not allowed to hear him?

Everything about this feels like a dream—no, it feels like a terrible nightmare. A terrible nightmare he’ll hopefully wake up from now. He pinches himself, but he’s still in the casket. 

Hours pass of this terrible silence where he can only hear his heartbeat and own breathing. But that tiring silence eventually gets interrupted by shifting. He can hear shifting around his casket. Like something is digging around him. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to focus on the noise. Is it a mole? But as the noise comes closer, he realizes it’s way too big to just be a mole. 

The closer it comes, the bigger it sounds. He can also hear its breathing. For some reason it sounds hungry. Very hungry. Scarily hungry. He starts to get nervous. Is that what “Not Alone” meant? Is that the thing that disrupts his solitude in this narrow and thick-aired grave? 

His thoughts are interrupted by something bumping against the casket. The next thing he can hear is intense sniffing. He starts holding his breath and stops moving completely. Whatever that thing is, he knew it definitely isn’t friendly.

The louder the sniffing gets, the more scared he gets. From nervousness to fear. From fear to terror. Terror.

He’s terrified. Terrified of whatever this hungry beast was that’s breathing so harshly and sniffing the casket. He can hear it digging around him, the force of its body causing his surroundings to vibrate. Suddenly it stops moving.

Is it… listening? 

He’s been quiet this entire time, so the risk of it hearing the poor man was low, but he’s still so utterly terrified. What if his heartbeat is too loud? He can’t hold his breath for much longer; he’ll have to take a breath soon.

At this point he’s practically shaking. He tries so hard to hold still, but it wasn’t possible. The terror he felt just got so much more intense. What if his shaking is going to make the creature know about his presence? 

The next few seconds felt like torture, but to his luck, the creature dug itself away from him. As it’s far enough away, he takes a deep breath and starts panting a little. It’s gone… whatever that was is now gone. 

There was still only one problem present - he’s still buried underground. As he tries to think of a solution to distract himself from whatever that thing was, he can suddenly hear digging again, but not from around him. It’s from above. It also sounds different - like three main motions repeating themselves over and over. Something being stuck into the earth, a part of the earth being lifted up, and then the sound of it being thrown away and landing on the surface.

This is the sound of humans digging. With a shovel. Someone was digging him out. Finally, he can get out of here! Soon he can feel the casket being lifted up and placed somewhere. He was smiling. It’s over now! This nightmare of being buried alive is over!

The casket door is being opened, and immediately he sits up and tries to get out, but something stops him. The people around him, the ones that dug him out, look surprised, shocked, and one even disappointed. His smile immediately falters as one of them opens their mouth to speak.

“You survived it?”

I Think Someone’s Watching Me Through the TV Reflection

I don’t know if anyone will believe me, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. I need to get this out somewhere.

I live alone in a small apartment. Nothing fancy—tiny kitchen, creaky floors, TV across from the couch, the usual. I’ve always liked having the TV on in the background. Static noise helps with the silence. Until last week.

It started with the reflection.

I was watching something late at night, the room mostly dark except for the flickering screen. I paused the episode to grab a snack. As I stood up, I saw it in the TV’s black screen—a shape. Behind me. In the hallway.

I spun around. Nothing. Just my coat hanging off a chair. I laughed it off. I really did.

But then the texts started.

Unknown Number:

do you always watch alone?

I blocked it. Of course I blocked it. But new numbers kept texting. Different ones. Always a little too specific.

Unknown Number:

the reflection likes you. you shouldn’t turn off the screen tonight.

I started unplugging the TV at night. But then the whispers began.

It’s not like they’re in the apartment. It’s like they’re in the silence. Behind the white noise. I turn off the fridge and they get louder. I leave the TV unplugged and the air feels heavier.

Last night, I gave in. I plugged the TV back in, just to see if it would stop.

And the screen was already on.

Static.

Except, it’s not random static. There’s a face in it. Barely visible, like it’s pressing against the glass from the other side. I swear it moved when I looked closer.

I’m not sleeping anymore.

If this is some prank, I don’t care. If this is real—I don’t know what it wants.

But if I go missing, check the reflection.

So Cute You Could Die

I’ve never been a fan of babies. Actually, that’s putting it lightly.

But there’s few social taboos as huge as telling a parent that their newborn is anything less than beautiful. And, well, I find it hard not to be brutally honest when all babies resemble potatoes to me.

So when my social butterfly coworker Geraldine returned from maternity leave and started showing everyone a picture of her baby, I made sure to steer clear. Still, each water cooler break, my fellow employees’ transfixed reactions to her kid grew more sickly-sweet.

“Oh my gosh, you must be so proud” gushed sales rep Fiora, gazing down at the polaroid. “She’s so cute you could die!”

“How absolutely friggin precious!” sang file clerk Donny, holding up the photo to his face. “She’s so cute it just kills me!”

“Okay, you’re making my ovaries ache” trilled receptionist Mona, looking over the snapshot. “She’s cuter than a heart attack!”

At the time, I rolled my eyes at each of these effervescent displays and turned my attention back to my work. People often speak in those sorts of ridiculous exaggerations, so I thought nothing of it. Imagine my utter shock when I heard the news the following day.

Fiora, Donny and Mona had all been found dead in the parking garage, having seemingly suffered heart attacks the previous night.

It was an absolutely insane coincidence. All of them had looked at that baby photo of Geraldine’s and all had died in the same way, on the same day. I could draw no other conclusion: the picture of baby Brooklyn was cursed.

Sitting at my desk, barely concentrating, my mind jumped from possibility to possibility. Could her baby itself be some eldritch demon, killing people to hide its identity? Or was it harvesting their life source through the photo, to sustain itself?

My curiosity was simply too great to resist. I decided to finally glimpse this fatal frame for myself.

“Sure, I’ll look at your baby, Geraldine” I agreed as she thrust the picture out to me, too. Tentatively, I glanced down to see…

…a perfectly normal baby girl, sleeping in a cot. I felt fine. Nothing to indicate being cursed at all.

“Congratulations, Geraldine,” I replied, relieved. “She seems like a great daughter.”

Hours later as I’m leaving the office, I still can’t help but feel silly for believing there was ever a curse.

Suddenly, midway through unlocking my car, I feel a sharp prick in the side of my neck. I spin around in enough time to see Geraldine pulling a syringe out of me. Her eyes are incensed, her teeth gritted in maternal rage.

“What the hell!” I cry out as heart attack-inducing toxins surge through my body. Geraldine merely wags her finger.

“That’s the last time one of you idiots mistakes my baby son for a girl!”

For a super unique twist on the haunted house trope, I’d recommend this short read, Haunt Sweet Home, by Sarah Pinsker. It’s specifically about a woman working for a reality TV show, whose goal is to make a house seem haunted for new buyers.

My take on 2 sentence horror:

I was spending some quality time with my loving wife and kids.

Lamp.

this is an edit I made back in 2015, which I can’t believe was 10 years ago.

The second half of the second sentence really slaps ya in the face

He went to open his drawer shortly after waking up at 3 AM. When he opened it, however, there was a huge, menacing tarantula that jumped out at him. As he went to bed, terrified, he forgot that his closet was open, the skeleton of the 34 year old man he killed in 1999 was seemingly invisible in the cover of the dangling clothes. It seemed as if it were always looking at him, menacingly, he felt shivers go up his spine when he saw the fear in the man’s eyes flash before his as he was recounting that night in November 1999.

Now Available!

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meat4meat by wolfpaper

Transgender and Disabled Body Horror Anthology

meat4meat is a body horror anthology featuring a foreword by @cryptotheism, stories from eighteen disabled and/or transgender authors including Claudine Griggs (as featured in Netflix's Love Death Robots), @masonhawthorne, @horrorsong, @jayahult, and many more, illustrated by several other trans and/or disabled artists including @magistelle, @himecommunism, @receptor-modulator, and more!

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It’s giving horror story dad joke edition

Poor Comatose Souls

There are hospitals where people can hear the thoughts of coma patients.

When this technology was first invented, it came with caveats.

The first was that the machine only worked on a random handful of coma patients. This angered many heartbroken family members who’d excitedly waited for the technology.

The second was that the mind-scanning devices were not powered by electricity, but some proprietary secret.

Despite its exclusive, mysterious nature, this new technology yielded incredible results. Entire thoughts of a select few comatose were broadcast to their loved ones. Nostalgic memories, song lyrics and philosophical ruminations were streamed right from their brains into speakers, bringing closure to loved ones.

As an orderly at one of the few hospitals using this tech, I grew curious. Dr Wincott, the neuroscientist in charge of the comaprojection unit, was tightlipped and we were under strict orders never to pry for more info. If patients were a viable candidate for comaprojection, we’d project their thoughts.

But what about the rejected candidates? What would happen if the scanner was used on this majority? Surely it couldn’t worsen their situation if they’re already in a long-term coma?

One day my curiosity got the better of me. While doing my rounds, I snuck into the coma ward. I entered the room of one of the rejected coma patients, Mrs Flowers, a middle-aged woman in a coma for 3 years after being struck by a cyclist. Despite her long stay, she looked peaceful.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I heard from the speakers when I turned the mind-scanner on.

Howling, agonized, unrelenting screams. Minutes upon minutes of screaming. The sound was so guttural I nearly collapsed as Mrs Flowers’ comatose cries reverberated around the room.

By the time I switched it off, Dr Wincott had already been summoned by the cacophony.

“What the hell?!” I sputtered to him in the doorway. “Those were her screams! She’s conscious and suffering!”.

I pointed to her motionless in bed.

“That’s why it’s better not to use the device on most” Dr Wincott answered emotionlessly. “Some people are peaceful in comas. Their families pay top dollar to hear their thoughts. But most long-term patients are like Mrs Flowers.”

“Then why not pull the plug?! Raise the alarm about what they’re experiencing?!”

Dr Wincott just cackled, motioning to the scanner.

“What do you think is powering the tech in the first place? It’s those screams.”

I’d learned too much. As I tried to flee the building, I felt the sharp push of Dr Wincotts hands against my back. I tumbled down that flight of stairs…and straight into the coma I’m in now.

Within my comatose mind, I repeat this story to myself again and again on loop. Hoping someone uses the device on me and learns the truth. If you’re hearing this, please blow the whistle on Dr Wincott and comaprojection.

If you’re not, then it won’t be long until I’m screaming too.