Gaston, South Carolina is a lonely little place.
Sitting just south of Columbia along 321, it’s just a small crumb off of the misshapen piece of pie on the United States plate that we call South Carolina. Its population has almost never gone over two thousand, and it is only 3.4 square miles across in all directions. It feels even lonelier when you come in from a place like Roanoke, Virginia.
After Mom lost her job, we moved to the only place where the rest of our family resided – good ol’ South Cackalacky. I had been moping on the trip the whole time on the way down here. The way I saw it, the only friends I was going to be making here were fire ants and that inferno of a sun.
Once we got settled in at 304 Dixiana Drive (I always remembered the address because the number in it was carved into the driveway, and it spelled “hoe” if you looked at it upside down), I immediately set out into the neighborhood in search of friends. I didn’t know how to ride a bike at the time and I barely knew how to ride a skateboard, so I petered down a long stretch of road directly across from the front of the house on my cheap little Wal-Mart board until I came to a small cul-de-sac that seemed to go uphill.
Sitting outside on his front porch was a chubby kid with glasses that looked about ten or eleven, about my age at the time. I really had no one else to talk to, so I asked what his name was and he told me that it was Terry. He liked being outside a lot and I didn’t, but we both seemed to like video games. With that, we would get along just fine. There was one thing that he hadn’t told me over the next few weeks that we spent riding around the neighborhood: he was into scary movies.
I was a massive chicken when it came to anything that seemed intent on forcing you to change your underwear every five minutes, so I didn’t really like this aspect of him. Even worse, he had tons of horror movie action figures and loads of VHS tapes of all the creepy movies you could think of stacked in his room. Every time I came to visit, he was almost certain to scare the living bejeezus out of me with one of those creepy Freddy Kreuger dolls or force me to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with him in the dark.
His room wasn’t really that nice-looking to begin with. He had a bunk bed (he was an only child, and only his grandmother lived with him) in which he slept on the bottom and all his slasher flicks and action figures slept on top. There were loads of holes in the walls and everything had a generally grimy feel to it. It made those horrifying moments of watching pure terror in the dark all the more… icky.
One day, when he realized that I pretty much hated any kind of horror movies he threw at me, he began telling me urban legends. Some of them were about the town as a whole, but more often than not, they were about our particular neighborhood. I didn’t really believe any of them.
That is, until he told me about Hanging Man Hill.
It was about a year after we had met each other and we were riding around the neighborhood (by this time, Terry had told me to “man up” and he had eventually taught me how to ride a bike). He stopped when we were riding in front of a house we had simply entitled “The Crack Shack” due to its residents being stoned out of their minds on a regular basis. He seemed to be peering out at a small pathway behind the place that went up the farther you went back. He was usually the leader when it came to showing me new places in the neighborhood, so I didn’t question a thing when he beckoned for me to follow him up the trail.
It was a pretty steep climb up the side of the hill, with plenty of sand and rocks to send anyone not being careful straight back down. It felt as though the trees were closing tighter and tighter on us until we reached a large opening at the top. Besides the empty soda bottles and used condoms, the only manmade thing in the area that I could see were long stretches of telephone poles going across a series of sandy, dry hills. If not for the two strips of heavy forest on either side of these hills, it might have gone on forever.
The area didn’t seem to have any particular importance. I had expected him to bring me to some awful cemetery, but in the dying light of the late afternoon sky, those rolling hills looked beautiful. I thought that me might try some desperate last attempt to scare me, but instead, he just turned to me with the most serious and grim face I’d ever seen on him.
“Here we are. Hanging Man Hill,” he whispered.
“Hanging Man Hill? Is this another one of your stories?”
“Sort of. Except, this one’s true.”
I rolled my eyes at the thought. How did he possibly expect me to believe any of his stories? He just kept staring at me with that face, waiting for me to respond.
“How could this even be a ‘Hanging Man Hill’? There’s no hanging man, and there’s at least five dozen hills here!”
“Right down there. Look.”
He pointed his finger toward the nearest telephone pole, sitting between the two closest hills to us. A small creek, no more than five feet across, ran between the two hills and went onward into that never-ending forest. There was no hanging man, but the pole itself seemed more ominous than the rest.
“Roy Terrance,” he whispered.
“Who?”
“It wouldn’t be Hanging Man Hill without a hanging man, would it?”
He bolted down the first hill on that blazing orange bike of his. I tried to keep up, but Wal-Mart and sporting goods don’t seem to mix. There was a faulty chain on my cheap dull red bike. The sticks from the surrounding trees had rooted themselves to the ground and were now snagging on the dangling chain. With one mighty tug of a huge root on the bike, I was head over handlebars all the way to the bottom. I landed on my knees with a small sploosh sound as my legs hit the water. It couldn’t have been more than a few inches deep.
I almost called for help from Terry when I realized that he had stopped at the bottom just before I had tumbled to the creek alongside him. His head was peering upwards, looking straight at the top of that dark and shadowy-looking telephone pole.
“Little help?” I squeaked.
Terry broke his gaze with the pole just long enough to wrench me from the creek and get me to my feet. After that, his stare continued to be fixed on seemingly nothing at the top of the pole for the longest time.
“What is it – or who – that you’re looking for again?” I grumbled in frustration. I was going to be pretty pissed if he had taken me down here and all I had gotten out of the trip was a banged-up knee. I hadn’t noticed the pain before because the water in the stream was cool, but now it stung like the dickens.
“Roy Terrance. Owner of that small shed just beyond the trees over there.” I hadn’t noticed the shed before. It sat just behind a large oak. It couldn’t have been bigger than five outhouses put together.
“After his wife and kid left him, he hung himself on the wires just above us. Cops didn’t find much, just a charred husk of what used to be a man. Legend says that whoever is out here at his exact time of death gets strung up on the wires with him.”
“Oh, and do tell, when would that be?”
For once, he broke his serious tone to give me a goofy “I dunno!” shrug, and then he was back to that grim attitude.
“And you’re suggesting that we stay here and wait for him? Despite the many excuses I have to dispute this, I think I’m going to go with ‘It’s late and mom is making dinner, so I have to go home.’”
“Fine. Tell your mom that you’re sleeping over at my house tomorrow night, and I’ll do vice versa with my gramma. Meet me here at seven.”
Against my better judgement, I decided that I might as well come. What harm could it do? Obviously, he was lying and if nothing else, it would set my mind at ease to see that he was. While none of his stories actually seemed to be true up until this point, his sudden change of tone had made it slightly more believable. When he had told his other stories, he was giggling so hard that one might think that he had snorted at least a pound of Happy Crack.
When we were headed home, just as the last tint of orange had left the sky, I asked him, "Why did you get so serious back there? You’re always such a total goofball.”
“I lost my grandpa to Roy Terrance. My gramma was with him when it happened. Haven’t you ever wondered why she’s so grumpy all the time?”
His grandmother was, in fact, very crotchety. I had never bothered to ask why she was that way. If this was all some elaborate hoax by Terry, I was going to slap him into next Thursday when it was done.
That night, I had a horrible nightmare. Like most people, I couldn’t remember much about it, but it had Roy Terrance written all over it. Even though it was roasting on that hot South Carolina night, I had woken up with the chills.
By the time 6 PM had rolled around, I had already packed my old school backpack with basic equipment like a flashlight and a few bags of Chex Mix in case we got hungry. By 6:30, I had rolled out into the neighborhood as fast as an overweight 11-year-old could. I had to admit, I was actually pretty excited. Finally, at around 6:55, I arrived at the small creek where Terry had already set up a small fire and was roasting marshmallows. If I hadn’t decided to show up, I would have disappointed him like hell.
“How exactly is this going to work out? Are we just going to camp out here all night? We don’t know when he’s supposed to show up,” I said.
“Er’ll wert erl nert hurr erf er herft ter.” He had stuffed his face with a marshmallow.
“What?”
He crammed the marshmallow down his throat. “I said, I’ll wait here all night if I have to.”
“Whatever,” I retorted as I plopped down next to his fire (he had thrown three lighters in to keep it lit) and began to pull out my snacks.
After about three hours, the first of the crickets had begun to sing their endless chirping song as the last streak of sun had reached its end. I had begun to grow irritated, and a little bit tired. Terry was wide awake, his hand glued to the bag of marshmallows. He had begun his eternal gaze on the top of the pole again.
“Terry…? Man, I’m tired. If I don’t see a crispy dead dude in the next hour, I’m out.”
“Mmmfkay.” His cheek stuck out like a squirrel’s with another marshmallow.
I snuggled up to the fire and began to doe off. Just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, a loud, crusty, brittle peeling sound echoed through the hills and out into the forest. I immediately sat up. My vision was pretty blurred form having almost dozed off, but I could make out Terry’s shape. He was gaping, wide-eyed, at the top of the pole. If there had been a bit of moonlight, I might have seen what I was sure to have seen up there, but the crescent moon sat beyond the trees, like the shed.
In an instant, Terry was on his bike and flying up the hill, bag of marshmallows in hand. I managed to pull myself up and get to my bike. I began peddling like a madman when I realized that my chain had popped off. Stupid damn bike. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I peered back at the top of the pole one more time before I bolted to the top of the hill.
Roy Terrance was not so much of a person as he was a sagging shape. His flesh, dark as the night, was clinging to his bones for dear life. His facial features, though not entirely evident, seemed to be in a constant state of both agony and ecstatic joy. And that eye… that one eye he had left, deep in its socket, gazed upon me with absolute hatred and insatiable want. Just when it seemed that he was ready to climb off of the wire and come for me, the weak spine that had been holding his head to that molten pile of flesh and bones snapped, sending what was left of his skull tumbling into the fire Terry had started. It gave me one glowing, burning satisfied grin before disintegrating into a wisp of ash.
I had been halfway up the hill before I had realized I was moving. I followed the bike tracks Terry had left, which led further into the hills instead of off to the side, where the trail led back to the neighborhood. Just as I clawed my way to the top of the hill, I saw a thin shape, dangling from above.
“Oh no,” I croaked.
Terry’s bike, that blazing orange bike that he loved so much, was left wrecked at the base of a telephone pole. Above, Terry’s body hung limply. Although, it didn’t look much like Terry anymore.
Terry hadn’t been on the wires as long as Roy, which made it even worse. He was charred, but not entirely. His eyes bulged from his head in constant shock. What was left of his hair stood on end, still smoking. The seemingly endless wires above entangled Terry’s neck like a boa constrictor. Dangling from his scrawny, burnt little arm was a bag of marshmallows, melted to his hand from the heat.
The police investigation didn’t dig up much. They had scoured all throughout the area and had not found any evidence that anyone was ever there. I begged them to search the telephone wires, but they continued to state that there was no evidence that anybody had even touched the wires. The search continued for three weeks. After police had finally given up, Terry’s grandmother passed away. For those last few days, she hadn’t said anything to anyone at all. She only sat and stared at a picture of her and her husband for the remainder of her life.
After the house had been cleared out, the contents of Terry’s room were offered to me. His entire collection of horror movies, action figures and all else were donated to Goodwill. My request.
I went back a few years later. We had gone to Gaston to visit with our family for a while, and I had requested that we stop by the neighborhood. Any evidence that we had ever been there those few fateful years ago had been swept away by police or the weather. Now, like before, there was only useless garbage and telephone poles. Just as I was getting ready to walk away, I caught a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye. I only saw a tiny bit of it before it fluttered away.
It was a melted marshmallow bag.
Do you have something that you truly, relentlessly desire? Despite your state of life, is there something else that you would go completely to the end of the world to get? Well lucky for you, there’s a way to achieve what you’re looking for, and you won’t need to go to the end of the world to get it. But you will need to go somewhere, and the place may be too out of reach for some. It’s not far away, closer than one may believe but there are requirements that some individuals may not meet.
First, whatever it is that you seek, know that you must seriously desire what you want. In your eyes, it should be something you need. If you begin the journey without the correct state of mind, you will surely fail, as it will be near impossible to turn back once the journey starts. The second requirement is that you will need a vehicle of sorts. Most use a car, as it’s the most comfortable choice. There have been a select few that have used a small motorized vehicle, such as an ATV or motorcycle, but this has proven to be quite difficult, as the conditions of the journey can prove to be too bothersome.
Do not use a vehicle too large or noticeable, as you will need some of the cover of night to be most safe. Also, while any sort of car will do, you may not want to choose the most expensive or cherished vehicle. You can take your slick new black Mercedes for the drive if you’d like, but don’t expect it to come out in a pristine state. Make sure your vehicle is completely fueled before beginning the drive.
The first task to accomplish is to locate the road. It doesn’t have a name, it’s not on the map, and technically, it doesn’t even exist. It will only show up if you’re looking for it at the right time, and you will only spot it if you know what to look for. Finally, you must be alone during the journey. You didn’t think you’d be able to go with a group, did you?
It must be night when you begin. Choose the time of the night where you believe the roads are the least populated. Drive to any area that is just a stretch of road surrounded by woods. Here’s where you want to start paying close attention. If you’re looking for the road, it will turn up eventually, but you need to search for the road’s hint in order to pull down the right one. Once you’re close, you will see or feel its signs but what the signs will be will depend on what it is you desire. For example, if you’re in search of wealth, you may spot shimmers on the empty branches of trees as if they resembled the shine of gold or diamonds. If you seek love, you may begin to see rose petals slowly dance in the light breeze, blowing in the road’s direction. If you seek revenge, you might sense an ever-growing feeling of heat or anger in your body as you approach. Just know what it is you really want, and you’ll have no problem finding the turn.
Once you’re sure you’ve found the revealed road, take a deep breath, and turn down onto it.
At this point, you have officially started down the nameless road which brings you through 11 miles, leading to whatever it is you seek. Each mile will test your desire, and will expose if you really do want what you’re searching for. Before you go any further, stop the car and be wary of a few advisements:
Do not turn on a radio during a drive.
Do not turn a phone during a drive (reception would be cut off anyway).
Do not open the windows during the drive. Make sure they are closed before you continue. If you are riding a vehicle without windows or a top, then prepare for the worst, as the odds are heavily against you.
Do not attempt to leave your vehicle at ANY time.
You’ll never want to exceed 30 miles per hour, unless you’re desperate to make it through a section of the road.
And, most importantly, as with any drive, buckle up.
Feel free to prepare and make sure you’re ready. Once the road has been entered, time has stopped so you don’t need to worry about losing the night. Though you may not notice, you’re not actually in your own world anymore. Take one last moment to realize that once the first mile is over there is no turning back. If you ponder turning back at all, know that you shouldn’t even be on the journey in the first place. Once all is done, continue on the road.
On the first mile, you won’t see much change. The road passes through mostly woods with a few miles being an exception. The air will turn a bit colder, in which you should turn on your heating system if the vehicle has one. You won’t want to take your eyes off the road later. Take some time to calm any uneasiness by admiring some of the night sky. You’ll see it completely lined with stars, more than what you would ever believe possible. If the weather was cloudy beforehand, you’ll also notice that the sky is now clear.
On the second mile, the air will become even colder. This is primarily the reason why traveling in an open vehicle is very difficult. With each mile, the air will drop in temperature even if the season should be warm. If the air is too cold to bear, even with the heat on, your only option is to speed up. With each mile the road also becomes more complex, taking more turns and showing an increasing amount of road hazards. Be sure to always keep focused on the road in front of you in order to avoid as many bumps or obstacles as possible. Hitting a few rocks and potholes won’t hamper your progress too much, but you’ll want to keep in the best condition for as long as possible. If your vehicle is forced to stop because of damage, then there’s nothing left you can do but eventually freeze to death.
On the third mile, you may begin to spot silhouettes of human figures in the linings of trees. Pay no attention to them, even if they seem to get closer. It will be hard to resist peeking at their unnerving, distant appearance but know that they will reveal themselves later. At this mile, the road will become dirt if you weren’t driving on it in the beginning. Keep to the center of the path as it will become narrow and wide at random intervals. On a quick side note, should you ever attempt to turn around (despite the previous warnings) you’ll be left on a path which never ends. You would simply run out of fuel eventually, and be left to freeze in the cold conditions.
On the fourth mile, you will not only see more of the figures but you will begin to in a sense hear them. In the back of your mind, a very faint intelligible whisper will echo. These will come and go, but you can’t stop them. If they become bothersome or distracting, try and tune them out by thinking of what it is you desire. Attempting to listen and determine what the voices are saying will only attract them to you, and you want to be as far away from them as you can. They’ll be closer later, so there’s no use bringing them near you this early.
On the fifth mile, you will come to a clearing. The lining of trees to your left will disappear to reveal a lake with no end with a beaming, great moon over the water. The illumination from the moon will be so spectacular that the vehicle’s headlights will no longer be required. Restrain yourself form gazing at it. If you look at its light for even more than a few seconds the road in front of you will end, throwing your vehicle into the water in which you will freeze in mere minutes. The voices will be gone for this mile, but don’t rejoice yet. They’ll be back.
On the sixth mile, take into account that you are more than halfway done. Despite the progress, you may lose hope here. The stars will have disappeared at this point, leaving the sky an empty, black abyss. The clearing will have ended, leading you back into the woods. The only light you will have will be provided by your vehicle’s headlights, but they will flicker from time to time even if you’re sure they’re in perfect working order.
If you have a radio in the vehicle, it will turn on here automatically. If you didn’t turn it off beforehand, it will produce an overwhelming screech that will send you off the path. A calm voice will then begin to speak about your greatest fears, what it is you are horrified of in your life. It will speak in a way that will cause you to visualize the words in your mind, so don’t listen to it. If you begin to comprehend what it’s saying, the horrors will prove too much for you to stay on the road safely. Attempting to turn off the radio will prove no use. Speed up if you need to, just keep your mind off the voice as much as you can. As you approach the end of the mile, the voice will fade out of the speakers, leaving your ears at peace (for now).
On the seventh mile, the voices from the figures will return. It won’t sound like a whisper this time, but more like distant screams, growing closer with each second. At some point on this mile, you’ll hear one of them in your ear, as if one of them were right behind you. This is because one of the figures have found their way into your vehicle. Do not turn around. Their face will shock you to a paralysis, leading you off the road. If you don’t draw attention to it, it will become uninterested, and hopefully leave. These beings are said to be ones who have travelled down this road before, but were not successful. They live the remainder of their existences suffering, in the darkness with their only goal being to bring other travelers down with them. It has been said from experience that these beings can’t physically harm you, so as long as they don’t cause you to wreck, you should be fine.
On the eighth mile, slow down if you’re going too fast. The road here takes very sharp turns, which if overshot will throw the vehicle into a pit through the trees. The cold is near fatal here. If you were to have a glass or bottle of liquid in your vehicle, it would be solid in seconds. The heating system will have become completely obsolete. Your headlights will flicker more, sometimes shutting off for a few seconds. You should brake if this happens, but do not completely stop. The figures will be following you at this point, and should you stop for too long, they will surround and trap your vehicle. More of their screams can be heard from outside your doors, sometimes even sounding of maniacal laughter. Their hands will claw at your windows, desperate to reach in and feel something living. Do not look at them. They won’t block your windshield, and the last thing you want to happen is to crash and be trapped with them. If you don’t make it from here, pray that it’s the freezing that ends you.
On the ninth mile, your vehicle will stall. The headlights will shut off, as will all other systems inside. There’s nothing you can do to prevent this. What you will need to do is close your eyes and immediately attempt to restart the vehicle. Keep your eyes closed, as the figures would have surely surrounded you at this point. The starting of the vehicle will frighten them, and they will all back away temporarily. This will give you a chance to start moving forward again. If you begin to hear the windows crack from their struggle, don’t lose focus. The beings can alter the vehicle but remember that they still do not have the strength to physically affect you. You will hear nothing but their voices’ rampage in your mind, as there could be anywhere between a dozen or a hundred after you now. Once you start the vehicle, floor it. Floor it so long as you can stay on the path. When the mile’s done, the beings will retreat.
On the tenth mile, the voices of the beings will stop. If you were to look in your rear-view mirror (do not actually do this), you would see them following you but not as if they were chasing. They’re watching you, as if they were seeing you off. As you go down the tenth mile, the road will be smoother, as if you were back on the first mile. The figures will be lining the sides of the path ahead of you. They won’t be after you, but they will watch you as you pass. Some have theorized that the beings are impressed here, that you have come a long way on the journey to what you desire. This is false. They are not impressed, but they are happy. They are happy you are about to approach the next mile. They are happy because you are most likely going to your death.
On the eleventh and final mile, everything in your vehicle will lose power as it did on the ninth mile. The vehicle would normally be immobile, but you will still be moving. An unknown force will be pulling you forward. In the darkness, you will see a glowing red light up ahead, as if it were a light at the end of a tunnel.
Close your eyes, and cover them. Do whatever it takes to make sure you do not see what you are about to go through. Covering your ears would also be helpful, but keeping your eyes covered should be a higher priority.
The red light is another clearing, but there’s no moon or lake this time. Once it’s entered, unrelenting and inconceivable noises will sound from all directions. No amount of bravery and conditioning will spare you from these sounds. The cold will turn to a merciless heat, burning all parts of the vehicle. You will feel the illusion of the flesh being burned off your bones, that every part of you is being destroyed as you travel through screams and audible suffering. As long as you keep your eyes closed, and resist the urge to see where you are, you will survive through the suffering. This will last a total of 31 seconds but many fail to keep their vision closed during that time and are left to the worst fate of the road. Where is this mile located? Those who have survived do not know. Some have named it “the transmission from Hell” but whether it’s part of Hell is debatable.
After the final mile, power will return. Stop the vehicle. Take a moment to possibly regain some of your sanity. Let the screaming in your ears begin to fade and know that you have nearly completed your journey with the hardest task overcome.
Breathe, and begin to drive forward once again.
After only a kilometer, your vehicle will arrive at a dead end. Stop here and don’t attempt to move again. Nothing will happen right this second but do not be disappointed. Relax and close your eyes. Imagine in your mind what it is you’ve desired the entire time. It will most likely still be the same as when you entered, but with some this desire may actually change through making this journey. Think about what it was that you went through such terrifying and difficult means to acquire and imagine possessing it in your hands.
Once you have completely visualized this, slowly open your eyes.
You will then find yourself at the beginning of the unnamed road, where you first began. This may confuse you, but know that you are finished. Your task is done.
Your mind will then turn to your reward. If what you desired was material, check in the back seat or in the trunk if the object is larger. If the object was small enough, it might already be in your pocket. If what you desired was nonmaterial, then do not be disappointed if the change is not immediate. Turn back to where you came from, and you will find in your life that what you wanted is there. You may have found the love of your dreams. You may have gained unnatural, unimaginable power. You may have put your most hated enemy to the most satisfying revenge possible. You will have no doubt gained what you deserve.
So now that the task is done, what’s the catch? Is your vehicle cursed? Is there something you’re about to lose? Is your death imminent? The answer to all is no, of course. You’ve done the challenge. You’ve proved worthy of what you desire. As stated before, the sounds of the eleventh mile will continue to exist in your mind, potentially causing you some vivid and unusual nightmares, but these should prove as nothing compared to what you’ve gained.
Now, one last question: is there something else you desire? Are you not yet satisfied? After all, you’re left right back where you started. The road’s right in front of you, so are you up for another drive?
If so, buckle up, and just move forward.
Sometime during the night of August 16, 1952, the small town of Ashley, Kansas ceased to exist. At 3:28 AM on August 17, 1952, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The earthquake itself was felt throughout the state and most of the Midwest. The epicenter was determined to be directly under Ashley, Kansas.
When state law enforcement arrived at what should have been the outskirts of the farming community, they found a smoldering, burning fissure in the earth measuring 1,000 yards in length and approximately 500 yards in width. The depth of the fissure was never determined.
After twelve days, the state-wide and local search for the missing 679 residents of Ashley, Kansas, was called off by the Kansas State Government at 9:15 PM on the night of August 29, 1952. All 679 residents were assumed to be dead. At 2:27 AM on August 30, 1952, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The epicenter was situated under what used to be the location of Ashley, Kansas. When law enforcement investigated at 5:32 AM, they reported that the fissure in the earth had closed.
In the eight days leading up to the disappearance of the town and its 679 residents, bizarre and unexplainable events were reported by dozens of residents in Ashley, Kansas and law enforcement from the surrounding area.
On the evening of August 8, 1952, at 7:13 PM, a resident by the name of Gabriel Johnathan reported a strange sight in the sky above Ashley. The town itself, having no official branch of law enforcement, called into the police station of the neighboring town of Hays. Gabriel reported what appeared to be a “small, black opening in the sky.” Within the next fifteen minutes, the Hays police station became overwhelmed with dozens of phone calls all reporting the same phenomenon. The phenomenon was never reported by any neighboring communities. A decision was made to send a trooper to Ashley to investigate the matter the following morning.
At 7:54 AM on the morning of August 9, 1952, Hays police officer Allan Mace radioed the Hays Police Station. He reported that, despite following the one-way road leading into Ashley, he had become lost. According to his report, the road “continued along its normal path, but somehow ended up back in Hays.” Officer Mace went on to add that the road never curved, or bent in any direction. At 9:15 AM, seven of the town’s ten police cars were sent to investigate the situation, and all members of the team came to the same conclusion. The only road leading into Ashley stopped leading into Ashley, but instead led back to Hays. Phone calls continued to pour into the Hays Police Station, all reporting that the black opening in the sky continued to grow in size. All callers were advised to remain inside, and not to travel outside unless absolutely necessary. At 8:17 PM, Mrs. Elaine Kantor reported her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Milton, and their two children, Jeffrey and Brooke, missing. According to Mrs. Kantor’s phone call, the Miltons attempted to leave town in their family car earlier in the evening. They never returned. Law enforcement officials from Hays never reported the car, or individuals, coming up the one-way road.
At 7:38 AM on the morning of August 10, 1952, phone calls from Ashley into the Hays Police Station reported that the town was in total darkness. The sun had never risen. At 10:15 AM, at the request of Hays Law Enforcement, a helicopter from Topeka, Kansas flew over the region in which Ashley, Kansas stood. The town was never observed from air.
At 12:43 PM on the afternoon of August 11, 1952, Ms. Phoebe Danielewski called into the Hays Police Station. She reported that her daughter Erica had begun to have conversations with her father, who had died three years prior in a drunk driving accident. To add to her concern, Ms. Danielewski reported that Erica was attempting to go outside into the dark, to “join them.” Over the course of the next twelve hours, a reported 329 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Station all describing similar phenomenon with the children of the town.
The following morning of August 12, 1952, the situation became dire. During the middle of the night, all 217 children in the town of Ashley, Kansas disappeared. A reported 421 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Department. Unable to be of any useful assistance, Hays Law Enforcement instructed all callers to remain inside and to avoid any and all attempts at finding the missing children.
At 5:19 PM on August 13, 1952, Ashley elderly man Scott Luntz reported a growing, distant fire to the south. According to his description, the fire seemed to turn the distant black into “bright red and orange [that] seemed to extend high into the sky.” Throughout the rest of the day, calls continued in, stating that the fire, in addition to moving north, now seemed to “come out of the black sky.” No fire was ever witnessed by any of the neighboring communities or law enforcement officials.
The reports continued until 12:09 AM on the morning of August 14, 1952. The last phone call, placed by a Mr. Benjamin Endicott, reported that the fire in the sky had grown so intense that it began to appear as daytime over the town. The phone call ended abruptly:
(FROM THE PHONE CALL PLACED BY BENJAMIN SHERMAN ENDICOTT):
Benjamin:
“Just hold on… wait…”
(continued silence)
“Yeah, yeah I see something. It’s to the south. It looks like—“
[END PHONE CALL]
The next phone call wouldn’t be placed until the following evening.
The following is the entire transcript of the final phone call to be received by the Hays Police Department out of the town of Ashley, Kansas. It was placed at 9:46 PM on the evening of August 15, 1952. In this recorded phone call, the officer on duty is Officer Peter Welsch. The caller has been identified as Ms. April Foster.
[BEGIN PHONE CALL]
Officer Welsch:
“Hays Police Department.”
(muffled static)
Officer Welsch:
“Hello?”
Foster:
“YES… yes, hello?”
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am, who am I speaking with?”
Foster:
“My name is April, April Foster.” (coughs) “Please, sir. Please help me.”
Office Welsch:
“What is happening, ma’am?”
Foster:
“Last night… last night they came back.”
Officer Welsch:
“Ma,am, I’m going to need you to—“
Foster:
“LAST NIGHT THEY CAME BACK!” (cries)
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down, and speak clearly. What happened? Who came back?”
Foster:
(sobbing) “Everyone.”
Officer Welsch:
“Everyone?”
Foster:
“They all came in the fire.”
Officer Welsch:
“What do you mean everyone?”
Foster:
“My son… I saw my son last night. He was walking… he was walking down the street. He was burned. Jesus Christ HE WAS BURNED.”
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am I—“
Foster:
“He died last year. I raised him since he was a baby… it was just me and him. I told him to watch for cars when he rode his bike. But he never wanted to listen.”
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am, what you’re saying isn’t making any sense. You said everyone came back?”
Foster:
“ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME? EVERYONE. Everyone came back. Everyone who died, or went missing, they’re back. And they’re looking for US!” (cries) “He… he said: ‘Mommy, I’m okay now! See, I can walk again! Where are you, Mommy? I want to see you!’” (sobs)
Officer Welsch:
“…Ma’am, where are you now? Are you safe?”
Foster:
“I’m hiding. Just like everyone else. We saw them coming through the fields… and… some people opened their doors for them. God, the SCREAMING.” (pause) “I don’t know what happened to them. But their houses caught fire and they… caved in. I have my curtains drawn. I’m hiding in the closet right now and—“ (silence)
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am, is everything alright, are you okay?”
Foster:
(silence)
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am?”
Foster:
(glass breaking)
“Oh… oh my God.”
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am?”
Foster:
“Something just came in.” (muffled cries)
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am, stay as quiet as you can. Don’t make a sound.”
Foster:
(muffled: ‘Mommy… Mommy?’)
(sobbing) “He came inside.”
Officer Welsch:
“Stay absolutely still. Don’t leave.”
Foster:
(sound of muffled footsteps)
(muffled: ‘Mommy? Mommy, where are you hiding?’)
Officer Welsch:
“Stay quiet.”
Foster:
(sound of heavy footsteps, laughter, muffled: ‘I found you, MOMMY!’)
(indiscernible screaming and noise)
Officer Welsch:
“Ma’am? MA’AM?”
[END PHONE CALL]
The following morning, at 6:55 AM, the law enforcement officials of the Hays Police Department arrived at the location of Ashley, Kansas. A smoldering, burning fissure in the earth was all that remained.
Some of you may have heard that the Disney corporation is responsible for at least one real, “live” Ghost Town.
Disney built the “Treasure Island” resort in Baker’s Bay in the Bahamas. It didn’t START as a ghost town! Disney’s cruise ships would actually stop at the resort and leave tourists there to relax in luxury.
This is a fact. Look it up.
Disney blew $30,000,000 dollars on the place… yes, thirty million dollars.
Then they abandoned it.
Disney blamed the shallow waters (too shallow for their ships to safely operate) and there was even blame cast on the workers, saying that since they were from the Bahamas, they were too lazy to work a regular schedule.
That’s where the factual nature of their story ends. It wasn’t because of sand, and it obviously wasn’t because “foreigners are lazy”. Both are convenient excuses.
No, I sincerely doubt those reasons were legitimate. Why don’t I buy the official story?
Because of Mowgli’s Palace.
Near the beachside City of Emerald Isle in North Carolina, Disney began construction of “Mowgli’s Palace” in the late 1990s. The concept was a jungle-themed resort with a large, you guessed it, palace in the center of the whole thing.
If you’re unfamiliar with the character of Mowgli, then you might better remember the story “The Jungle Book”. If you haven’t seen it anywhere else, you’d know it as the Disney cartoon from decades past.
Mowgli is an abandoned child, in the jungle, essentially raised by animals and simultaneously threatened/pursued by other animals.
Mowgli’s Palace was a controversial undertaking from the start. Disney bought up a ton of high-priced land for the project, and there was actually a scandal surrounding some of the purchases. The local government claimed “eminent domain” on people’s homes, and turned around and sold the properties to Disney. At one point a home that had just been constructed was immediately condemned with little to no explanation.
The land grabbed by the government was supposedly for some fictional highway project. Knowing full well what was going on, people started calling it the “Mickey Mouse Highway”.
Then there was the concept art. A group of stuffed shirts from Disney Co. actually held a city meeting. They intended to sell everyone on how lucrative this project was going to be for everyone. When they showed the concept art, this gigantic Indian Palace… surrounded by the JUNGLE… staffed with men and women in loincloths and tribal gear… well, suffice to say everyone flipped their shit.
We’re talking about a large Indian palace, jungle and Loincloths not only in the center of a relatively wealthy area, but also a somewhat “xenophobic” area of the southern USA. It was a questionable mix at that point in history.
One member of the crowd tried to storm the stage, but he was quickly subdued by security after he managed to break one of the presentation boards over his knee.
Disney took that community and essentially broke it over its knee, as well. The houses were razed, the land was cleared, and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do or say about it. Local TV and newspapers were against the resort at the beginning, but some insane connection between Disney’s media holdings and the local venues came into play and their opinions turned on a dime.
So anyway, Treasure Island, the Bahamas. Disney sunk those millions in and then split. The same thing happened with Mowgli’s Palace.
Construction was complete. Visitors actually stayed at the resort. The surrounding communities were flooded with traffic and the usual annoyances associated with an influx of lost and irate tourists.
Then it all just stopped.
Disney shut it down and nobody knew what the hell to think. But they were pretty happy about it. Disney’s loss was pretty hilarious and wonderful to a large group of folks who didn’t want this in the first place.
I honestly didn’t give the place another thought since hearing it closed over a decade ago. I live maybe four hours from Emerald Isle, so really I only heard the rumblings and didn’t experience any of it first-hand.
Then I read this article from someone who had explored the Treasure Island resort and posted a whole blog about all the crazy shit he found there. Stuff just… left behind. Things smashed, defaced, probably ruined by the disgruntled former employees who had lost their jobs.
Hell, the locals from all around here probably had a hand in wrecking that place. People there felt just as angry about Treasure Island as folks here did about Mowgli’s Palace.
Plus there were rumors that Disney had released their aquarium “stock” into the local waters when they closed… including sharks. Who wouldn’t want to take a few swings at some merchandise after that?
Well, what I’m getting at is that this blog about Treasure Island got me thinking. Even though many years had passed since its closing, I figured it might be cool to do some “urban exploration” at Mowgli’s Palace. Take some photos, write about my experience, and probably see if there was anything I could take home as a memento.
I’m not going to say I wasted no time in getting there, because honestly it took me another year after I first found that Treasure Island article to get around to going up to Emerald Isle.
Over the course of that year, I did a lot of research on the Palace resort… or rather, I tried to.
Naturally, no official Disney site or resource made any mention of the place. That had been scrubbed clean.
Even odder, however, is that nobody before myself had apparently thought to blog about the place or even post a photo. None of the local TV or newspaper sites had one word about the place, though that was to be expected since they had all swung Disney’s way. They wouldn’t be out there lauding their embarrassment, you know?
Recently, I learned that corporations can actually ask Google, for example, to remove links from search results… basically for no good reason. Looking back, it’s probably not that nobody spoke of the resort, but rather their words were made inaccessible.
So, in the end, I could barely find the place. All I had to go on was an old-as-hell map I’d received in the mail back in the 90s. It was a promotional item sent out to people who had recently been to DisneyWorld, and I guess since I had been there in the late 80s, that was “recent.”
I didn’t really intend to hang onto it. It just got shoved in with my books and comics from my childhood. I’d only remembered it months into my research, and even then it took me another few weeks to locate the storage bin my parents had shoved it all into.
But I DID find it. Locals were no help, as most were transplants who had moved to the beach in recent years… or old residents who just sneered at me and made rude gestures the second I managed to say “Where would I find Mowgli’s—“
The drive took me through an inordinately long corridor of overgrowth. Tropical plants that had run rampant and overpopulated the area mixed with the native species of flora that actually belonged there and had tried to reclaim the land.
I was in awe when I reached the front gates of the resort. Tremendous, monolithic wooden gates whose supports to either side looked like they must have been cut from giant sequoias. The gate itself had been gouged in several places by woodpeckers and eaten away at the base by burrowing insects.
Hanging on the gate was a sheet of metal, some random scrap, with hand-painted letters scrawled in black. “ABANDONED BY DISNEY.” Clearly the handiwork of some past local or an employee who wanted to make some small protest.
The gates were open enough to walk through, but not drive, so grabbing my digital camera and the map, whose flip-side showed a layout of the resort, I set off on foot.
The inner grounds of the place were just as overgrown as the entryway. Palm trees stood untended and ragged among piles of their own coconuts. Banana plants similarly stood in their own stinking, bug-riddled refuse. There was this sort of clash between order and chaos, as carefully planted rows of perennial flowers mixed with obnoxious tall weeds and stinking, blackened mushrooms.
All that remained of any outdoor structures were broken, rotting wood and various charred bits of unidentifiable material. What was most likely an information booth or an outdoor bar was now simply a pile of assorted debris chopped up by past vandalism and ravaged by weather.
The most interesting thing on the grounds was a statue of Baloo, the friendly bear from the Jungle Book, which stood in a sort of courtyard in front of the main building. He was frozen in a jovial wave toward no one, staring into empty space with a silly, toothy grin as bird shit covered whole swaths of his “fur” and vines ensnared his platform.
I approached the main building – the palace – only to find the outside of it covered in graffiti where the original paint hadn’t peeled and chipped away. The front doors weren’t just open, they had been taken off their hinges and were stolen.
Above the front doors, or the gaping map where they had been, someone had once again painted “ABANDONED BY DISNEY.”
I wish I could tell you about all the awesome stuff I saw inside the palace. Forgotten statues, abandoned cash registers, a full-fledged secret society of homeless bums… but no.
The inside of the building was so stark, so bare, that I actually think people had stolen the molding off the walls. Anything that was too big to steal… counters, desks, giant fake trees… they were all resting amid this empty echo chamber that amplified my every step like a slow rat-a-tat of a machine gun.
I checked the floorplan and headed to all the locations that might seem in any way interesting.
The kitchen was as you’d imagine… an industrial food-prep area with all the appliances and space, no expenses spared. Every glass surface was broken, every door knocked off its hinges, every metal surface kicked and dented. The entire place smelled like very old piss.
The huge freezer, not even remotely cool now, had row upon row of empty shelf space. Hooks hung from the ceiling, probably for hanging cuts of meat, and as I stood inside for a moment, I noticed they were swinging.
Each hook swung in a random direction, but their movements were so slow and small that it was almost impossible to see. I figured it had been caused by my footsteps, so I stopped one from swinging by clutching it in my fist, then carefully letting go, but within seconds it started to swing once more.
The bathrooms were in much the same state as the rest of the place. Just like the Treasure Island resort, someone had methodically smashed each porcelain commode with coconuts and other implements. There was about a half-inch of rancid, stinking stagnant water on the floor, so I didn’t stay there very long.
What’s odd is that the toilets and the sinks (and the bidets in the ladies’ room, yes, I went there) all dripped, leaked, or just ran freely. It seemed to me that they should’ve shut the water off long, LONG ago.
There were plenty of rooms in the resort, but naturally I didn’t have time to look through them all. The few I did peer into were similarly wrecked, and I didn’t expect to find anything there. I thought there was actually a television or radio in one room, as I really think I heard a quiet conversation coming out.
Though it was like a whisper, probably my own breathing echoing in the silence, or just another case of the sound of flowing water playing tricks on the mind, this is what it sounded like…
1: “I didn’t believe it.”
2: (short, unknown reply)
1: “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that.”
2: “Your father told you.”
1: (unknown reply, or possibly just weeping)
I know, I know, that sounds ridiculous. I’m just telling you what I experienced, why I thought there might’ve been something running in that room – or worse, some vagrants who had holed up there and probably would’ve knifed me.
At the front doors of the Palace again, I figured I hadn’t found anything of note and had wasted the trip up.
As I looked out the door, I noticed something interesting in the courtyard that I had apparently missed. Something that would give me at least ONE thing to show for all my trouble, even if it was just a photograph.
There was a lifelike statue of a python, maybe eighty feet long, coiled up and “sunning” itself on a pedestal right in the center of the area. It was almost time for the sun to start setting, so the light fell onto the object in the perfect way for a photograph.
I approached the python and snapped a photo. Then I stood on my toes and snapped another. I moved closer again to get the detail of its face.
Slowly, casually, the python lifted its head, looked directly into my eyes, turned and slithered off the pedestal, across the grass, and into the trees.
All eighty feet of it. Its head disappeared into the woods long before its tail even left the sunning spot.
Disney had released all their exotic animals onto the grounds. Right there on my floorplan map was the “Reptile House.” I should have known. I’d read about the sharks at Treasure Island, and I should have KNOWN they’d done the same here.
I was dumbfounded, just utterly stupefied. My mouth must have been hanging open for the longest time before I came back down to Earth and snapped it shut. I blinked a few times and backed away from where the snake had been, back toward the Palace.
Even though it was totally gone, I still wasn’t taking any chances and backed my way into the building.
It took a few deep breaths and slaps to my own face to get myself right in the head again after that.
I looked for a place to sit down, as my legs were feeling a bit like jelly at this point. Of course, there was no place to sit down unless I wanted to recline in the broken glass and dead leaf carpet or haul myself up onto a desk of questionable reliability.
I had seen some stairs near the Palace’s lobby and decided to go have a seat there until I felt better.
The staircase was far enough away from the front of the building to be relatively clean, save for a startling accumulation of dust. I pulled a wedge of metal off the wall, once again painted with the “ABANDONED BY DISNEY” motto I’d become accustomed to. I placed the wedge on the stairs and sat on it to keep at least somewhat clean.
The stairway led downward, below ground level. Using my camera flash as a sort of improvised flashlight, I could see that the staircase ended in a metal mesh door with a padlock. A sign on the door… a REAL sign… read “MASCOTS ONLY! THANK YOU!”
This perked up my spirits a little bit, for two reasons. One, a Mascots-Only area would have definitely had some interesting stuff back in the day… two, the padlock was still in place. Nobody had gone down there. Not the vandals, not the looters, nobody.
This was the only place I could actually “explore” and perhaps find something interesting to photograph or wantonly steal. I had come to the Palace essentially agreeing with myself that it was okay to take anything I wanted because – hey – “abandoned”.
It didn’t take much to bust the lock. Well, actually that’s wrong. It didn’t take much to bust the metal plate on the wall that the padlock was hooked to. Time and decay had done most of the work for me, and I was able to bend the metal plate enough to pull the screws out of the wall – something nobody else had apparently thought of, or had been able to do at the time.
The Mascots-Only area was a startling and very welcomed change from the rest of the building I’d seen. For one, every second or third fluorescent light overhead was illuminated, even though they flickered and faded randomly. Also, nothing had been stolen or broken, even if age and exposure were definitely taking their toll.
Tables had notepads and pends, there were clocks… even a punch-in clock on the wall complete with filled-out time cards. Chairs were scattered around and there was even a small break room with an old, static-filled television and long rotted-out food and drink on the counters.
It was like one of those post-apocalypse movies where everything is left in the state of evacuation.
As I walked the mazelike sub-basement hallways of the Mascots-Only area, the sights just became more and more interesting. As I went further, desks and tables were knocked over, papers scattered and almost melded with the damp floor, and a large carpet of mold was slowly overtaking the real rotting crimson floor-covering.
Everything was just sort of “squishy.” Anything wood disintegrated into mush when I applied even the least amount of force, and clothing items hanging on hooks in one of the rooms simply fell to moist threads if I tried to unhook them.
One thing that annoyed me was that the light was becoming more sparse and unreliable as I went further into the dank, suffocating depths of the place.
Eventually, I reached a black and yellow striped door with the words “CHARACTER PREP 1” stenciled on it.
The door wouldn’t open at first. I figured this was probably where the costumes were kept, and I definitely wanted a photograph of that twisted, stinking mess. Try as I might, whatever angle or trick I used, the door wouldn’t budge.
That is, until I gave up and started to walk away. That was when there was a slight popping sound and the door creaked open slowly.
Inside, the room was completely dark. Pitch black. I used the camera flash to look for a light switch in the wall by the door, but there was nothing.
As I made my search, I was jarred out of my sense of excitement by a loud electrical buzz. Rows of lights overhead suddenly flashed to life, flickering and fading in and out like the rest I had passed. It took a second for my eyes to adjust, and it seemed like the light was going to just keep getting brighter until all the bulbs exploded… but just when I thought it would reach that critical stage, the lights dimmed a bit and steadied.
The room was exactly as I had pictured it. Various Disney costumes hung on the walls, fully put together like strange cartoon cadavers hung from invisible nooses.
There was an entire rack of loincloths and “native” clothes on hangers toward the back.
What I found odd, and what I wanted to photograph right away, was a Mickey Mouse costume at the center of the room. Unlike the other costumes, it was lying on its back in the center of the floor like a murder victim. The fur on the costume was rotten and shedding, creating bare patches.
What was even odder, however, was the coloring of the costume. It was like a photo negative of the actual Mickey Mouse. Black where he should be white and white where he should be black. His normally red overalls were light blue.
The sight was off-putting enough that I actually put off photographing the thing until last.
I took a picture of the costumes hanging on the walls. Upward angles, downward angles, side shots to show an entire row of frozen, putrid cartoon faces, some with plastic eyes missing.
Then I decided to stage a shot. Just one of the bedraggled character heads on the slick, grimy floor. I reached for the headpiece of a Donald Duck costume and carefully removed it so the thing wouldn’t fall apart in my hands.
As I looked into the face of the wide-eyed, moldering head, a loud clattering sound made me jump with fright.
I looked down at my feet, and there between my shoes was a human skull. It had fallen out of the mascot head and shattered into pieces at my feet; only the empty face and lower jaw remained, staring up at me.
I dropped the duck head immediately, as you’d expect, and moved for the door. As I stood in the doorway, I looked back to the skull on the floor.
I had to take a picture of it, you know? I HAD to, for any number of reasons that may seem silly, but only if you don’t think it through.
I’d need proof of what happened, especially if Disney was going to somehow make this go away. I had no doubt in my mind, right from the start, that even if it was just gross negligence, Disney was RESPONSIBLE for this.
That’s when Mickey, that photo-negative, opposite-Mickey in the middle of the floor, started to get up.
First sitting up, then climbing to its feet, the Mickey Mouse costume – or whoever was inside of it – stood there at the center of the room, its fake face just staring directly at me as I mumbled “No…” over and over and over…
With shaking hands, a violently thrashing heart, and legs that had once again turned to jelly, I managed to lift the camera and aim it at the opposite creature now quietly sizing me up.
The digital camera’s screen displayed only dead pixels in the shape of the thing. It was a perfect silhouette of the Mickey costume. As the camera moved in my unsteady hands, the dead pixels spread, marring the screen wherever Mickey’s outline moved to.
Then the camera died. Went blank and quiet and… broken. I raised my eyes once again to the Mickey Mouse costume.
“Hey,” it said in a hushed, perverted, but perfectly executed Mickey Mouse voice. “Wanna see my head come off?”
It started to pull at its own head, working its clumsy, glove-glad fingers around its neck with clawing, impatient movements similar to a wounded man trying to pull himself free of a predator’s jaws…
As it worked its digits into its neck… so much blood…
So much thick, chunky, yellow blood…
I turned away as I heard a sickening tearing of cloth and flesh… only cared about getting away. Above the doorway out of this room, I saw the final message clawed into the metal with bone or fingernails…
“ABANDONED BY GOD”
I never got the pictures out of the camera. I never wrote the blog entry about it. After I ran from that place, fled for my sanity if not my very life, I knew why Disney didn’t want anyone to know about this place.
They didn’t want anyone like me getting in.
They didn’t want anything like that getting out.
It was about three weeks ago. I was on Google, looking for some funny sites to look at, when I found my way to an image board. Everyone there spoke in extremely cryptic nonsense. They said things like, “Hiel, I saw them tonight. Holdings hand we are up in high 99924028 THE KING COME DOWN”.
That one phrase, “the king come down”, was used frequently. At first, I thought it was spam because of the number strings that preceded it, but its use was way too frequent and erratic to be spam. There would be typos and, in addition, the numbers didn’t appear to be random.
In the end, I decided I’d see what was going on with the site. I posted in what appeared to be a “random” board much like /b/ (there were no discernible themes amongst the images and posts). I said, “Hello, I’m new and I was looking to start a funny thread,” and asked people to post their funniest pictures.
That was when it started. I remember the first reply very clearly. It said, “Good to see. U join the HELP! HELP!” From there, it only got weirder. I was told to ignore “the grafts.” I assumed this was some sort of inside joke. After this, people posted seemingly random numbers and letters, as well as characters from different languages.
I had no idea what was going on when that phrase popped up again – numbers followed by “the king come down.”
Following that, my power cut off. It was a complete blackout. It freaked me out, but I went ahead and checked the fuses. The switches had just flipped. I flipped them back and returned to my PC. On the screen was a video of a young boy. He was Caucasian and looked to be no older than ten years.
I sat down, creeped out but feeling curious. Strangely, the boy smiled and appeared to speak. I couldn’t hear anything, so I turned up the volume of my speakers. I could only just hear what he was saying, so I turned up the volume to max. It was only a faint whisper. His lips moved slowly.
I pushed my ear closer to try and figure out what he said, but he suddenly shouted. It was a booming and terrifying voice screaming at me like a demonic god. Then the image changed. The boy was crying, his eyes bleeding heavily as white arms tore the skin from his face.
The power cut out again.
Again, it was the fuses. When I got the power back, everything was normal. My PC booted normally and nothing creepy happened with it. No videos of kids whispering or anything.
That’s when I started receiving the emails. They were extremely cryptic and filled with random numbers much like the image board posts. I got and email that was, surprisingly, in regular English. It said, “JUST PASS IT ON. JUST FUCKING PASS IT ON.” I didn’t know what it meant.
I got up to get a drink and froze in fear. From my ceiling hung a man, his body swinging gently. On my wall, written in dried blood were the words “THE KING COME DOWN”. I blinked and the sight was gone.
For weeks, this continued.
I went back to the image board. I was sure I was going out of my mind. I was just about ready to commit myself to a fucking asylum when I read a post in coherent English that said something like, “Pass on the king. Pass on the king.”
The thread 404’d before I could even get to it. I went to make a new thread and, when I began typing, the words in my mind were not what appeared in the box. My fingers typed words by their own volition. I typed two things: “HGHSUTHS” and “4918484 THE KING COME DOWN”.
Then, somehow, I realized I was passing it on. The crazy hallucination stopped. I was good. I learned how to be safe.
Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for 15 days using an experimental gas-based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn’t kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations.
This was before closed-circuit cameras, so they had only microphones and five-inch-thick glass porthole-sized windows in the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots with no bedding, running water and a toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.
The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.
Everything was fine for the first five days. The subjects hardly complained, having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for thirty days.
Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noticed that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their pasts. The general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the four day mark.
After five days, they began to complain about the circumstances and events that led to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one-way mirrored portholes.
Oddly, they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first, the researchers suspected this to be an effect of the gas itself.
After nine days, the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber, repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for three hours straight. After that, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords.
The most surprising thing about his behavior is how the other captives reacted to it - or rather, didn’t react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream.
The three non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces, and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.
So did the whispering to the microphones.
Three more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with five people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated all five must still be alive.
In fact, it was the amount of oxygen five people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the fourteenth day, the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives: they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.
They announced: “We are opening the chamber to test the microphones. Step away from the doors and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom.”
To their surprise, they heard a single response in a calm voice. “We no longer want to be freed.”
Debate broke out among the researchers and military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom, it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.
The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air. Immediately, voices from the microphones began to object. Three different voices began begging, as if pleading for the lives of loved ones, to turn the gas back on.
The chamber was opened and soldiers were sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever and so did the soldiers, when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, though no one could rightly call the state any of them were in ‘life’.
The food rations past day five had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject’s thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing four inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined.
All four surviving test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their fingertips indicated the wounds were inflicted by hand and not with teeth, as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most, if not all of them, were self-inflicted.
the abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage.
All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, but had been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tracts of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that they were digesting their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.
Most of the soldiers at the facility were Russian special operatives, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects, who continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep.
To everyone’s surprise, the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out and another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subjects’ teeth. Another five soldiers lost their lives, if you count the ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.
In the struggle, one of the four living subjects had his spleen rupture and bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him, but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the lethal dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor.
His heart was seen to beat a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped, he continued to scream and flail for another three minutes, struggling and attacking anyone in his reach. He repeated the word “MORE” over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.
The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas and demanding to be kept awake.
The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body, it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare for the surgery.
He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a four-inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even though the weight of a 200 pound soldier was holding that wrist as well.
It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, but the instant his eyelids fluttered closed his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the subject that died on the operating table, it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen.
His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken nine bones in his struggle not to be subdued. Most of them were from the force of his own muscles exerted on them.
The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. With his vocal cords destroyed, he was unable to beg or object to surgery and only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him.
He shook his head yes when someone reluctantly suggested they try the surgery without anesthetic and did not react for the entire six-hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them up with what remained of his skin.
The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should not be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patient’s mouth curl into a smile several times whenever his eyes met hers.
When the surgery ended, the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly as he attempted to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance, the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple: “Keep cutting”.
The other test subject was given the same surgery (both without anesthetic as well), although he had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patient laughed continuously.
Once paralyzed, the subject could only follow the attending researchers with his eyes. However, the paralytic cleared his system in an abnormally short period of time and he was soon trying to escape his bonds.
The moment he could speak, he was asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they injured themselves - why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.
Only one response was given: “I must remain awake.”
Both subjects’ restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber to await determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military ‘benefactors’ for having failed the stated goals of their project, considered euthanizing the surviving subjects.
The commanding officer, an ex-KGB, instead saw potential and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.
In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again, the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long-term confinement. To everyone’s surprise, both of them stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas.
It was obvious that at this point, both were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might - first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on.
The mute subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for the EEG, most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time, but occasionally flatlined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death before returning to normal.
As they focused on the paper scrolling out of the brain wave monitor, only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the moment his head hit the pillow. His brain waves immediately changed to that of a deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.
The only remaining subject started screaming to be sealed in. His brain waves showed the same flatlines as the mute subject. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with the remaining subject inside, as well as three researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes.
He pointed the gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed. The remaining members of the medical research team fled the room. “I won’t be locked in here with these things! Not with you!” he screamed at the man strapped to the table. “WHAT ARE YOU?! I must know!”
The subject smiled.
“Have you forgotten so easily?”the subject asked. “We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven we cannot tread.”
The researcher paused, then aimed at the subject’s heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out his final words.
The gray wolves of Virginia were made extinct over a hundred years ago. According to the regular surveys by the National Forestry Service, no sign of any such animal has been found since 1900. The occasional reports of large predators, just after dusk or late at night, usually by the occasional hiker or party of campers in the Stillwood (residents of Lower Alethia, nearest the woods like myself, know better than to try), receive the same tired reply from animal control.
“There are no wolves in the Stillwood.”
When a pet gets lost in the dark of the Stillwood and never returns, or worse, is found mauled, the blame falls on the usual suspects: foxes, wild dogs, or teenagers with too much time and too little compassion. A few years back, when the Bradleys, a little family brand new to the falls, had their boy David go missing from their own backyard, never finding more than scraps of his jacket and a little blood at the edge of the forest, the official response was adamant: this was a kidnapping, not an animal attack. Old-timers like me just shook our heads and muttered to ourselves,
“There are no wolves in the Stillwood.”
So, if you want to sleep at night this close to the forest, keep your doors locked tight and your shutters closed fast, if just to buy some peace of mind and to stop you from catching a glimpse of the Stillwood late at night. And should you find yourself walking near or – God forbid – through the woods some evening, head home as quickly as you can. Try to ignore the sounds of the night, wind, howling as it does… it will only make your imagination run wild, after all. And should you see what cannot be polychrome eyes, shining through the mists from the underbrush or somehow in the branches above, or even through the gaze of your windows, take what comfort you can in this thought:
There are no wolves in the Stillwood.
I recently moved into a new apartment and, having very little money, had to settle for the only habitable place in a row of almost derelict buildings. The street was all but abandoned, but I’m pretty sure there were squatters two doors down. My building was the only one not boarded up and, compared to the others, it had potential. There was no electricity when I moved in, no curtains and no carpets, but at least the water was running. It was a particularly tough time in my life (which I won’t go into) and I was grateful for a fresh start. I could really make a go of it here once I got some furniture in.
The first night, I decided to sleep there, even without a mattress and only a few candles to find my way around, although I could have probably found the bathroom by smell alone. After setting up camp in what I suppose was the living room, I tucked into a gourmet meal consisting of cold beans and dry crackers, promising myself that once the sun came up, things would seem more homey and I could start unpacking.
After exploring the shelves and cupboards for treasure, and finding only a handful of those plastic curtain pegs and a shoebox full of old rent-books (presumably left behind by the landlord), I decided to perch myself in a corner and use my jacket as a makeshift bed. Trying to sleep, hunched over, with nothing to look at but a bare, pitch-black window wasn’t easy, and the thought of what might be lurking out there on the old industrial estate kept my attention firmly on that window the entire night. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much and decided to look around some more.
I found a box of old, sepia photos in the fireplace, each with six people standing at the same window, mouths open, and a pale shape in the reflection that I couldn’t quite make out. I decided to take my mind off of it, since those old photos gave me the creeps anyway.
By the second night, I was starting to feel more comfortable in the old placed, and although most of my stuff was still in boxes and I still had no furniture, carpets or curtains, the daylight had given me the chance to explore properly and I spent most of my time planning how it would eventually look. I’d even nailed an old blanket over that window to keep any prying eyes out, and to stop my imagination running wild.
By candlelight, I occupied myself by reading the faint scrawlings in the old rent-books I’d found, since it was the only form of entertainment available, but what I found was quite interesting; dating back around five years were six books in total, one for each tenant, and in every one, just a single entry. Rent and bond was paid for one month, then nothing but blank pages. Something wasn’t right. All six previous tenants stayed only a month or less.
Feeling somewhat creeped out, I decided to take a piss before my last candle disappeared completely, and made my way across the hall to that awful bathroom, watching my shadow keenly dance along the peeling walls ahead of me, until we met again at a heavy wooden door. I covered my mouth and walked in. The stench was so thick I could taste it and as I unzipped my pants, the last candle went out.
Now, to this day, I’m not sure where I pissed exactly, but I can tell you it was the fastest piss I’d ever taken; not only was I in pitch darkness, but I could only hold my breath for so long. I ran out of there as fast as I could, but where was I running to? The realization came that I had no candles left and, with it, a thick blackness enveloped the walls and the one flickering glow of the apartment had abandoned me.
The hollow creak of the floorboards began to sound like whispers, and the peeling damp on every surface felt alive to the touch as I blindly ran my hand along the wall. Feeling a familiar bump, I pushed open the living room door and made my way carefully towards the window. Maybe a streetlight or a passing car would light the room, if I could just remove the blanket I’d nailed up earlier.
That window, which had made me so uncomfortable, was now my only hope for light. Reaching my hand through the darkness to pull the blanket away, I felt only a cold pane of glass. The blanket was gone and, as my eyes adjusted, I saw it: on the other side of the bare, black window was something pale and silent, its mouth open, waiting for my next move.
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