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An Old Man’s Last Secret

by cnkguy
An Old Man’s Last Secret

An Old Man's Last SecretReading Time: 4 minutes

My grandfather is 95 years old and doesn’t have long left in this world. There’s nothing but a mess of tubes and wires to tether him here with us. It’s difficult for him to speak, but each rasping whisper carries a severe weight that cannot be interrupted. My family doesn’t talk about things like death though, so whenever I visit with my dad, we tend to spend most of the time sitting in near-silence.

“What a news week, huh?” my dad might say.

“Mmmm,” Grandfather will grunt. “Crazy world.”

Then silence again. Small talk seems almost disrespectful to the gravity of the situation, but no-one wants to be the first to broach the irrevocable goodbye. When the silence gets too loud, my dad will start to fidget with his phone or pull out a book until one of us makes an excuse to leave. That’s how it went yesterday, with my father mumbling something about a dentist appointment and hurrying out the door almost as soon as we arrived.

“You’ll stay though, won’t you?” my grandfather asked when we were alone in the room together. “You’ll listen to an old man’s last secret?”

This was it then. The end of the road was in sight. “Would you like me to call Dad back?” I asked.

Grandfather shook his head as far as the oxygen tubes would allow it to turn. “I’d rather he didn’t know.”

I already knew some of the story he told me. It began when my grandfather was 20 years old living in Nazi Germany. He’d been working forced labor on a farm, but managed to smuggle my grandmother and infant father out of the country, hidden in a grain shipment. He’d been caught almost immediately and sent to the concentration camp at Buchenwald where he endured the next two years until he was liberated by allied forces.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened there if you don’t want to,” I told him. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the gruesome details. He was unusually animated and persistent though, promising it was something that needed to be said.

He wouldn’t have survived the ordeal if it hadn’t been for a friend he’d met there. One of the Nazi officers, a Rottenführer squad leader, had taken a special interest in him because of their striking similarity in age and appearance. The two would sit on either side of a barbed wire fence and swap stories about their childhoods. My grandfather would talk about my grandmother, how beautiful she was and how he wouldn’t give up until he found her again.

The SS officer had gone straight from the Hitlerjugend (Hitler youth group) to the army and had never been intimate with a woman. He became enraptured in my grandfather’s tales of romance, and the two became close friends despite the circumstances. The officer twice spared my grandfather’s name from work assignments that meant certain death, and he’d often slip extra rations through the fence, which my grandfather would then distribute to other prisoners.

“It wasn’t a good life, but it was life,” Grandfather said.

Things changed as the war began drawing to a close. The Nazi officers became increasingly paranoid and desperate as the allied forces moved in. It became common practice for lower ranking officers to be held as scapegoats when impossible work orders were not met. Besides that, the rumor that the Rottenführer was protecting my grandfather put him in a dire position with his own officers.

Faced between protecting my grandfather and his own hide, the Rottenführer signed the order for my grandfather to be sent to a nearby armaments factory. Eighteen hour work days, starvation rations, no medical attention — the factory might as well have been a death sentence. The three month survival rate was less than 50%.

In the name of love, my grandfather pleaded to let him survive to find her again. She was waiting for him in America. The Rottenführer was moved, but his decision was final. His only compromise was to record the address of where she went and send her a letter to let her know what happened to him.

“So how did you survive?” I asked. “Did he change his mind? Were you rescued from the factory?”

“Shielded from the worst of the camp by the Rottenführer, the transition to the factory proved too difficult for the young farmer. He didn’t last the first week.”

“What do you mean, ‘didn’t last’? How’d you get out?”

The exertion of the long story was taking its toll on my grandfather. He coughed and wheezed, struggling to draw breath for several seconds before clearing his throat a final time.

“On April 11th, 1945, the Buchenwald camp was liberated. Many of the Nazi’s had already abandoned their position and fled into the country. Others decided to lock themselves inside, pretending to be prisoners themselves so the allied forces would have mercy on them. This was especially convincing for those who had taken the time to get to know the prisoners and could assume their identities. When the SS officer gave the information and address of his lost love, he was allowed to board the next transport ship returning to America to be reunited with her.”

The gears in my head were turning. Turning. And then stopped.

“Your grandmother was suspicious at first when I met her, but she accepted that the war had changed me. Besides, I knew so many stories about her that she couldn’t deny our shared history. I raised his boy as my own, and lived the life he dreamed of every night until his death. Do you think your real grandfather would forgive me if he knew?”

I didn’t have an answer for him then, and I didn’t get another chance. He died in his sleep that night after a long and happy life that wasn’t his.

 

CREDIT: Tobias Wade

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Tales from the Gas Station (Part Three)

by cnkguy
Tales from the Gas Station (Part Three)

Tales from the Gas Station (Part Three)Reading Time: 11 minutes

*Click HERE to read Part 1 / Click HERE to read Part 2*

There are times when this world drifts so close to the fabric of reality that I can hear something calling me from beyond that veil. Sometimes when I get too close, I can feel that thing on the other side tugging at the corners of my mind.

I’m worried about Carlos. He doesn’t seem to be taking this so well.

___

When I returned to work after my post yesterday, I was delighted to find a stack of receipt papers sitting neatly on the register counter with notes written in my own shaky hand-writing. I don’t remember writing all of these notes, but then again, I don’t remember a lot of things. It is possible that I’m working too hard. Or maybe the fumes coming from beneath the gas station are playing tricks on me. Or perhaps it’s just another side effect of my condition. At any rate, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or any other animal in any other orifice, for that matter.

Admittedly, my handwriting isn’t the best. And at times, the scratches on the receipt paper become nearly illegible. So if anything herein seems unbelievable, it’s probably because I copied it wrong. With that in mind, this is my best effort at a transcription:


7:00 – It’s getting dark earlier these days.

7:30 – Farmer Junior came into the gas station tonight, asking about the hand plants. I told him that they weren’t there anymore. He left his phone number scribbled on the back of a coupon for fifteen-percent off bulk pig feed from an online retailer. I think he’s trying to send me a message.

9:00 – I think maybe some kids are playing a prank on me. I found a lawn gnome behind the pork rinds. I didn’t think much about it, and put him in a box behind the counter. But then I found another matching lawn gnome in the soda case. I added this one to the box as well. It wasn’t until I noticed the third and fourth lawn gnomes that I started to suspect something. I had taken out the garbage and found the gnomes perched atop the branch of a tree next to the dumpster, staring down at me like gargoyles. I used a chair and broom to knock them down, and I put them in the box with the other three. When I got back to my desk, I found a note on my chair written in red ink. It says simply, “I’m in the walls.” I don’t know who wrote it, but the paper smells like oranges and plumeria.

10:00 – There is a strange scratching noise coming from the tiles above the cash register. I fear Rocco and his brood may have infiltrated the building again.

11:00 – Farmer Junior called the store. He asked about the hand plants. I assured him that they weren’t there anymore and if they ever showed up again, I would call him. I think he’s beginning to suspect that I’m lying.

12:00 – One of the cultist recruits wandered in from the community in the woods. (They hate it when I call them cultists.) I know the recruits aren’t supposed to interact with the outside world, but from time to time they will sneak into town, never any further than this gas station, and buy cigarettes. They aren’t supposed to try and recruit new members until they graduate to the honorable senior cultist status, but this one isn’t a very good cultist. I know they aren’t supposed to have names, but I’m going to call this one Marlboro. I’ll let you guess why.

Marlboro stayed in the store for at least half an hour, trying to convince me to go back to the compound with him. (They hate it when I call their home a compound.) He tried to appeal to my logical side, but I let him know politely but firmly that I was not interested in logic. I can’t remember when he left.

2:00 – I found myself digging again. Sometimes, on slow nights, I let myself drift. My mind goes somewhere and when I come to, I wonder: where was I just now? Who was that controlling my body while I was gone?

My body did those things I’ve done so many times before that I guess it’s learned how to do them without me. My body restocked the cigarettes, my body rotated the frozen drink machine, my body scraped the mold off the bottoms of the ice buckets, my body emptied the rat traps, and somewhere along the way, my body found a shovel, went out back, and started digging a hole.

Actually, I shouldn’t say my body “started” digging. I have been, or rather “my body” has been digging this hole, off and on for the last few months. Usually, I come to after a few shovel-fulls. This time, I added another foot deep before I snapped out of it and asked myself, “what the hell am I doing?”

3:30 – I just noticed a door at the end of the hallway past the walk-in cooler. How long have I worked here and never noticed that door before? It seems disappointingly ordinary as far as doors go, except for the fact that it’s warm to the touch and feels like it’s vibrating. I tried the handle, but it’s locked.

When I got back to my register, I noticed a man in a trench coat standing outside beyond the gas pumps, just outside the reach of our lights, dangerously close to the road. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, or if he’s looking past the building at the woods on the other side. I wish he wouldn’t stand there like that, stoic and still, with his arms reaching down past his knees.

The scratching against the tiles in the ceiling over the counter is getting louder.

3:45 – A man came into the store, rolling a large white ice chest behind him. He had sunken blue eyes, wiry hair coming from his nose and ears, long boney fingers, and paper-thin skin revealing every blue and green vein beneath the translucent dermis. He wore a bowler cap and smelled like milk. I had definitely never seen him around before. He asked if we would be interested in partnering up with him. He sold ground meat at discount prices, but I told him that our store doesn’t do well with the “fresh foods” category, recommending he try his hand at making jerky. Before he left, he scooped about a pound or so of raw ground meat from the ice chest onto a piece of parchment paper and gave it to me as a “sample.” Once he had left, I took the meat into the cooler, where I found another lawn gnome waiting for me. I put the gnome into the box with the other seven.

4:00 – Carlos just told me something very strange about Kieffer.

4:30 – There was a kid named Spencer Middleton who went to the same high school as me and Kieffer. Spencer was just a year ahead of me, but looked much older and acted much younger. I live in a small town, and small towns get bored. For entertainment, some turn to gossip, some turn to more sinister pass times. The latter often fueled the former. There were rumors around town that Spencer liked to torture and kill animals. Rumors that Spencer’s parents and siblings always locked their bedroom doors when they went to sleep at night. The rumors didn’t slow down any after the fire at Spencer’s house, where Spencer was the only one to escape unscathed.

I once saw Spencer gleefully stomp on a lizard, throw his head back, and laugh.

Some short time after his house caught fire for the second time, Spencer left town. The story went that he had gone off and joined the army. I didn’t know what to think about that, so I simply didn’t think about that. I would have been perfectly happy to never think about that, but after all these years I’m forced to. Because Spencer Middleton just came into the store and bought a cup of coffee. He’s sitting in one of the booths, talking to Kieffer.

Marlboro, is back. He asked if I could spare him some time to talk about his fake religion. (They hate it when I call it a fake religion.) I told him he had to leave. He seemed upset.

4:45 – Spencer and Kieffer sat around for a while and didn’t buy anything but two cups of coffee. When they finally left, I let Carlos know. He had been hiding under a blanket in the walk-in cooler, although I can’t really understand why.

Carlos explained to me exactly what happened. He finished his shift a couple nights ago and had just left the gas station when he saw Kieffer’s SUV pulled over in a ditch at the bottom of the hill. Carlos, being the good guy he is, decided to check and see if Kieffer needed any help. He says that when he pulled up and got out of the car, he could hear what sounded like a loud crunching noise coming from just beyond the tree line.

Carlos went to investigate. That’s when he saw something. When I asked Carlos what he saw, he just started speaking Spanish in a fast, panicked sort of way. I don’t speak Spanish, but I nodded along empathetically. The only word I could pick up was “Strega,” which is the name of a liquor we carry.

Whatever it was that Carlos saw, it made him race back to his car as fast as he could and back out quickly, without looking. And that’s when he ran over Kieffer.

Carlos is a good guy. But here he was in a bad situation. He stopped long enough to get out, check on Kieffer, and confirm that he was definitely dead. There was nothing he could do that would change that fact. It was an accident. Carlos was on parole. There was that thing in the woods, and Carlos had to make a decision. So, he heaved the body into the trunk of his car and drove off.

Carlos took me to his car and showed me the body. I can confirm, one hundred percent, that it was Kieffer in the trunk of his car. Not just because of his unmistakable face, but also because of his phone and wallet that were in his pockets.

5:00 – I finally got tired of the scratching and pulled our ladder out of storage to see what the racoons were doing in the ceiling, but when I pushed back the tile, the only thing up there was another gnome. That makes one dozen so far.

6:00 – The man in the trench coat is still outside.

The cultist came back in, demanding an audience with me, insisting that if I would just listen to him I would see that his reasoning is superb and flawless, and that I would be a fool not to join him in the perfection of logic and nirvana that is his belief structure.

I agreed to listen to his pitch if he would agree to ask the man in the trench coat to leave. Our hasty verbal contract in place, I steeled myself to listen. Honestly, he did make a few good points, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a viral thought experiment strong enough to convince perfectly normal people to abandon their real lives and go live in a commune in the woods past the shitty gas station on the edge of town.

They call themselves “mathmetists.” They believe that humankind exists to fulfill two moral imperatives: to decrease suffering, and to increase happiness. A successful life increases happiness more than suffering. A decent life decreases suffering more than happiness. How good a person is can be determined by the spread between the happiness increased and the suffering decreased. Obviously, if the individual has a negative spread—that is, if they’ve increased happiness lessthan they’ve increased suffering, or if they’ve decreased suffering less than they’ve decreased happiness—then that means, very simply, that the individual is bad. Therefore, if an individual causes a tremendous amount of happiness and suffering, one can simply determine which was higher, and use this perfect rubric to determine whether that individual was good or bad. Simple, right?

The mathmetists believe that the world has been going about good and bad in the wrong way. For eons, we’ve been attempting to increase happiness, when instead we should have been focusing on decreasing suffering. As happiness is a fluid concept, and the more happiness you create, the harder it is to sustain, as happiness has a clear set of diminishing returns. Suffering, however, is consistent. Suffering results from happiness coming to an end. Suffering is pure, and eternal. For a mathmetist to be supremely good, they must simply end all suffering. That is why the mathmetists are working on a bomb to destroy the entire planet.

By ending all life on earth, they end an infinity of suffering into the future. With every life they avert, an entire lineage of people that would be born into a life of suffering will no longer. Every death is a preemptive mercy-killing. Every happy moment that will no longer occur pales in the face of all the sad moments that are likewise prevented.

And so, as Marlboro explained, their murder cult believes that killing is a kindness.

I told him that his ideas were stupid and he was stupid and that now he now had to go tell the man in the trench coat to go away.

6:30 – The phone rang.

This is strange for two reasons. First, because it was not the land line. It was the cell phone, even though we do not get cell phone service way out here. And second, because it was the cell phone. The one that I took off of Kieffer’s body.

I’ll admit, I was stuck in a bit of a moral quandary ever since Carlos confided in me. On the one hand, Carlos had killed someone. On the other, it was an accident and Carlos’s parole officer may not see it that way. I thought I would have more time to figure this out, but when the cell phone started ringing, I knew I had to make a decision.

I answered it.

I didn’t speak first. The voice on the other line was one I recognized.

“You have something that belongs to my boss.”

It was Spencer Middleton.

“His cell phone and his wallet,” I answered.

“What? No! We don’t care about that shit! We can buy more phones. We can get more wallets. You know what we want.”

He was right. I did.

“It was an accident,” I explained.

“We know. We want to make a deal. You give it back, and we pretend this whole thing didn’t happen.”

“Can we do that?”

“Absolutely.”

7:30 – Carlos came in for his shift half an hour ago, and I explained the deal to him. He wasn’t thrilled, but as I laid it out very clearly, he didn’t have a choice.

We parked Carlos’s Camry behind the gas station near the growth of handplants and made a point to stand far enough away to not get our ankles grabbed. Kieffer’s SUV drove up a few minutes later. Spencer was driving. He and Kieffer got out without a word, sized us up, and opened the back of their vehicle.

Carlos popped his trunk.

Kieffer and I stared at each other, keeping eye-contact the whole time while Carlos and Spencer transferred the body from one vehicle to the other. Spencer had a tarp and blanket ready to wrap everything up. When it was over, Kieffer put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “You done good.”

Then they left. Carlos started crying as I went back inside the store. It was almost day time, and that’s when the new part-timer was supposed to take over.

8:00 – The new part timer is late, and I’m overdue for a lunch break. I made the best of my extra time here by putting price stickers on all the lawn gnomes. We’re ringing them up as “miscellaneous grocery” for $9.99 each, and I’ve already sold a couple. I’m a really good employee.

8:30 – I went to the bathroom and saw a man standing there with his jeans at his ankles. He wore red and white checkered boxers and a cowboy hat. He smiled when he saw me and simply said, “Come on now. Come on with it.”

I took the opportunity to ask him something that has been burning at the back of my mind.

“Do you know, is everything going to be okay?”

The bathroom cowboy took a second to think, then he pulled up his pants, fastened his enormous belt buckle, and walked past me, spurs clinking against the bathroom tile. He stopped for a second when he was right next to me and said plainly, “I appreciate it.” Then he left.

I honestly have no idea what that means.


These are the entirety of the receipt paper notes, but I did make a point to continue keeping this journal. I think this will be a healthy way of chronicling the weird events at the gas station. Maybe this will even help with my condition, I don’t know. The next time something strange happens, maybe I’ll come back and write more. Until then, I guess this is to be continued…

Edits: Sorry, upon further inspection, I realized that some of the scribbles on the receipt paper may have been transcribed incorrectly. I also made some adjustments to the spelling and fixed some typos. While I was at it, I added another typo just for the observant reader. Lastly, upon the advice of some of my readers, I removed the part where I listed Farmer Junior’s social security number and address. Also, special thanks to the reader that pointed out that “Strega” isn’t even a Spanish word. I asked Carlos about it when he came in for his fourth shift today, but Carlos simply looked at me blankly and told me that he doesn’t speak Spanish.

CREDIT: Jack Townsend

Click HERE to pre-order Jack Townsend’s latest book, Tales from the Gas Station: Volume One, a collection of both old and new tales revolving around everyone’s favorite gas station clerk

Tales from the Gas Station: Volume One

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Next Time, I’ll Summon a Smarter Demon

by cnkguy
Next Time, I’ll Summon a Smarter Demon

Next Time I'll Summon a Smarter DemonReading Time: 3 minutes

I drew the pentagram and symbols on the hardwood floor, lit the candles, and recited the spell that was written in the ancient leather-bound book. Squaring my shoulders and setting my jaw might have made me look more confident, but I was nervous as hell. I doubt anyone would blame me. Summoning one’s first demon is more than slightly terrifying, but I needed to do it. I had tried everything else I could think of to set my crumbling life back on track, and supernatural intervention was my last resort.

Thick black smoke swirled within the circle of symbols as tortured screams filled the room. Just a few short minutes after I had spoken the last word of the spell, a giant creature stood before me.

It sniffed the air before locking it’s bulging orange eyes on me. I imagine it would have narrowed them in its expression of disgust, but it didn’t have any eyelids. It wrinkled it’s bulbous nose and brought its thick, chapped lips into a sneer around two thick fangs.

HUMAN, WHY YOU BRING ME HERE?” Its voice boomed, like it was speaking through a microphone and my ear was right next to the speaker.

“I – I – uh..” I stammered, “I want to make a deal with you.”

Its rotund belly bounced as it laughed hysterically for a moment.

I MAKE NO DEAL, DUMB HUMAN.

“What?! Why not?!” I demanded. “The book said-”

BOOK WRONG. HUMAN SOUL WORTH NOTHING, LIKE HUMAN.

“No! I did not waste all this time and money for some idiot demon to tell me it was for nothing. You’re going to help me, or I’ll-”

I was interrupted by an angry roar. The demon clenched its clawed fingers into a fist and came at me, splintering the wood beneath its enormous hooves with each step.

I don’t know if the creature didn’t see the ceiling fan because the room was dark or because it was so furious that it wasn’t paying attention, but I was given the opportunity to run when its head smashed through the wooden blades and the globe around the bulb shattered.

The abandoned house where I had performed the ritual was unfamiliar to me, and I prayed that I was running toward the exit as the demon crashed through the door of the empty room I had chosen for my venture. It slammed into the wall and raced after me, stumbling over decaying furniture left behind by the long-gone inhabitants of the dwelling.

I let out a half-victorious, half-terrified yell as I found the stairs to the first level and began my hurried descent. Just as I reached the front door near the base of the steps, I heard a deafening yelp followed by a loud crash.

The demon had tripped at the top of the stairs and tumbled down them. Once it’s massive body hit the landing at the bottom, the floor collapsed and the monster fell to the basement below.

The sudden silence intrigued me, so I cautiously walked to the giant hole in the floor and peered through it.

The creature let out a groan and gingerly sat up while rubbing its head. It looked around the rotting basement before shifting its gaze up at me. The dazed look on its face was replaced by one of embarrassment, followed by one of fury.

It got on its feet and reached for the remnants of the floor above. When it realized that it couldn’t quite reach, it jumped. You would think that such a powerful creature would have no problem leaping the 2 feet it needed, but it wasn’t even close. When it landed, one of its hooves awkwardly hit some rubble, and the beast fell on its back. It growled in frustration, sat up, and glared at me intensely. I suddenly felt freezing cold and blazing hot at the same time, and decided that was the time to get out of dodge. I ran to my car and thanked God that I picked a place in the middle of nowhere. At least no one was in imminent danger if that thing ever escapes.

At least if it decides to attack you, you’ll hear it coming from a mile away.

 

CREDIT: Christine Druga

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Beyond Vantablack

by cnkguy
Beyond Vantablack

Beyond VantablackReading Time: 9 minutes

I have a friend, Tomas, who works as a freelance artist creating booths and installations for event shows. He’s quite talented at designing interactive presentations for companies to showcase their products. The last time we got together, he told me that he had signed on to be part of “something big” that he wasn’t allowed to talk about due to an NDA. Then this past week, he included me as blind carbon copy in the following email.

As soon as I finished reading this, I gave Tomas a ring, but the call went straight to voicemail. I drove over to see him, but when I buzzed his apartment, there was no response. His truck is in the parking lot, so at this point I can’t tell if he’s just not answering or if he’s not there. I know I don’t have to wait to file a missing person report, but I’m going to give him a day to call me back and then I’m taking this to the police.


To: Charles Fetterman <cpfetterman@#########.###>
Cc:
Bcc: William Dalphin <wdalphin@#######.###>
From: Tomas Laurent <tslaurent@#####.###>
Subject: Beyond VantaBlack Project

Mr. Fetterman,

My name is Tomas Laurent. I am one of the artists recruited by Mr. Gustav Sørensen for the Beyond VantaBlack (BVB) project for your company. I won’t beat around the bush here, sir… I am scared out of my wits. When I was first approached and offered the chance to work with “the next step in Vantablack”, it was like winning the lottery. VantaBlack’s nearly 100% absorption is a fantastic achievement. I assumed that the only possible next step was perfect 100% light absorption. But when I was shown how BVB not only absorbed all light, but even some of the scattered light of the surrounding area, I was astounded. The way it strips away the defined edges of an object like it’s enveloping the thing in a black fog is breathtaking.

I’m telling you this because I assume you’ve never actually seen BVB used before. If you had, you would not have approved the production of it. The color is unnatural, sir, it does not belong in this world. When we look up at the night’s sky, we think we are seeing the pure absence of light, but we aren’t. Light reflected off the atmosphere, light from the Earth and Moon and other stars, it protects us from the true emptiness of the void. BVB is the void, Mr. Fetterman. It extends beyond the boundaries we give it, and sucks away the light from everything around it.

I am writing to you today because something has happened. I, along with two other artists, Genevieve LaVer and Piotr Edartu, were asked to come up with three unique exhibits with which to show off the “glory” of Beyond VantaBlack, which we did. My own art installation remains down in your research department, unfinished, where it shall remain as I have no intention of working further on it.

Ms. LaVer’s idea was a room, the inside of which was completely painted with BVB, save one wall, which was installed with a full-length mirror from floor to ceiling. I’ve been inside the room, and it is one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen. Imagine stepping into absolute nothingness. Every step, you’re unable to determine if your foot is going to touch solid ground or not. To make matters worse, she had the floor installed at a slant, so as you try to walk toward the center, you’re going up an incline but can’t see the angle at which it goes. There is a single, white light in the center of the ceiling, for the matter of allowing whoever is inside to at least see themselves; otherwise it would be like not existing at all, just pure blackness. Because of the unique properties of BVB though, you cannot actually see the light in the ceiling, even when staring directly at it. Once the door is sealed, the occupant is trapped inside with only their reflection. The effect is unnerving.

Yesterday, after Ms. LaVer finished her project, she shut herself inside the room, I presume to see how it looked. I was busy in my own area, working on my project. Half an hour later I heard yelling. Hurrying down the hall to her room, I saw a crowd of people surrounding the area, and I was quickly ushered away before I could see what was going on. After things quieted down, I managed to ask one of your engineers what had happened. He told me that someone had gone to check on Ms. LaVer and found the poor woman sprawled in the center of her room, bloody and crying. She had clawed out her own eyes, Mr. Fetterman. Somehow, her experience in the room drove her to take her own sight. When I asked Mr. Sørensen about it, he told me that only that Genevieve had had an accident, but that she was taken to the hospital, and she would be okay.

As I mentioned, I’ve been in the room myself, having gone in later that day. Security had cordoned the room off, but nobody was monitoring the area, so it wasn’t difficult to get inside. The effect of the room’s design, with its BVB blackened interior and slanted floor, is almost instantaneous. Within seconds, I felt nauseated, and had to resort to crawling to reach the middle of the room, all the time watching as my hands disappeared into the black fog. As I went, my need for visual stimuli forced me to keep my eyes on the mirror across the room. In it I started to see things that couldn’t possibly exist: first the air seemed to fill with swirling tendrils of color, followed by sparks of light like the flashbulb of a camera, floating, and ghostly, disembodied eyes watching me.

Worst of all though was my reflection looking back at me. I don’t know how, maybe the floor was curved toward the mirrored wall or the lack of defined space messed with my sense of direction, all I know is I found myself crawling toward my reflection, rather than the center of the room. Or worse, my reflection was crawling toward me, staring at me, watching me approach, me watching it approach. I tried to change direction, but I swear to you, it kept crawling toward me no matter how I tried to orient myself. And the more I looked into the eyes of my own reflection, the less human it appeared. Every second, it was like watching my face smear like a painting, my eyes, cheeks, nose, and lips turning runny like melted wax.

But the one moment I will never forget, the image seared into my brain of the entire experience, was when I stopped in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection, it staring back at me, and then trying to stand up. As I raised my head, I found myself looking over the shoulder of my own reflection and seeing my face again, behind the reflection, also looking over it. In other words, the face I had come to accept as my own was not, there was someone else between me and the mirror, someone who even as the realization came rushing at me, stared up at me with the same horrified expression on its face, its features melting. It was too much. I was ready to follow Genevieve and claw my own eyes out. The only reason I’m here, able to tell you about it now is that I let go. I just let myself fall backward, striking my head on the floor in the process. I blacked out a bit, but I remember rolling down the slanted floor and then hitting the wall. The door must have been swung open from the force, because when I came to I could see out into the hallway, and I dragged myself out. I swear that before I got out and shut the door, I looked back and saw my reflection, only it was standing in the center of the room, watching me leave.

That room is cursed. BVB has turned it into a residence of something sinister and malevolent. But that’s not even half of it, Mr. Fetterman.

Piotr Edartu’s plan was the polar opposite of Ms. LaVer’s. Rather than a person in a room devoid of light, he had your team help him build a full coverage, cloth bodysuit using the BVB process. Now, everything upsetting about LaVer’s room one could explain away as tricks of the mind (ignoring the fact that she is currently missing). What happened to Piotr though, I assure you, cannot be explained.

His suit was finished a week before Ms. LaVer completed her room. I watched him be helped into the suit for the first time, the team struggling to find where his legs went, then his arms. Once he had all four limbs clothed, they still had to find the zipper and hood to completely seal him in. Upon donning the full body suit of BVB, the effect was truly astounding. Piotr became a foggy, black silhouette. You couldn’t tell if you were looking directly at him. He had his work room installed with almost two dozen large flood lamps, drowning out every angle with harsh lighting, and still the suit cast a shadow. Nobody else in the room had a shadow, but Piotr in his suit did. Even more amazing, when he moved, he left a trail of blackness, a sort of after image of where he had been. I’ve never seen anything like it.

He put the BVB suit on for short intervals every day, increasing the length he spent inside each time. He told me he enjoyed the way it unnerved the people around him. I asked him what it was like inside and he remarked, “I can see inside you. I can see your bones.” I’m not sure if he was joking or not. Piotr spent every work day setting up and taking photos of himself against various backdrops to see how the BVB of the suit affected the pictures. There was one I saw of him standing in a glass box filled with water. The water looked like ink. Piotr told me that the way water refracts light, it seemed to magnify the BVB’s absorption effect.

After LaVer’s incident but before I went into her room and experienced the horror of that emptiness firsthand, I rushed to Piotr’s dressing room to tell him what had happened. He had been wearing the suit since before I got to work, the longest amount of time he’d ever kept it on. He was sitting at his desk, clad completely in the BVB bodysuit. I told him of LaVer and he became understandably distraught, asking me to help him out of the suit so we could get to the hospital. At first, I couldn’t find the zipper; my hands would disappear in the foggy blackness of the suit’s effect. Eventually I found it and unzipped him.

There was nothing inside, Mr. Fetterman. The suit fell away as if draped on a frame of empty air, the hood deflating like a balloon and dropping to the floor along with the rest of the material. Stranger yet, Piotr still seemed to be inside the suit. It was pooled up on the floor in an undefinable pile, like a hole in the floor, but I could hear him from inside it. And whatever– wherever he was, he sounded terrified. I could hear him start to scream, echoing from out of the suit’s interior like he was falling through a great, endless void, his voice never fading off like it does as someone falls away. He was always right there, screaming, calling my name, begging me to get him out. I gathered up the material and tried shaking it, thinking maybe I could shake him out of the hole, but I had to drop it quickly because the way my hands disappeared inside it, I was afraid I would fall into the suit as well.

I immediately hurried to Mr. Sørensen’s office across the research area and told him about Piotr. He seemed more put out than concerned, made a quick phone call, then told me to stay put while he marched off to Piotr’s room with a group of men from your security. I sat around in his office for a couple hours before he finally returned with a gentleman named Mr. Klein from your legal department. They assured me that Piotr was alright, that what I had seen was simply the BVB playing tricks on my eyes. They fed me a bunch of hogwash about how my vision hadn’t fully adjusted to the bright lighting of the room, then instructed me to sign a form to waive my rights toward speaking about either of the incidents. It was after that, after they had someone escort me back to my own work area, that I ventured over to Genevieve’s room and experienced its horror myself.

That was yesterday, Mr. Fetterman. I called in sick this morning, with no intention of going in today, or any other day, out of fear for my own safety. Already my phone has rung at least twenty times this morning, from different unknown callers. Mr. Sørensen tried to reach me half an hour ago and left me a cryptic voicemail saying, “I hope that we don’t have to initiate a breach of contract clause”. I’ve looked over my contract with your company Demtronic, but I still have no idea what he meant by that. It sounds like a threat.

There is something evil in Beyond VantaBlack, Mr. Fetterman, something Mr. Sørensen does not want people to know about. Ms. LaVer is missing. Mr. Edartu is missing. I’m afraid that I may go missing as well. I hope that I’m not making a grave mistake by trusting you with this information. Please contact me via this email address or the number provided below.

Sincerely,
Tomas Laurent, Artist for Hire
(978) ###-####
tslaurent@#####.###

 

CREDIT: William Dalphin

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My Roommate Joined a Cult

by cnkguy
My Roommate Joined a Cult

My Roommate Joined a CultReading Time: 9 minutes

I’m a student at Bridgewater State in Massachusetts. I share a dorm with my roommate, Wallace. We both major in computer science, and that’s all we’ve ever talked about on the rare occasions that we actually speak to one another. We don’t have much else in the way of common ground.

You see, Wallace is an odd guy. He’s very socially awkward and doesn’t have many friends, if any at all. I’ve only ever seen him talking to his professors, and one time, the janitor. It’s safe to say that Wallace is a recluse. Because of this, I don’t know much about him. I would love for the guy to open up more, but I’m not sure how to go about doing that. Besides, I have enough on my plate as it is between exams and the struggle of day-to-day finances. As cliche as it might sound, Ramen is a popular meal on campus.

Another one of Wallace’s quirks is his obsessive compulsive nature. He conducts himself in a very specific manner and has his daily routine mapped out to a tee. It never changes. When he wakes up, he brushes his teeth, making sure to gargle and spit exactly three times. He then puts on a striped shirt followed by khaki pants. His wardrobe never changes. He always arrives to class five minutes early and turns in his assignments a day before they are due. This is how it’s always been.

How do I know all of this? Well, being a socially awkward hermit, Wallace didn’t tell me these things. I don’t think he’s even aware that his routine is a byproduct of OCD (I’m not claiming to know exactly what causes Wallace’s actions, but I do minor in psychology). It’s just something I’ve picked up on during the two years I’ve lived with the guy. It’s almost impossible not to notice.

Knowing Wallace’s usual behavioral patterns, I noticed that something wasn’t right. He began sleeping in his clothes, not brushing his teeth, and not passing in his assignments on time. Eventually, he stopped sleeping in our dorm all together. After over a day of not seeing him, things started looking grim.

Despite not knowing Wallace all that well, I became worried. Depression and suicide rates are at an all time high for our age group. I didn’t want the poor guy to do something stupid. That worry justified me hacking into his laptop to see what he’d been up to. It was the only thing I could think to do.

In finding his laptop and turning it on, I felt like a fool. The thing was as clean as a whistle, at least to my eyes. You see, though I pride myself in my tech know-how, Wallace is far more adept in the field. It was safe to say that I wouldn’t find a shred of evidence as to where he might be, or what he’d been doing. No journal entries, no browsing history, no nothing.

Feeling anxious, I thought about any other potential ways to continue my hunt for the truth. That’s when something clicked. Like I said before, I sometimes saw Wallace talking to the janitor in the halls. He was the only person I had ever seen him speak with at length. It was possible that he would know something about Wallace’s state of affairs.

Later that night, I exited my dorm and wandered the halls. Eventually I found Chuck, the janitor. I tried to be gentle when confronting him, as he had his back to me and was known to be hard of hearing. Still, when I tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped.

“Holy cheese balls, you nearly scared me half to death!”

Chuck laughed through his bushy, gray mustache.

“What can I do for you, son?”

I told Chuck about my predicament and how I was concerned for Wallace, having not seen him in a while. Chuck’s happy expression transformed into a look of unease and tension. He seemed to know a bit more than I did.

“Well, here’s the thing. Wallace is a good kid and we do chat from time to time. I happen to know where he might be, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable blurting out the details of his social life to anyone who asked, even if you are his roommate.”

Social life? Wallace didn’t have a social life. I pressured Chuck into letting me in on the secret. I really laid it on thick, expressing a great deal of concern for Wallace’s well-being. Being the nice, old janitor that Chuck is, he eventually gave in.

“Okay, okay. I understand. Just please don’t tell him that I told ya, okay?”

I nodded, eagerly awaiting for him to reveal Wallace’s whereabouts.

“Wallace has been feeling really down lately. He’s got no one to talk to but me. The kid wanted some friends. People that he could hang out with and talk to, ya know?”

I listened closely for the details I so desperately sought after.

“So, Wallace went on something he called… oh what was it… the deep web? On there he found a group of people. They called themselves the ‘Clan of the Red Wolf’ or something like that. Tthey invited him to one of their meetings. That’s probably where he is right now. He seemed pretty excited when he told me about it. In fact, it’s all he’s been talkin’ about for the past week.”

There. That was it. That was the bit of info I needed. The key to finding Wallace.

I thanked Chuck and gave him a goodnight wave as I ran back to my dorm room. From the sounds of it, Wallace got himself involved with another group of people who share in his interests and eventually they invited him to hang out in real life. I had their quirky name –“The Clan of the Red Wolf”, and that’s all I needed to find them on the deep web myself. Soon enough, I would be able to find my missing roommate.

It took quite a while, but I finally managed to find a deep web forum pertaining to the so called Clan. It contained nothing but a description and a series of videos. Here is the description as it appeared on the site:

Welcome to your new belief system!

We are the Clan of the Red Wolf, and we’re here to help! There are seven educational videos on this site, each tailored to a specific belief that we want to share with you. You are asked to watch these programs to understand our doctrine. If you make it to the last one, you will be invited into our den! Good luck!

The summary was bizarre, but nothing less than what I’d expected. Scrolling further, I noticed that all of the videos were titled similarly – “Day One”, “Day Two”, and so on. Naturally, I watched them.

The whole series reminded me of old war propaganda. It was made in the style of a vintage cartoon, starring a wolf as the main focus. Not a normal wolf, but a cartoon caricature version of one. Picture a character similar to Wile E. Coyote.

In each video, the wolf learned a new Clan value from the campy, male narrator. Not unlike old cartoons, the wolf comically goes against the narrator’s wishes and suffers the consequences before learning his lesson. Every video ends with the narrator saying, “Join the pack. You never have to feel alone again!” I guessed that was the selling point for lonely Wallace.

I will share with you a bit of the transcript from each video along with any points of interest.

VIDEO ONE: Wildlife

“Treat flora and fauna with dignity and respect. They’re people too! Trees provide you with the air you breathe and animals share the earth with you, keeping you from being alone! They deserve more than you ever will!”

*Wolf relieves himself on tree. Tree falls on top of him, crushing his head and revealing the blood and brain matter inside*

VIDEO TWO: Thicker Than Blood

“Your blood is the most important material in your earthly vessel! The Clan requires a sample upon joining our order. This is a requirement for all pledges. Our blood must flow as one for us to work together and save the planet!”

*Wolf enters a room full of cloaked figures – presumably Clan members. All members are in line, giving blood samples. The Wolf refuses to have his blood drawn and walks away. A cloaked figure sneaks up on him and slices his throat with a dagger. Video focuses on the wolf bleeding out for a few moments before fading to black*

VIDEO THREE: Obey or Suffer

“Remember what happened to our friend when he didn’t give his blood to the cause? He didn’t obey our order’s rules, so he had to suffer the consequences. Remember, the Clan’s laws are important. You must obey or perish. Trust me, it’s worth it!”

*Shows the wolf bleeding out again, only now a few cloaked figures are on top of him, stabbing his corpse repeatedly*

VIDEO FOUR: Vow of Secrecy

“The Clan of the Red Wolf is often misunderstood. Because of this, it is important to never tell anyone of our existence, under any circumstances! You may only speak about Clan activity with other Clan members. Break this rule and you will perish!”

*Wolf is shown talking to his wolf pals and showing them his new cloak. A cloaked figure walks in frame with what looks like a semi-automatic weapon and opens fire. The wolves fall to the ground, dead. The cloaked figure gives a thumbs up before the video ends*

VIDEO FIVE: Learn and Understand

“If you’re allowed into our inner sanctum, you will be greeted with knowledge! We abide by the word of the Red Wolf and you will too! You will be expected to learn and understand his teachings, otherwise you will fail – not only the Clan, but the entire world.”

*Wolf is seen in a classroom environment taking a test of some sort. He turns it in to a cloaked teacher and receives an F. The entire class points and laughs at him and then pulls out a plethora of medieval weaponry from their robes. They then proceed to close in on the wolf. The wolf swallows the lump in his throat before the video ends*

VIDEO SIX: Tasks and Rituals

“As a new recruit, you will be asked to carry out various tasks ranging from the mundane to the fantastic. Most of these missions will involve fetching ingredients for our rituals. As boring as that may sound, it is the most important thing you can ever do for the Clan! Rituals are what give the Clan power. Without this power, we cannot hope to rid the world of what plagues it.”

*Wolf fails to bring ingredients to Clan member for ritual. Jump cut to wolf being sacrificed on a black altar atop a pentagram, carved into the floor. He is beaten, cut open, and eventually torn apart by his fellow Clansmen*

VIDEO SEVEN: Mortals

“When accepted as a full fledged clan member, you are no longer considered ‘human’. You will be one of us. From that point forward, you are discouraged from any and all human interaction, unless it is deemed necessary to the cause. Humans are vile, filthy, disgusting, and dangerous creatures. We seek to exterminate them once and for all. Any human who knows of our existence and isn’t deemed worthy enough to join must be killed. Nature is your only friend.”

*Wolf is walking down a ‘main street’-like environment and can be seen waving to everyone he sees. He comes upon a Clan member who then pierces his gut with a long blade and tosses him aside in the road where he is then run over by numerous cars*

 

_____________________

 

The content of the videos was incredibly jarring. I almost couldn’t believe that such a cult could actually exist, let alone that Wallace would join them. He must have really been lonely.

The last video exited with the same “Join the pack” spiel and then faded out to a screen with a series of numbers. I assumed this was my invitation into the “den,”  perhaps an encrypted set of coordinates leading to the Clan’s lair. That, I thought, must have been where Wallace had gone.

I wrote down the code and immediately started doing some research to begin cracking it. Just as I was in the thick of things, something hit me. One of the videos stated that you couldn’t talk to anyone about the Clan under any circumstances. But Wallace talked to Chuck. That didn’t make any sense. Wallace was a stickler for rules.

Another fact hit me. The video stated that you could only talk about Clan activity with other Clan members. What if Chuck was one of them? Chuck could be stationed at the college to recruit members and he simply nudged Wallace in the right direction. He could have been playing dumb with me when I questioned him.

So either Chuck was a Clansman or Wallace broke a cardinal rule. Neither theory held much water. If Chuck was a member, then why would he have told me anything without either recruiting or killing me? And if Wallace was so eager to be accepted into a strict cult, then why would he disobey their wishes? I couldn’t make much sense of either angle.

I eventually gave in to the notion that perhaps Wallace simply disregarded the rules in lieu of his excitement. He was finally going to have friends, so he had to tell someone. This didn’t completely sit well with me, but I had to get back to cracking the code. I didn’t have time to dwell on uncertainties.

Just then, there was a knock at my dorm room door, followed by a voice.

“It’s Chuck, the janitor! I’m here to tidy up your room.”

Chuck never cleaned dorm rooms…

…that wasn’t part of his job.

“I’m all set!” I yelled, hoping he would leave me be.

The knocking ceased. There was a long stretch of silence followed by a soft, metallic creak.

The doorknob was turning.

 

CREDIT: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to checkout Christopher Maxim’s latest book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

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Tales from the Gas Station (Part Two)

by cnkguy
Tales from the Gas Station (Part Two)

Tales from the Gas Station (Part Two)Reading Time: 5 minutes

 

 

*Click HERE to read Part 1*

 

At the edge of our town, there’s a shitty gas station that’s open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and sometimes longer. If you were to go inside, you would probably see the tired cashier sitting behind the front desk doing his best to mind his own business. He’s real. You may also see someone else. You may also see something else. If you’re curious about the reality of anyone or anything (including yourself) inside that small ammonia scented flickering-fluorescent collection of off-brand junk food, dirt, four walls, and a roof, may I recommend that you follow the cashier’s lead and mind your own business?

I’ve been working at that gas station almost non-stop since I graduated high school, and at this point, I doubt I could quit if I wanted to. Not long ago, a doctor recommended that I start keeping a journal, and after some consideration I decided I might as well give it a shot. It’s not like any of the traditional treatments are having any effect. But enough about me. Let’s get back to the interesting thing. The gas station.

I spent a decent portion of my shift last night trying to decide how to begin this journal. Where can I start that would make any sense at all? How do I explain the gas station to someone who hasn’t experienced it?

I’ve tried telling some of my stories before, so I know what to expect. People don’t believe it. Or people don’t want to believe it. I still remember the difficulty I had last year when I had to call the sheriff station and explain to the new girl that half of a pig had broken into the store and was running amok, breaking things and screaming with the voice of an old woman.

“Yes, I meant half of a pig.”

“Yes, a pig.”

“The front half.”

“No this isn’t a joke. I’m at the gas station.”

“What do you mean, which gas station? Is this your first day or something?”

“Oh, it is? In that case, can I please talk to someone else?”

She finally put me through to Tom. He’s the deputy that drew the short straw all those years ago and ended up on official gas-station duty. That was back before his hair had turned all white. He’s been in enough times now that all I have to say when he picks up the line is “It’s half a pig. It won’t stop screaming and I can’t catch it.” And then he grunts, mutters something about that being “pretty freakin’ weird,” and then drives out to help me catch it. Tom is a good guy.

I asked around, but nobody knew where the pig had come from. Farmer Brown–who was still alive at the time–came down to take a look and provide his expert opinion. According to Farmer, the pig had somehow been chopped down the middle, but miraculously none of the important organs were hit. Nothing supernatural about it, just really unusual. It stayed at the local elementary school as a kind of mascot for the summer before a scientist and his team from somewhere up north offered the school a thousand dollars to let them take it. For science, I suppose.

I don’t mean to ramble, but my point is that it’s hard to believe some of these stories if you haven’t been inside the gas station at least once. And maybe you have. We’re the only gas station for miles. We’re close enough to some big crossroads. If you’ve ever been out driving in an unfamiliar part of the country and found yourself lost, it’s not impossible that you could have found yourself at my doors, looking to top off your gas or ask for directions. If you have a strange memory of a weird place that somehow doesn’t seem to fit, then there’s a chance we have actually met.

It was late into my overnight shift when I decided to just start writing. I took notes about what was happening. I jotted down a few of my stranger memories, but consciously decided to leave out those stories that were so unbelievable that I won’t even waste people’s time with them. (I call those the try-and-forget stories.) I was writing it all down on a book of receipt paper when Carlos interrupted me.

Carlos is one of the part-timers at the gas station. We have a pretty long list of part-time employees here. The owners like to hire transients, drifters, hitchhikers, passers-by and runaways looking for work for a few days. I try not to get to know the part-timers. They come and go after a few days, or sometimes a few weeks, rarely long enough to form any kind of meaningful relationship.

But then there’s Carlos, who’s been working here for almost a year now. He started as part of the prison work-relief program, unloading trucks twice a week, and was the only one of the twelve prisoners that didn’t disappear during a freak snow-storm last December, but that’s none of my business. Carlos did his time, and when they released him he came to work here, cleaning the store and unloading trucks. He comes in six times a day for each of his thirty-minute shifts. Now that I think about it, I’m not exactly sure what he does during those shifts. The store is never clean and trucks only come twice a week, exclusively during the daylight hours as per an arrangement following the “incident.” Maybe one day I’ll ask Carlos what he does for the owners. All I know is that he’s the closest thing to a friend that I have here.

When Carlos approached me at my register last night, I knew something unusual was going on. He was sweating bullets, pale, and on the verge of passing out. He kept glancing back at the man in the suit that had wandered into the store and was standing next to the frozen drink machine. He told me that he needed to talk. “Now.”

I told him, “Go ahead,” but he refused to say anything unless I followed him into the freezer.

I usually hate to leave the front of the store unwatched. We have the occasional shoplifter. Plus there was that one time Rocco got in and made off with two cases of cigarettes. But Carlos seemed serious, so I made an exception for him.

Once we were in the subfreezing safety of the walk-in cooler, Carlos asked me if I had seen the guy in the suit. I said yes, I saw him. He asked if I knew the guy. I said yes, I’d seen the guy around town. His name was Kieffer. He was running for some kind of office—I can’t remember which one—and stopped by the gas station every now and then. He drove an old black SUV that only took premium. I didn’t know him much from in town, but he was definitely local. His picture was framed in my high school’s trophy case for one of those sports competitions he had won years and years before I got there. We only have so many things to be proud of, I suppose. I knew of Kieffer, but we weren’t exactly acquaintances. I told all this to Carlos, who shook his head and said, “No. That can’t be Kieffer.”

I said, “Why not?”

And Carlos told me, “That can’t be Kieffer, because Kieffer has been dead for two days. His body is in the trunk of my car right now.”

And that’s when things started getting weird.

It was a very strange night. Between the hand plants, Farmer Jr., and that cultist that wouldn’t leave me alone, I hardly had any time to collect my thoughts.

And of course, there was the Carlos situation.

I promise I’ll come back and tell you all about it, but first I need to grab some coffee.

 

*Stay tuned for Part 3*

 

CREDIT: Jack Townsend

Click HERE to pre-order Jack Townsend’s latest book, Tales from the Gas Station: Volume One, a collection of both old and new tales revolving around everyone’s favorite gas station clerk

Tales from the Gas Station: Volume One

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