recursal/Fanatic-Fandom huggingface dataset:
Holder of the Fact

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls herself "The Holder of the Fact." The worker will slowly turn their head up from the inevitable mounds of paperwork they were focused on, and a sly grin should slide across their features, as if in silent mockery. They will slowly stand and lead you towards the entrance to the institution. Instead of the entrance, however, is a large Gothic staircase.

As you climb the stairs, you will hear insane blasphemies uttered by gibbering voices, and the cry of someone in pain calling out your name from the foot of the stairs, begging you to abandon this madness. It is vitally important that you continue up the stairs, as only horror awaits at the foot of them now.

Eventually, you will come to a large door at the top of the stairs. Grip the handle strongly, close your eyes, and enter. Just keep walking ahead. No matter what you hear, no matter what you feel, it is crucial that you do not open your eyes. Regardless of which direction you headed in, you should soon find yourself at a dead end. In front of you is a shelf, entirely empty except for a small, unassuming leather book. Pick up this book, and turn the very last page. On it is a picture of a key. Look up again. Youâ€™re now facing a large stone door, with the words "Deus ex Insania" engraved on it.

Reach out and open the door, being careful not to gag as the centuries old dust from within bursts out. Crouched in the corner, nearly invisible in the dust storm stirred up by your intrusion, crouches the Holder. She scribbles madly, the scratching of the ancient quill in her hands forms into subconscious words in your mind, even as the Holder continues to write. The quill tells you of ancient horrors, of immemorial madness, of the absolute bitterness of the uncaring cosmos, and it tells you of your tiny, meaningless existence, as mere ink blot in the sprawling infinity of our universe, and finally, the insane scratching will tell you the one piece of information that leaves many a Seeker a broken shell of a human. The quill will tell you Their true name.

That name is Object 136 of 538. Know Them to know Him.
Holder of Void

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask for someone who calls himself "The Holder of Void". The worker will look at you as if you've spoken another language. Repeat your request once more -- any more, and your fate is best left unsaid, for our sakes. The worker will stand, visibly shaken, and motion for you to follow. Do so, but look to your feet and carefully count your steps. Once your foot has fallen on the 64th step, stop. The worker will have disappeared.

Turn to your left, and knock thrice on the door in front of you. If there is no answer, turn around and try the same on the door behind you. If there is still no answer, then this game was not yours to play; you will wander the halls of the institution for the rest of eternity.

But, should a childlike voice ask you to come in, quietly open the door and step inside. The room will be simple, painted in solid ocean blue. There will be a child in the middle of the room, sitting at a table, playing what appears to be a cross between a board game and solitaire. The child will look at you with impossibly black eyes, eyes that seem to bore into your very soul and beyond. He will ask you, still staring, "Do you also want a card?"

The next few moments will decide your fate.

Stare into the child's eyes, but do not make a sound. Breathe quietly. He will eventually sigh, and resume his game. He will pull a card out of a stack on the table.

Should that card have a picture on it, the child will sigh again, and throw the card to the ground. Whatever was depicted on the card will come to life -- flee, if you wish. If you're lucky, you will die of starvation and dehydration before the impossibly grotesque creature finds you within the halls.

But, should the card be blank, ask in a loud, commanding voice: "Why did they shatter?"

The boy will stare into you, into your mind, as if your very existence is being probed. Do not attempt to hide anything or fight. This Holder's powers are more than what they seem, and you may very well lose your sanity where you stand.

If you are still coherent when this "examination" finishes, you will find yourself falling asleep. Again, do not fight the feeling.

You will wake up in the bed of where you call home, a small, round, pearlescent object in your hand.

This Object is 88 of 538. You've played the game and won, but will you be so lucky at the reunion?
Holder of Pestilence

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of Pestilence". At this point, the worker should gag, and try not to vomit. After several minutes of this, the worker will finally give in, vomiting into a wastepaper basket. They will then stand, and lead you down the hallway. You will reach a door, slightly ajar, but you must not touch it. To do so would invite its curse into your bones, and your fate would be sealed. Instead, demand that the worker open it for you. Pass quickly through the door â€“ the Holder is waiting.

You will find yourself in a darkened room. The door behind you will slam shut again, to touch it would be to invite the Rot. Instead, walk ahead, in the dark, until you reach what feels like a stone altar. Reach over, until you find a groove. At this point, you must think only of home, and your friends, and the people you love, as something cold and wet will slide momentarily over your face.

After the deathly embrace is over, you will find the groove has split open, and the altar now reveals a staircase. Descend it, taking care not to trip. The Holder wouldn't want you damaged before you meet. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, it is vital that you don't step off the final step. Instead, look as hard as you can until you see footsteps cleared among the ichor and rot coating the floor. Step only in these, as to touch the Rot is to join it. As you make your way forward, you will finally come to a stone sarcophagus.

Few people realize this, but the word 'Sarcophagus' means 'Eater of Flesh', and this is exactly what this coffin is. You must raise the stone lid, and lower yourself into it. Hold still. It's sleeping. After a few moments, the room will be lit, ambient light slowly filling the room. You must remain still. If it wakes, all is lost.

After the room is lit to its brightest, you will hear a tapping noise, like someone is walking into the room, however, you will be unable to hear them. As the footsteps get nearer and nearer, you will hear a rasping voice speaking in an unknown language. At this point, most Seekers will find it important not to focus on the words, as they tell of truths mortals cannot comprehend. Finally, the speaker is silent. The base of the sarcophagus will raise, and it is now safe to move. The Holder is standing here.

His skin is gangrenous and blackened, and his eyes are sunken. He will speak to you, in your native language, and ask you a series of questions about yourself. Answer truthfully, and your mind will remain intact. The Holder will ask you to hold out your left hand. He will reach out and place something cold into your palm, and then close your hand over it. For his ravaged appearance, the Holder is not an evil being, and wishes you luck. A door is now behind you. Passing through it will bring you back to the institution through which you passed.

The jewel in your hand is Object 115 of 538. Dare you wield the Rot-Stone unprotected?
I Need Assistance

I never asked to know about things before they were going to happen. I didn't want to know when people were going to die.

Death, though, has its own way of doing things.

It all started when I was browsing a part of the internet I shouldn't have been, and stumbled upon a ritual. All it needed was a couple of candles, a knife, and some of my blood and I would be able to predict the future. It warned that the future couldn't be changed, but what the hell did I care, really. I was going to make a fortune.

The ritual went perfectly. Well, almost. I was never good with pain, nor the sight of blood. That being said, I wanted to get it over with quickly. Too quickly.

I cut fast and deep into my wrist. As I lay bleeding out, a hooded figure appeared before me. Death.

He told me that in exchange for a few years of torture, I could continue living. My torture would be knowing when people I come into contact with in any way are going to die. I won't, however, be able to stop it. If I try to, I will die.

I watched helplessly as my mother, brother, and wife died and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

I saw it all, perfectly, before it ever even happened. Weeks before.

I'm hiding this message here. Hopefully he won't notice until it's too late...for him.

I've been editing for a while here. I really care about my editors.

I need someone to send a message for me.

One of our editors is going to die.

Someone tell <insert name here> not to go outside for a while.

*Credited to ClericofMadness*
S.O.S.

I looked at my watch.

*2 hours left*

Inside my ship, I was safe from the empty vacuum of space. Sitting mere inches away from the window, I could see the stars, planets, and moons crossing my path. My mission was simple : undertake a journey outside of our galaxy and search for signs of life. Yet, as simple as can be, I still failed. I didn't find any life, be it intelligent or not. There were only vast deserts of nothingness. There was never as strange a thought as the fact that I crossed millions of miles of nothing to find more nothing. In that nothing, I could find respite for my loneliness, one that wasn't satiated ever since I left our space station 7 years ago. At first, I was excited - seeing all of those planets first, those unexplored worlds - but as time went on, I realised that there wasn't anything to be excited about. In fact, there wasn't anything at all.

*1 hour, 30 minutes left*

Sometimes, when gazing out of my tiny window, I could see an asteroid whizzing by, unaware of its existence. Oh, how life would be simple if I were an asteroid. I could help form moons and planets - I would serve a purpose. A life without purpose is a life not worth living, after all. Wandering alone amongst the stars isn't a healthy way to live, and I should know that better than anyone. Yet here I was, paying the consequences of my negligence - or should I say, my ignorance. I was supposed to orbit a planet behind another one a couple of months ago - the only problem was, there was no second planet.

*1 hour left*

I had used up all of my fuel trying to get back to the first planet. Maybe then, I could've sent a distress signal, but I was too far away now. In a last ditch effort, I sent a signal right as I realised there was no second planet. I was supposed to be rescued a few weeks ago. Instead, I received an emergency transmission coming from the very same space station that I had departed from. The screams I heard, I shall never forget. The metallic ripping sounds I heard, I shall never forget. Yet, the most disheartening of all, were the cries for help - asking for my help. All I could do was sit back and listen to the demise of the station I once called home.

*30 minutes left*

During the latter part of my trip, I could only think about that station. Ares-09 was its name - a name forever imprinted in my memory.

All I could do now was to wait. As my ship advanced with great speed to the outer edges of the galaxy, I was met with a sense of despair, as I was forced to watch as the stars and planets got further and further away from me. I had to face reality sooner or later : I wasn't coming back.

I was prepared. I had time to be prepared. Time to be prepared for my inevitable demise.

*0 seconds left*

*OXYGEN LEVELS CRITICAL*

As I felt the air inside my lungs escape my body, I felt a strange sense of relief. All those years of pain, of loneliness, were finally over. As I slipped into the eternal darkness, I rested with nothing but a smile.

*Credited to Leumasperron*

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Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,

With drowsy head and folded wing,

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been—a most familiar bird—

Taught me my alphabet to say—

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings—

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away—forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.

*Credited to Edgar Allan Poe*
Licking

My great-grandmother lived alone up in the mountains at her cabin. Her husband was dead, so she was there all alone. She only had one companion, and that was her loving dog. They both adored each other and the dog was a great comfort to her. Every night when she went to bed, the dog would lick her hand to let her know that he was there to protect her.

One night, she had gone to bed and the dog had licked her hand, like he had done routinely every night since her husband died. But this night was different. She had woken up in the middle of the night because she heard her dog whimpering. She wanted to comfort him and let her know she was there for him, so she stuck her hand out by the bed and she felt the dog gently lick her hand like always. She figured he was just cold, so she went back to sleep.

The dog's whimpering had woken her up a second time in the night so she stuck her hand out; the dog licked it and she went back to sleep. This happened a third time, and she stuck her hand out and the dog stopped whimpering and came and licked her hand. She stayed awake a few moments afterward, and she went back to sleep again.

In the morning, she woke up and stuck her hand out by the bed, but nothing licked her hand. She thought that the dog had already awaken and was just in the front room. She rolled over and got out of bed and heard a drip. drip... drip... drip. She thought the sound was coming from the kitchen, so she walked over and turned the handles on the sink faucet, but it wasn't the source of the noise.

After frustratingly checking the sink and its pipes, she gave up and continued into her bathroom to take a shower. As she got closer to the bathroom door, it was evident that the sound was coming from within. She opened the door, looked above the bathtub and gasped in utter horror. There, hanging from the light by his collar, was her loving companion. His blood was dripping into the bathtub.

She screamed and began to cry. Wiping her eyes and sobbing, she turned and looked into the mirror. In the mirror she saw the dog's reflection and written on the mirror in her dog's blood, with drips and streaks hanging down from each letter, were the words...

HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.

*Credited to anonymous*
I Loved You Once

I loved you; even now I may confess,

Some embers of my love their fire retain;

But do not let it cause you more distress,

I do not want to sadden you again.

Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly

With pangs the jealous and the timid know;

So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,

I pray God grant another love you so.

*Credited to Alexander Pushkin*
Musings of a Moron

On the library lawn, four pinpoints of light twinkled. Four of us sat there smoking. Clyde was smoking a Turkish cigarette, Truett was smoking a water pipe, Harold was smoking a meerschaum. I was smoking a herring.

The stars gleamed. Somewhere in the vast gulf of darkness there sounded a dreary drip-drip; some low-lived modernistic louse had left his vile bathtub faucet running. I shivered with repulsion.

“Damn!” said Clyde suddenly. I started.

“Shh!” I reproved. “Think of the readers of The Junto! What would those critics think?”

“I forgot,” he blushed. “But to tell you the truth, I think they-“

I shook my head. “No.”

He nodded and spit on the grass, which instantly took fire.

I nibbled grass roots and wept for the woes of Ireland.

“Would that I could walk among the clouds,” murmured Clyde.

“Applesauce,” said Harold. “I wish I was a millionaire.”

Truett frowned. “As if the beautiful things in life could be bought by money.”

Harold stood his ground. “If I was rich, I could be happy. I would live in the South Seas, stay drunk all the time, and woo the beautiful sirens of the warm ocean islands.”

“You are doomed to success,” said Clyde, shaking his head. “With your practical materialism, you will be a second Sir Phillip Gibbs.” Truett puffed on his pipe.

I recited the seventy-five lost books of the TAIN BO CUALNGE in a dreary voice without a single stop.

“What is there to life?” said Harold.

“Hist,” hissed Truett. “Do not move for your lives!”

A great shadowy bulk glided out of the shrubs and stood sniffing the air.

“Not a word as you value your lives,” muttered Clyde, cold sweat standing on his forehead. “It is a barnswoggle!”

I took out my rosary and counted my beads; forgot how many there were and counted them again to make sure. The barnswoggle followed a trail away.

“Damn Joseph Hergersheimer,” said Harold, taking a drink and lighting a cheroot. “Forever yapping about futility; if I had his money-“

Truett nodded; his eyes gleamed with a feral light.

Clyde said, “There was a girl in El Paso-“

There was a dreary glug-glug as Harold, Truett, and Clyde sated their savage thirst on elixir. I shuddered, thinking of the critics of The Junto, to whose kindly advice I took as to a guiding star; they are-

“The backbone of the nation,” finished Clyde.

“Listen,” said Harold, “and take this to mind, ‘A Heap o’ Livin’-“ He recited seven Eddie Guest poems.

“Too pessimistic,” said Truett.

“And you are an ascetic,” said Harold. “When I rewrite the dictionary I will leave out that word.”

“And I will leave out pagan,” snarled Clyde.

“The fools!” said Truett suddenly.

“Who are the fools?” we asked.

“Whoever read this article!” he howled with horrible laughter.

I dangled from a tree limb and wept for the woes of Bulgaria.

*Credited to Robert Ervin Howard*
Holder of the Map

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the Map". The man or woman will not look up from their reading materials; memorize the page number. Repeat yourself firmly. The man or woman will look up, annoyed. They will make a snide comment. If you hear, "Another moron", you will have found the right place. If there is any other comment, he will lie to you.

The man will then start by giving you directions. You will not be able to write them down, no matter how hard you try. If you don't follow the directions exactly, you will get lost. You will find yourself outside the institution; this will be the worst fate you could imagine. If you follow the directions, you should hear a sound as if an infinite number of hands are writing. This sound will increase as you near your goal. Should this ever stop, breathe deep and yell any information you have about where you started at, including your directions on how to get there. The writing should start up again. If it didn't, you will have to go back to where you began and start again. Don't get lost.

At the end of the directions you should see a door with an electronic lock, the numbers stained with blood. Stop immediately and you will hear a giggle. Don't turn around. A voice will start speaking under the now deafening sound of quills on paper. Ignore it and whisper one question: "Where will I end up?" He will go into grotesque detail about an ancient battlefield. At the point when he stops talking, input the number of the page the receptionist was reading from. You will wake up in the nearest church to the institution. You will be lying on a map.

The Map is Object 70 of 538. It will guide you anywhere you need to go, but not to the location of the other pieces.
Tarzan of the Apes

***Tarzan of the Apes*** is a novel written by Edgar Rice Burroughs, the first in a series of books about the title character Tarzan. It was first published in the pulp magazine *All-Story Magazine* in October, 1912.

* Chapter 1: Out to Sea
* Chapter 2: The Savage Home
* Chapter 3: Life and Death
* Chapter 4: The Apes
* Chapter 5: The White Ape
* Chapter 6: Jungle Battles
* Chapter 7: The Light of Knowledge
* Chapter 8: The Tree-Top Hunter
* Chapter 9: Man and Man
* Chapter 10: The Fear-Phantom
* Chapter 11: "King of the Apes"
* Chapter 12: Man's Reason
* Chapter 13: His Own Kind
* Chapter 14: At the Mercy of the Jungle
* Chapter 15: The Forest God
* Chapter 16: "Most Remarkable"
* Chapter 17: Burials
* Chapter 18: The Jungle Toll
* Chapter 19: The Call of the Primitive
* Chapter 20: Heredity
* Chapter 21: The Village of Torture
* Chapter 22: The Search Party
* Chapter 23: Brother Men
* Chapter 24: Lost Treasure
* Chapter 25: The Outpost of the World
* Chapter 26: The Height of Civilization
* Chapter 27: The Giant Again
* Chapter 28: Conclusion
Seen, but Not Heard

“Little children should be seen, but not heard,” said Kyle’s mother as she tucked him in for the night. Nighttime was the only time Kyle got to see his mother after the messy divorce. All Kyle had asked for was to spend time with her during the day. He just wanted to play with her.
Kyle’s mother was a cashier by day and telemarketer for most of the night. When she wasn't working, she locked herself in her room and conducted business there. She would also tell Kyle the same sentence when he was bothering her, almost as if it were her mantra for dealing with her attention-starved son. Sometimes, she shouted it at him, angrily.

One day while his mother was out getting groceries in a rare moment of free time, Kyle devised a simple plan. Being only ten, he went by the advice of a friend. He got some rope and made a slipknot with it, as he had learned from the same friend. His plan was to fake hanging himself so that his mother would want to spend more time with him. He would step off the island in the kitchen and land on a stool, making it look like he had hanged himself. He strung himself up and stood on the counter, waiting to hear his mother pull into the driveway.

After a few moments of waiting, he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Overeager, and excited about the prospect of getting to spend more time with his mother, Kyle jumped off the counter and knocked the stool out from under him. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the car he heard pulling in was only someone turning around in their driveway. It was too late by the time his mother actually came home. She cried even harder when she thought of what she had always told Kyle.

*Credited to ClericofMadness*
Starry Night

"The sky is so beautiful."

"Just like you."

We'd been dating for a few months now. He was amazing. He always said and did the right things at the right time. My mom loved him and my dad told me that he didn't hate him. Which means something coming from my dad.

Anyways, we were sitting in the back of his pick-up truck, surrounded by blankets and pillows.

I looked over at him and smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing."
I leaned up and kissed him. Now it was his turn to smile.

I looked back up at the sky and thought about how perfect this was. This was the first time I'd ever done something like this. It was amazing. The weather was perfect, kind of chilly so we had to be close but not too cold that we were freezing.

"I'm going to start a fire so we can roast marshmallows."

He surprised me almost scared me. I'd zoned so far out that I forgot he was there.

"Okay. I'll help you."

We gathered some wood and started the fire. He reached into the truck and grabbed two roasters, graham crackers, chocolate, and a bag of marshmallows. He handed me a roaster with a marshmallow and I put it over the fire. He grabbed one for himself and walked over behind me.
One arm was on my stomach. The other was reached around me and towards the fire. I leaned back on him. My head resting softly on his chest. I could feel his breathing, hear his heartbeat. He leaned his head down and whispered in my ear, "I love you."

My breath caught in my throat. He'd never said it before. We'd never said it before. I heard him sigh. I dropped the marshmallow roaster and turned towards him. I grabbed his face, leaned up and kissed him. A long hard kiss. I was out of breath after. But when I finally got it back,
I smiled and said, "I love you too."

For the rest of the night, his face shone brighter than all of the stars and the moon combined.

*---***Credited to lex1099**

*Content is available under {{#NewWindowLink:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0%7CCC-BY-SA}}*
Tell Me, Tell

Tell me, tell,

How should I call you;

Tell me, which

Name I should give you, -

Will I my "pride"

Or my "strength" veneer,

Or will I "treasure"

Or "my little deer",

Will I "soul",

or "my dear" -

Tell me, which

name I should give you!

Each of these is a sweet

And beautiful name

with which a Serb

His gold will nickname;

But I would spend

One entire life

Searching for a beautier,

Prouder and sweeter,

Dearer name,

by the world unheard,

to call by it

my flower yet furled.

*Credited to Jovan Jovanovic Zmaj*
Holder of Twins

In any city, in any country, go to any construction site or foundry you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of Twins". A person will suddenly appear beside you and the worker will be gone. Ask the person the same thing, but the answer will be that the worker is currently away, talking to his boss. He will tell you that both of you will have to wait until the worker comes back.

In that very second, the worker will reappear, seemingly out of nowhere. He will politely ask the other person to wait while he tells you that you may follow him. Do that and ignore the other person disobeying the worker and be glad that he didn't obey, or you would have walked into your death.

After a short while, you will reach a paper door. But do not let it fool you; this paper is stronger than any metal you have ever seen. The worker will now open the door, letting you in. The other person will quickly follow you. If he doesn't, pray for a swift death.

Should he have followed, both of you will find yourselves in a small paradise. Although you will find everything you like and love in this place, do not touch anything with your hands and arms, for the beauty will then quickly fade away and madness will overcome your mind. Simply follow the path you see below your feet and never leave it.

The other person will do the same, and you will have to talk. Tell him about everything you can remember from your life and hope that he doesn't talk back. Neither you nor he want to know what will happen if you ever stop walking while being on this path. For hours, you will walk and you will have to keep talking all the time. Finally, as you see something shiny at the horizon, you may complain about a sore throat and that you have nothing else to talk about.

You will reach a golden door. The closer you come, the wider it will open all by its own. Enter the door and you will find yourself in an almost pitch-black room lit by only two candles. One of them is beside a mirror, the other beside a rucksack. Walk to the mirror and stare into it, as horrifying as the pictures may be. You will notice the other person walking towards you; your fate will be decided in the next moments.

Should he scream, "No matter how hard the work, it will be done!" and then smash the mirror, then your fate is sealed. After he has destroyed the reflecting item, you will feel unbearable pain and you will scream, out of instinct. You will be melting in the next seconds. The other's task will be fulfilled.

But, should he choose to do nothing, you may utter the question, "What reflects them?" You will now see the other person slowly melting and he will scream inhumanly. Endure the screams for about a minute, then he will be gone; only the rucksack he has worn will be left. Open it, take the mirror inside it and you will be returned to your home.

The reflection is Object 60 of 538. Don't ever dare to destroy it.
Serenade

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,

I feel it more than half a crime,

When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,

To mar the silence ev'n with lute.

At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes

An image of Elysium lies:

Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,

Form in the deep another seven:

Endymion nodding from above

Sees in the sea a second love.

Within the valleys dim and brown,

And on the spectral mountain's crown,

The wearied light is dying down,

And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky

Are redolent of sleep, as I

Am redolent of thee and thine

Enthralling love, my Adeline.

But list, O list,- so soft and low

Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,

That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem

My words the music of a dream.

Thus, while no single sound too rude

Upon thy slumber shall intrude,

Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!

In every deed shall mingle, love.

*Credited to Edgar Allan Poe*
Party Crashing

Halloween is by far my favorite time of the year, the one wonderful day where walking around with a mask on is socially acceptable. Masks hold quite a unique place in society. A mask can transform anyone into something else, turn an actor into a character, hide the ‘secret identity’ of a superhero, or even allow monsters to walk among men. You never know what’s behind a mask until it’s taken off, but that’s the best part of Halloween; no one is going to take off anyone’s mask. There is no gang of teenagers with their talking dog there to strip away my disguise and reveal the truth underneath. No, this is reality, and on Halloween I’m perfectly able to hide in plain sight.

Of course, wearing a mask has its own special meaning for me; I am not an actor, super hero, or even a monster- not in the fictional terms at least- no, I simply use a mask as a means of entry. Any mask works really, so long as it covers my face; I manage to use a different one every year. All I need to do is walk the streets of my suburban neighborhood, weave my way through various decorations, and dodge packs of trick-or-treaters, until I hear the familiar blaring of loud music. Like a sailor to a siren at sea, I’m drawn to the music, to the party that it emanates from; yes, this is why Halloween is wonderful.

No one seems to ever ask questions at the door to a Halloween party, all I really need to do is knock and wave when the door opens- the mask makes people just assume I’m there for the party. Hell, sometimes people just leave their front doors wide open- allowing even easier access to their home. On Halloween no one gives a second glance towards a masked man making his way through their midst, which is what makes my hobby oh so fun.

They are completely oblivious as I approach their food. They continue to chatter and gossip as I add my own special ingredient to their bowl of punch. They continue to dance and play as I stab small, sharp, needles into their chocolates and sweets. It is not until their first friend drops to the floor, either choking on my poison or coughing up bloody needles, that people start to panic. It is the same every year; as soon as I leave the party and hear the chaos rising behind me, an unstoppable grin forms under my mask. Screams of terror are such a pleasant noise for such a pleasant holiday.

*Credited to Teddy*
Observe and Absolve

There's an abandoned mental hospital at the top of a hill in Worcester, Massachusetts. Once every five years, an old, rusty box spring appears within the courtyard of the hospital.

If you can sneak inside and sleep through the night on the bed, in the morning a man with a shirt that reads “Observe and Absolve” will take out his wallet and give you a picture. This picture will show you how you will die.

If the picture is of the man standing before you, running won’t help.

*Original Author Unknown*
Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,

Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.

Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,

Purification in the old Law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have

Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd

So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O as to embrace me she enclin'd

I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

*Credited to John Milton*
Melbourne and Mars

***Melbourne and Mars*** (1889) is an Australian science fiction novel by Joseph Fraser. It tells the story of a sick man named Jacobs who starts having visions in his sleep, which turns out to be a telepathic link between him and a child called Charlie Frankston, his other self on Mars, who lives in a technological utopia.

Introduction by the Editor

Chapter 1 — Autobiographical

Chapter 2 — Mother's Journey

Chapter 3 — Youth and Early Manhood

Chapter 4 — Strange Dreams

Chapter 5 — School Days

Chapter 6 — Gaston's Class

Chapter 7 — Bertrand's School of Mechanics

Chapter 8 — My Discovery

Chapter 9 — My Use of the Freedom

Chapter 10 — My Journeyings

Chapter 11 — Mars and Malthus

Chapter 12 — More Wonders

Chapter 13 — To the Metropolis. Sidonia

Chapter 14 — The Earthborn's Club

Chapter 15 — In the North

Chapter 16 — Life in Sidonia. Consciousness

Chapter 17 — A Marriage

Chapter 18 — A Betrothal. Conclusion
Straw, Coal, and Bean

An old woman lived in a village. She had gathered a serving of beans and wanted to cook them, so she prepared a fire in her fireplace. To make it burn faster she lit it with a handful of straw. While she was pouring the beans into the pot, one of them fell unnoticed to the floor, coming to rest next to a piece of straw. Soon afterward a glowing coal jumped out of the fireplace and landed next to them.

The straw said, "Dear friends, where do you come from?"

The coal answered, "I jumped from the fireplace, to my good fortune. If I had not forced my way out, I surely would have died. I would have burned to ash."

The bean said, "I too saved my skin. If the old woman had gotten me into the pot I would have been cooked to mush without mercy, just like my comrades."

"Would my fate have been any better?" said the straw. "The old woman sent all my brothers up in fire and smoke. She grabbed sixty at once and killed them. Fortunately I slipped through her fingers."

"What should we do now?" asked the coal.

"Because we have so fortunately escaped death," answered the bean, "I think that we should join together as comrades. To prevent some new misfortune from befalling us here, let us together make our way to another land."

This proposal pleased the other two, and they set forth all together.

They soon came to a small brook, and because there was neither a bridge nor a walkway there, they did not know how they would get across it.

Then the straw had a good idea, and said, "I will lay myself across it, and you can walk across me like on a bridge."

So the straw stretched himself from one bank to the other. The coal, who was a hot-headed fellow, stepped brashly onto the newly constructed bridge, but when he got to the middle and heard the water rushing beneath him, he took fright, stopped, and did not dare to go any further. Then the straw caught fire, broke into two pieces, and fell into the brook. The coal slid after him, hissed as he fell into the water, and gave up the ghost.

The bean who had cautiously stayed behind on the bank had to laugh at the event. He could not stop, and he laughed so fiercely that he burst. Now he too would have died, but fortunately a wandering tailor was there, resting near the brook. Having a compassionate heart, he got out a needle and thread and sewed the bean back together.

The bean thanked him most kindly. However, because he had used black thread, since that time all beans have had a black seam.

*Credited to the Brothers Grimm*
Nonexistence

Do you ever wonder how scary death is? Think about it; it’s the one thing that we truly know absolutely nothing about. Some people may cite religious beliefs of an afterlife and others might claim they just focus on life, but it's really something that is totally and utterly foreign to us. And what if the religious people are wrong? What if death really is nonexistence… that it’s simply over once the brain dies? Terrifying, huh? Of course, the reasoning goes that you won't notice it, since you won't exist.

But, let’s say a certain someone could expose you to nonexistence. Let's say this person could actually let you experience the state of nonexistence and more importantly, let you remember it. He'd probably be able to get you to agree to anything in order to avoid that fate. Tangentially, for certain people near death, their brain activity sometimes ceases completely for about three seconds and then returns, only to shortly die in a more conventional fashion.

As another side, many hospital orderlies have noticed a man wearing a suit that they have never seen in any catalog or on any person before. Interestingly enough, when you ask them about the suit they will struggle for a moment, then reply that it’s hard to describe, but they are sure they haven’t seen it before. Ask them about the man however, and they will freeze up, spasm violently and reply, "What man?"

*Original Author Unknown*
Moonlight Films

In many stores and establishments that provide videos of a less than savory manner, a business card is kept. Some stores keep it well hidden, locked in a safe, and will deny its existence. Others will show you if you ask for it by name. None will have it displayed in the open.

On this card is a name, "Moonlight Films", and a contact number. It is always a local number. Go to any payphone in your city and dial the number. The answer will be prompt but all you will hear is silence. Wait thirty seconds. Then you will be served.

A dry, monotone male voice will ask you a question: "Is the road from life to death dark?" The correct response is: "It is moonlit."

If you answer with anything but the correct reply, he will hang up on you. If you fail the first time, I'd suggest not trying again. But if the question is answered properly, the man will say one address in your city and then hang up.

Go to this address and you will find that it is a small, dingy apartment. The carpet will be dirty, the wallpaper flaking and wrinkled, the windows cracked. It will smell of tobacco smoke and decay. On the stained old coffee table there will be a paper bag. On this bag your full name will be written in red sharpie.

Open the bag and you will find an unlabeled video tape. Take it and place exactly $10.99 in the bag then leave.

You can watch the tape if you like, but you don't have to. I warn you: it's not pleasant. You will see a room or chamber papered in desiccated skin, the furniture will be crafted from flesh and bone. The tape will last approximately 32 minutes and will depict the murder of a person and the subsequent crafting of their body into furnishing—lampshades made of skin, tables made of bone.

After renting the tape for one week, you must return it to the apartment by sliding it through the mail slot when the time is up. After that, never return to the apartment and definitely don't call the number ever again.

I'd also suggest you not keep the tape more than a week. The owners will not be satisfied with a mere late fee—and you know, a good home can never have enough accessories.

*Original Author Unknown*
Scratchy Scratchy

As a child, Jeremy heard scratching coming from a section of wall in his bedroom. For years, he imagined such things as the murdered body of his brother clawing at the wall, trying to be found.

His mother, however, believed he was reading too many scary stories before bed. When Jeremy kept complaining, she told him that the wallpaper in his room—an old floral print—was there to protect him from the evil spirit.

“So it keeps them out?” Jeremy asked.

“No,” she said with a frown. “It just keeps you safe,” she replied cryptically.

Years later, Jeremy had left for college and one Christmas decided to come back to see his family. That night, he slept in his old bed and was almost asleep when he heard the old, horrible scratching sounds coming from behind the walls.

It was then that an older and braver Jeremy got up, turned on the lights, and ripped the wallpaper from the wall to try to get a better look at things. Once the paper was gone, he spied a small, fist-sized hole in the wall.

Jeremy only meant to pull back a small piece of the wall, but managed to rip a large, child-sized area of wall. There, his eyes were met with rotting wood and scurrying spiders.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he tossed the section of wall to the ground, vowing to get some plaster in the morning and patch the whole thing up. However, something caught his eye that terrified him.

As he looked down upon the back of the wall, he could see dozens of deep grooves that looked like claw marks, most of which seemed to have been burnt into the wall.

Turning around, his eyes were met with a pair of fiery circles, standing where the section of wall once was. The last thing that passed through Jeremy’s mind was the realization that the paper was meant keep the evil spirit in.

*Credited to ClericofMadness*
Orange Tabby

TRUE STORY.

When I was younger, I lived in a house on the other side of town. I had a kitten. A pretty, orange, male tabby. In our neighborhood, cats would come up missing. Turns out, a Vietnam war vet was catching the cats and—most likely—eating them. Unfortunately, all our cats were always outdoor cats.

My cat disappeared one day, as had all the family's cats. We had lost about 4 cats by this time. Facing facts, we went and got a new cat, whom we decided would be an inside cat. She was a sweet calico cat. We named her Cricket.

A year or so after getting her, we moved to a new house. It wasn't but a few days in that house that I was sleeping in my room, the window of which faces toward the street. Cricket was in the room, but started hissing at the window.

Curious, I checked out the window and there was an old tabby cat outside. When it saw me, it started to rub against the outside of the window. Cricket slunk over to the corner and hissed constantly.

After a few moments of watching the cat, I went to the front door to see if it had a tag. When I looked outside, there was nothing. No cat. I've never seen that cat since then, and no one in that neighborhood ever had such a cat.

I'll be damned if it didn't look like my old cat, visiting me one last time.

*Credited to ClericofMadness*
Ayyliens from Lmao

Something magical, but twisted, happened to me.

While smoking weed and eating shrooms with my best friend, we heard a loud noise come from my backyard. We were too stoned to know what was going on, so we ignored it. Then we randomly went to our backyard to get more of our supplies, and there it was. It was a spaceship. Then a tiny space dude came out of the ship. It said this:

"Ayy lmao"

We were so stoked about this little dude that we went backwards and said "woaaaah." It mimicked our reaction. I asked the dude the question.

"So... where are you from, little gray dude?"

"I am the ayylien from lmao. I have cousins."

Then more gray dudes came down from the spaceship, and greeted us with "ayy lmao."

"So, why you dudes come here on earth?"

"We cum here for 69.96 dollars of it weed, lmao," they said.

"Why buy it, when you can smoke it, duuuuueeed." My friend said.

Then the gray dudes said "duueeeed."

Then my friend said "dueeeed" again.

It was a never-ending "dueeed" fest until the ayyliens picked up the grass.

Then that's where the party happens.

It was so bad of a party that Cheech and Chong appeared to join on our grass smoking party.

"Duueed... since when did our gardners smoked grass?"

"I dunno dude!"

Then all of the supply just disappeared. We smoked all of it, it seemed...

But so were the ayyliens...

After coming out of our high and Cheech and Ching leaving, we heard a little "ayy lmao." from the horizon.

By Fatal Disease
Nemesis

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,

I have lived o'er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,

When the sky was a vaporous flame;

I have seen the dark universe yawning

Where the black planets roll without aim,

Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,

Under sinister grey-clouded skies,

That the many-forked lightning is rending,

That resound with hysterical cries;

With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches

Of the hoary primordial grove,

Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,

And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,

And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains

That rise barren and bleak from the plain,

I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains

That ooze down to the marsh and the main;

And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,

I have trod its untenanted hall,

Where the moon rising up from the valleys

Shows the tapestried things on the wall;

Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder

At the mouldering meadows around,

At the many-roofed village laid under

The curse of a grave-girdled ground;

And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,

I have flown on the pinions of fear,

Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;

Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:

And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted

The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;

I was old in those epochs uncounted

When I, and I only, was vile;

And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,

And great is the reach of its doom;

Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,

Nor can respite be found in the tomb:

Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,

I have lived o'er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

*Credited to H.P. Lovecraft*