#ourgeneration horror stories
  • They find a book written in Latin… one guy doesn’t take Latin and doesn’t want to mess up the pronunciation. The girl is studying Mandarin. Another guy recommends sticking it into Google Translate but that’s likely to land them with gibberish. They leave it alone.
  • The car won’t start. They call an Uber.
  • The vampire captures the girl and insists that she wears the gown to dinner. The gown is actually hella cute. Only problem is it’s not in her size. Oh, it only comes in 2’s and 4’s? Sorry, vamp, you want me in that dress you contact the goddamn company and tell them to get their shit together.
  • “How did you possibly know that? It saved our lives!” “I’ve got two degrees and I spend way too much time on Wikipedia.”
  • They encounter a spirit that gains power the more people believe in it. One girl makes a vine and uploads with, “fakest ghost ever!!! Right??” Twenty minutes later the spirit is destroyed.
  • The circus is in town tonight. Except she’s lived her whole life here and the circus has never come before… it’s also in a pretty sketchy part of town, not somewhere you’d want to walk alone at night. She goes to a movie instead.
  • “You’d need an ARMY to fight this evil!” “Okay. I’ve got 20,000 followers, lets see how many can make it.”
  • The Evil Whispery Voice of Doom tells the jock that it’s going to kill his pretty blonde girlfriend. The jock gets offended because, excuse me, Cindy and I are just friends. However, Marty over there is my boyfriend and I’m not saying you should kill him, just stop making assumptions yeah?
  • “This spirit tried to convince me it was Jerry when it texted but its texting style is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT so yeah that didn’t work.”
  • We could have easily gotten lost and ended up at some creepy cabin in the woods, but luckily we all had functioning GPSs. Beach party, we’ve arrived!
  • “We have to find a way to destroy it! We—what are you doing?” “Looking up ‘exorcising demons’ on Google. Oh look, first hit.”
  • The child she bares will be the devil’s spawn. Good thing she doesn’t want kids. Or if she changes her mind she can always adopt.
  • “How can we possibly outwit this serial killer…” “… There’s gotta be an app for that. Lemme look.”
  • Only the virgin will survive… Turns out they’re all virgins. One is asexual. One wants to wait until marriage. Two just haven’t found the right person yet. One is meh about sex. So we all survive, yeah?
  • The girl does not fall. She was on varsity track.
  • “Quick! We need someplace to hide the artifact. And then decoys to confuse the beast! What have we got?” “… I’ve got a hundred plastic bags stuffed into another plastic bag.” “PERFECT.” 
Sade Smols

I always scoffed at the local legend about the tiny people who lived in our town. That’s what the adults talked about when we were growing up - the little helpers who lived in the cracks and crevices of homes who scared away bugs and cleaned up crumbs. I never saw one. No one I knew did. But still, people talked about them as if they were there, like modern fairies.

This morning, I woke up to one sitting on my pillow, deftly cleaning a puddle of drool off my pillowcase.

He seemed as startled as I was.

“It’s okay,” he assured me.

I was surprised how loud and clear his voice was, as he was only four inches tall.

“I’m Sade Smols,” he said. “I’ve been cleaning here for the last six months.”

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The Walls Would Sing To Me.

When I was young, the walls of my bedroom would sing to me at night. I found the mysterious phenomenon soothing, and looked forward to it every night.

At eight years old, I mentioned it to my parents, and they brought me to a doctor, who concluded I had a wild imagination. This reassured my parents, and prompted me to keep quiet about it in the future.

A few years later, my father had a heart attack in his sleep while my mom was away on a business trip. That night, I woke up suddenly and quickly noticed the absence of the walls’ singing. The silence felt weird, wrong.

It was broken by a lone, strangely familiar voice.

“Young giant, your father is in trouble,” the voice was whispered. It was breathy, like silk against silk, the voice of one of the singers.

Something tickled the skin right below my ear, then dropped down to my arm. When it reached my index finger, I brought my hand to my face so I could see my mysterious companion.

A small, black spider sat on the pad of my finger. Before I could make a move to shake it off, it spoke again.

“You father is very ill. He needs a healer,” the spider insisted in the same delicate whisper before launching itself off my finger into the darkness of my bedroom.

Sure enough, when I went to check on my dad, I was unable to wake him. Later, the doctor told me that my dad would have died if I hadn’t woken up when I did.

The next day, I whispered thanks to the spider that sang in my walls. They hummed in response, and I grinned, happy with my new friends.

My father died from another heart attack when I was seventeen, prompting my mother to spiral into mental decline until her hospitalization a year later. After that, I sunk into a deep depression and ended up in an abusive relationship.

I eventually told the spiders all about my suffering, and they murmured with sympathy from their perches in the walls. A large, brown spider dropped down from the ceiling onto the pillow beside my bruised face and asked me if I would bring my boyfriend over that evening.

“We will take care of you, young giant,” it promised.

So that’s what I did. He came over and settled himself before the TV. I stood at the stove in the kitchen, barely paying attention to my cooking as I waited eagerly to see what the spiders had in store.

He started screaming as the pasta finished. He had stopped by the time I had drained it and added the sauce. I ate my meal happily as I waiting for the police to arrive.

They said he died of a brain aneurism. Tragic, they said. Yes, I agreed, very tragic.

That night, I slept soundly, lulled by the gentle music as my friends sang from their homes in the walls.

A Gifted Chef

I was lucky enough to be the next-door neighbor of a world-class chef. Like, legit world class. Like, Michelin star class. Yeah. The real deal. Stewart Therriault. Maybe you’ve heard of him.

One of the benefits of living near Stewart was getting to try all the sumptuous, creative dishes he’d make whenever he was home. Seriously, the guy cooked all the time. As soon as I’d see the lights go on in his house, it was only a matter of time before thick, luscious aromas wafted into my home. And, because he was a great guy, he’d often bring over a plate or two for me to try. “It’s all practice for the restaurant,” he told me.

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Formal notice.

Dear Human,

This is a formal notice of your impending passing. Allow us to explain.

About one Earth-year ago, our race arrived at your planet and began a systematic harvest of humans, as was deemed ethical by the Etoxi Ethics Council due to the disease plaguing our planet. We were in dire need of bone marrow, and it happened that human marrow was compatible with our bodies.

However, you will be happy to know that we Etoxi value ethics and morality above all else. The Ethics Council ordered that once fighting ceased, remaining humans be wiped of recent memories and placed in comas with implanted dreams of life continuing normally. Thus, we have minimized suffering and allowed you to live in peace.

The arrival of this notification, placed somewhere accessible within your dream, indicates that your body has been sufficiently drained of all bone marrow. Rest assured that 100% of this marrow has been used for medical purposes, as required by the Etoxi Ethics Council. Because the electricity needed to maintain your comatose state is better used rebuilding our home planet, your system will be shut off soon.

Thanks to the Ethics Council, you are granted a 24 hour grace period to say goodbye to your dreamed friends and family. Studies have shown that humans pass away with more happiness when given the chance to bid farewell to others.

Please note that when your system powers down, you may regain consciousness briefly before passing on. Some sharp pain and memory regaining may accompany this. Please do not look down at your body; this may cause some distress.

Thank you for your service to our species. Your name will be displayed on a memorial in our rebuilt capital.

Have a good day!

Sincerely, The Etoxi High Council

Two Sentence Horror Stories

“I begin tucking him into bed and he tells me, “Daddy check for monsters under my bed.” I look underneath for his amusement and see him, another him, under the bed, staring back at me quivering and whispering, “Daddy there’s somebody on my bed.”

“I can’t move, breathe, speak or hear and it’s so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead.”

“Don’t be scared of the monsters, just look for them. Look to your left, to your right, under your bed, behind your dresser, in your closet but never look up, she hates being seen.”

“I woke up to hear knocking on glass. At first, I though it was the window until I heard it come from the mirror again.”

“She wondered why she was casting two shadows. After all, there was only a single light bulb.”

“There was a picture in my phone of me sleeping. I live alone.”

“I just saw my reflection blink.”

“Working the night shift alone tonight. There is a face in the cellar staring at the security camera.”

“After working a hard day I came home to see my girlfriend cradling our child. I didn’t know which was more frightening, seeing my dead girlfriend and stillborn child, or knowing that someone broke into my apartment to place them there.”

“The longer I wore it the more it grew on me. She had such pretty skin.”

The one below is written by myself.

“I went downstairs to get a snack late last night. My dog’s tail always thuds the couch in sleepy excitement, but I took her to the overnight vet a few hours ago.”

Little Brother Problems

“There’s something in the woods.”

Those, right there, are words I got tired of hearing from my younger brother, Caleb. He’s around eight years old and you know how kids that age are, their imaginations run wild. My parents and I originally tried to soothe him and calm his fears but after months of the same repeated line, we were all tired of it.

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A Case of Hives

My ex-wife, Janie, died. I was happy to see her go.

I regained custody of our beautiful son, Barry. He’s four years old. For the last two years, I’d been out of his life. Janie kept him away from me. God only knows what poison she filled his head with; all her hatred of me spilling out of her lying mouth to make Barry despise his old man. But all that’s over now. He’s mine again. And he’ll love me soon enough.

It was clear she’d said some terrible things to influence his perception of me. “Daddy’s bad,” Barry informed me one night. Tears filled my eyes and I clutched my son to my chest and whispered, “your Daddy is a good man, Barry. Your Daddy will take care of you.”

I meant it, although I hated him when he squirmed to get away. He was afraid of me. His mother’s poison still coursed through his veins.

In early April, Barry seemed under the weather. I checked him out. He’d developed hives. I was overjoyed. This would be my opportunity to redeem myself with him. Once he saw how well I could take care of him, he’d love me again. I thought back to his tiny hand clutching my finger moments after he was born. He’d loved me from the start. Then Janie ripped it out of him. I seethed.

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the primary school i went to when i was a kid was supposed to be super duper haunted because apparently there was a fire in the assembly hall that killed either a student or teacher (the story always changed) it was kind of bs but whenever we came to school in the mornings the panels on the ceiling in the assembly hall would always change, sometimes they would be perfectly straight and sometimes they would be crooked or missing. there was also a classroom that was right next to the hall that was haunted and every so often all the display boards on the walls would fall off for no reason 

A Date With Death

[WARNING: Instance of animal death, mild gore.]

Phillip Toomey could see a man just in the peripheral of his vision. This man was tall and wore a finely tailored suit, the kind you see wealthy businessmen wear because they’re the only ones that can afford such a luxury.

The man stood out in this part of the city where those with money didn’t dare to venture, especially at night; for fear that they might get robbed whether that be by pickpocketing or a mugging at gunpoint.

Knowing this, Phillip couldn’t help but think maybe he was FBI but that’d be ridiculous, the FBI knew how to blend in and then there was this man, so out in the open and not even trying to go unnoticed. Though it seemed as if no one was sparing even a moment’s glance at him and Phillip thought it strange.

With a shake of his head, Phillip grabbed a newspaper off the stand, threw a one onto the counter, and made his way to the nearby coffee shop to grab some breakfast and a latte as he always did before going about the rest of his day.

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It was strange to wake up feeling nothing, when what you felt before being knocked unconscious was the most agony a human being could feel in their lifetime.

My eyes flickered open, blood from the gash on my forehead leaking into my eyes. My gaze focused. I could make out a spiderweb of cracked glass in front of me. The windshield.

Driving home.

Turned around for one second.

Then here I was.

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Endless Love

[WARNING: Instance of a character using a homophobic slur]

You would think, in this day and age, that military personnel would be above acts of violence against their own people for something they have no control over. Like whom they love, for example. But you’d be surprised how many give in to that carnal desire to kill all because of one person. The ring leader who people follow without question, if they’re convincing enough.

When my husband of five years enlisted, I was scared, I’ll admit. I was afraid that he might volunteer for combat once he got out of boot camp. That was my biggest fear because we’d already discussed how we’d keep letters pretty gender neutral in case any of the others wanted to take a peek. You can’t be too careful and we thought he’d be safe from ridicule. It worked. He finished boot camp without any grief from the others for being gay.

After finishing up training, he came home for a time and we enjoyed ourselves. We went out to dinner and the movies and spent a day in bed. It was nice but it didn’t last long before he was gone again, headed to Germany for half the year.

Everything was normal until two months into his stay when the calls stopped. The first day I didn’t think anything of it, he had told me that things were getting pretty busy and he might not be able to call me every day like usual.

So I let it go. Even let the second day go. The third day is when I got the call.

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Scary Fact #52: The Ghost of Stow Lake.

Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, California is well-known for its paranormal stories. If you believe locals, it is so full of spirits that you run the risk of crashing straight into one while jogging. They might as well rename it “No One Is Alive Here Park.” But one ghost story has been the most popular and circulated, ever since it appeared in the San Francisco Chronicleon January 6, 1908. That’s the story of the Ghost of Stow Lake.

The newspaper piece starts with a man named Arthur Pigeon. He was going just a bit too fast in his car when he was pulled over by police. But he told the officers it wasn’t his fault, as he was trying to get away! He claimed to have seen the ghost of a woman at Stow Lake. She had “long, fair hair and was barefooted.”

The legends always claim this woman was a mother who lost a child, or else killed her child and then herself. America seems to be full of women offing themselves and their offspring.

As a kid I knew good and bad both exist in our world.
I knew there had to be some sort of balance.
I loved horror stories. I loved making them up, sharing them and listening to them.
I loved watching horror movies too. 
I was hardly 8 when on a sleepover at my aunt’s place I insisted on watching one. I walked right into the store and asked, ‘which is the scariest horror movie you have?’
The guy who worked there warned me that I am too young but I was stubborn and so I won.
I couldn’t sleep all of that night. 
I spread rumours about my school being haunted and due to the elaborate stories I cooked, people in all grades started believing them or at least talking about them.
I left that school 7 years ago. The stories remain. 
It wasn’t like I wasn’t scared but I insisted on trying to make every place have a haunted spell.
I think, I did that because I thought if the bad of the world was balanced by things like ghosts, I wouldn’t come across bad people.
Not in my home. Not in my school. Not in the streets.
But as I grew up, sadly, I was forced to stop believing in horror stories and start believing in the horrid reality.
But you know what? I have come to realize that I don’t need garlic, salt or wooden stakes to win.
All I need is what I already have - me. 
Humans can be monsters. But they are still just people. They can be defeated. 

Now I know a ghost who is waY better than most humans around @mortalghost

A room in my house sometimes has two doors.

Original Link By Daniel_Kay

Hey everyone. I found this place looking for somewhere I could drop this off to without being called crazy. And honestly, after thinking about a few things, I do feel right between crazy and paranoid.

I moved to a new place a few months ago. It’s a relatively small house but as the confirmed bachelor I am it’s a palace. Aside all the space I need for day to day living it even has some extra room I didn’t fully decide what to do with yet.

One of those is a small windowless room right next to the stairway leading to the upper floor and basement. When checking out the house I already had ideas about turning it into a hobby room or dedicated gaming cave. Though as things usually go with moving it turned into a “I’ll unpack these boxes later” room for the time being.

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Whispers in the Catacombs



Is this a radio? Is there anyone listening to this? ….

Can anybody hear me?

… If someone’s listening out there, please, send help! I can’t escape. I’m being watched. It won’t let me escape. It won’t let me sleep or even close my eyes. I can’t….

Hello! Hello! I know I heard a crackle of static! I know this is a two-way radio! Listen, whoever is on the other end, you’ve got to send help! Please, contact the Institute for Exoplanetary Sciences. Tell them the archaeological expedition has been… compromised. Tell them that I’ve stolen the Artifact. Or that it stole me, I guess…


Please… say something…

Whoever you are… wherever you are…

I envy you. Stay in that place. Don’t follow your dreams. Never ever leave your comfort zone. It’s called that for a reason.

The Institute lied to me. They told me I would be famous and fulfilled and immortal if I found the Artifact. But they never told me that it didn’t want to be found.

It’s watching me right now as I speak. It’s always at the corner of my vision like the shadow of a movement, but I can only see it clearly when I close my eyes. I haven’t slept since I found it. I can’t bear to look at it. Its magnificent brilliance illuminates the darkened folds of my mind, and what lurks in those folds is utterly terrifying.

Hello?… Did I just hear someone speaking on the other end….?

Don’t leave me!

Say something!

The only sound I’ve heard come out of this radio so far is the song “Careless Whispers”. I thought this hellish place would make me lose my mind, but I think that hideous saxophone solo is actually what will make me snap.

I discovered that when I hold down this black button, the music stops, and the empty static hums. So it’s either a mute button, or it’s transmitting my voice. I want to believe that I’m being heard. And I really want to believe that I just heard an incoming transmission cut through the music.

But that song is the only thing familiar here in the catacombs of this place. Whatever this is. This replica of an ancient city. The tunnels I’m trapped in are just big enough for me to crawl on my hands and knees. It’s flooded with several centimeters of vomit. Just a sloshing, stinking pool of vomit. Sometimes I crawl over severed body parts and organs floating in the vomit. Occasionally my hand lands on a disembodied tongue or someone’s scattered teeth.

At first I thought these were the remainders of our archaeological team, but I think they’re still here, somewhere. I mean, I know they’re here! Occasionally the tunnels empty into a big room with a table and a chair and an old radio setup. The table is scattered with piles and piles of journals that are scrawled with incoherent nonsense and dates that don’t make sense. But the room always looks like it’s just been visited moments ago! Someone moves the chair, or adjusts the radio volume, or their glass of water still has a handprint in the condensation. And the journals always have new entries. This looks like years of documentation!

Every time I come across this room, I wait days for them to come back. But then I end up getting hungry and thirsty and really, really cold. I noticed that when I’m crawling through the tunnels, I don’t feel anything. The Artifact protects my mind and preserves my body.

So I get back on my hands and knees, and set out to find them.

It always seems like I’m just about to reach them. The tunnels aren’t dark—they’re forever lit by a light from right around the corner. It’s as if… the end is so near. Daylight and freedom. But it’s never the end. It’s forever the unblemished light from the Artifact. It watches me from all points in these catacombs. It’s waiting for me when I close my eyes. That’s when I see it, cupped in my palms, melded to my skin.

There it is again! I know I heard someone talking on the other end! I came into this room just as you were signing off! You think you can trick me by playing “Careless Whisper” again, right at the part where he sings “I know you’re not a fool”? You think I don’t know that someone was just here???

Please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t abandon me.

I… I’m so scared. I’m more scared than I’ve ever been. Please. Just… contact the institute and… let them know I’m still alive, and to please send a rescue ship. My colleagues will likely be dead by the time it arrives, but I’ll be here when they send a ship. I know it’ll be at least a twenty-five year wait… fifty years, if this thing transmits using ordinary radio waves travelling at the speed of light… but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be here, waiting, with the Artifact in my possession. I promise.

Will you do that?…

Tell them also… tell them… that I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I confess that I was swept away by the excitement of the confirmed discovery of the Artifact. But wouldn’t anyone? Wouldn’t any young scientist be overjoyed to hear the news that an exact replica of the ancient city of Teotihuacan had been found on a planet orbiting faraway Vega?

You probably remember how the archaeology community was… well, flabbergasted when this planet was first made known to us. It shouldn’t exist. Not like this. The astronomers looked at it through telescopes and deduced that it was a dark behemoth of stone and ice and gaseous clouds. They said it was similar in size to Earth, and was even the same distance from its sun. Maybe there was life to be found somewhere in its icy craters and churning seas of liquid methane.

But there was also something not quite right about this planet. There were… things… that looked like man-made structures scattered all across its surface. Massive, looming structures! Things so big, we could see them all the way from Earth!

Why am I telling you this story? You must already know it.

The first expedition reported that these structures were a perfect reconstruction of Teotihuacan. Preserved in its utmost magnificence. Nothing looted, and nothing vandalized. It was as vibrant and living as it had been when it was inhabited on Earth, in pre-Columbian Mexico.

The first expedition also reported the presence of a strange artifact, something so indescribably dreadful that they saw its great eye shining in the darkness under their eyelids. They didn’t stay long enough to give details. It frightened them away from the planet in haste. But we had all the information we needed to realize that it was of interest to the Institute.

The Artifact was something we’d known about for years, yet had never been able to find. We knew it was last located in Teotihuacan, the city known to the ancients as the “Birthplace of the Gods”. It is the place where the universe itself was created.

The ancient Mayans knew of the Artifact’s existence. They tried to draw it, but of course they couldn’t. How can one draw what cannot be seen? How can one describe the bottomless chasm that is its mercy and magnificence? Their attempts to depict it were merely smudges on a canvas, just a smear of darkness and void surrounded by kneeling, trembling penitents with arms outstretched.

Still they respected and revered it, for the Artifact grants eternal life. The Artifact is eternal life. It exists outside of time and space, yet contains all of time and space. It has always existed. It is the definition of always and the embodiment of existence. Its dreams are chaos and chaos is what it speaks, as a dreamer cries out in sleep.

The Artifact illuminates every corner of the universe and smooths them into a uniform plane with no imperfection. It warps time and devours space, like a snake eating its own tail. In its presence, time is compressed down to a dense mass of burning flesh, like a black hole one sees in the open mouth of a god.

When the Spanish came to Mexico, they feared the Artifact, as the first expedition feared what they knew was greater than themselves. They only knew linear time, and the idea of non-linear time frightened them. They stole it and buried it deep beneath the earth, under the Avenue of the Dead. They spat on it, cursed it, called it all manner of unholiness and demonic filth.

What a revelation, then, to know it was now located on a planet orbiting Vega, twenty-five light years away.

I was an infant when the first expedition departed Earth, unsure of what these enormous structures would turn out to be. I was a graduate student when they arrived and reported their discovery. I was an eager research assistant at the Institute for Exoplanetary Sciences when I was given the opportunity to be on the first archaeological team.

Traveling at the speed of light is a uniquely eerie experience. Because of the strange phenomenon of time dilation, it felt like no time at all passing. Certainly not twenty-five years. That is the gift the Artifact gives us: to experience all of time in one single slip of a second.

Imagine our eventual arrival on this planet, lit by a blue-white star. Imagine us standing at the foot of a pyramid the size of Mount Everest. No, doubled in size. A pyramid made of cement bricks. Stretching up, up, up into the clouds, all the way into space. The Pyramid of the Sun.

Imagine the Artifact, perched on top of that pyramid. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, because every time you blink, you glimpse it for a moment. The Artifact is only visible with eyes closed. And then, it shines like you’re staring straight into the sun. The glare is blinding and the pain is deafening. Just the knowledge of this thing’s existence is so overwhelming that you weep with your entire body. Every pore, every scar, and every orifice leaks with tears. Your body will live forever. Your soul will expand into eternity.

When they beheld it, everyone else was content to merely prostrate themselves and be purified by its ethereal light. O Holy of Holies. May the earth shake in fear of its sanctified luminescence!

Now imagine yourself as me. A young archaeologist on your first interplanetary expedition. Nothing if not eager to impress. You have ideas! Nobody tells you what to do or what to think!

I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I did it.

I closed my eyes, and I saw the Artifact, staring back at me. I reached out my hands, eyes still shut, and grabbed the Artifact from its lofty perch in the darkness behind my eyes. It burnt my hands like hot iron, but I refused to let go.

I was determined to share it with the people of Earth. I swear to you… I only wished to return it to the Mayans. It had been stolen from them, after all. And wasn’t that why we came to this cursed planet? To locate the Artifact, and bring it back? To grant a life immortal to all who desire its infinite light? To humble ourselves before non-linear time and experience our lives all at once, rather than waiting for the joy and the suffering to occur?

But something went horribly wrong. The Artifact didn’t want to be found. It only wanted to find. It did not want to be possessed; it only wanted to consume…

With eyes still scrunched shut and hands clamped around the Artifact, I ran from my screaming colleagues and into the entrance of the Pyramid of the Sun, where the Artifact compelled me to take it. I immediately fell through the trapdoor, and tumbled down into the catacombs.

I still believe there is a way out of here. It must be nearby, because just beyond the corners of these tunnels, where the light is, I can hear them shouting my name. But I don’t understand how that’s still possible. I’ve been down here for what feels like months, and yet they’ve never moved. They call me towards them, always. And I attempt to follow the sound of their frantic voices. I follow the light forever shining at the end of the tunnels.

I’m going to try one more time to find the exit. If I end up back here, in this room where I can stand up and stretch my legs, I’ll just stay here. I’ll give in to hunger and thirst and end my pain.

The worst part of waiting is being forced to listen to this radio. I’d keep it on mute, but I have to listen for a return transmission. And I can’t help but feel there’s a reason it’s playing “Careless Whisper”. Every time he sings, “I should have known better than to cheat a friend,” I know it’s talking about me.

I’ve got an idea. I’m going to take this radio with me.

Oh, look at that. It really is battery powered. Someone must be changing the batteries.

I can just…

Okay. I can drag it along with me.

This is fine.

Okay. I knew it. The song means something. When I release the transmit button, I hear it, and I understand it now. I understand. It’s giving directions to an exit!

“Toright the music seems so loud…”

Turn right at this tunnel. Okay. I got this! I’ve got it!

I wish that we could left this crowd…

Turn left. I’m turning left. Crawling through the vomit. Ignore the flooded river of vomit. Ignore the tongue that just licked my foot. It’s okay. But I’m certainly never gonna dance again.

Maybe, it’s right this way…


We’d left each other with the things we’d want to say…

Left! Left! Oh, there it is! The light is getting brighter!

We could have left this dance forever…


The central chamber!


Oh! This is it!

A staircase!

When I look up, I can see it! I can see the sun shining through, bluish white, like a pearl on the ocean floor…

Now I’m at the top of the pyramid… I’m out! I’m out! The sky is above me and the city is my cradle!

Looking down…


There it is! The archaeological expedition!


…That can’t be…

…They’ve just arrived?

I don’t…

I don’t understand…

Is that…?

Is that me down there with them…?

Oh… oh, no.

That version of me has stolen the Artifact.

The Artifact. It’s begun to swallow time. It’s smoothing out time into a round sphere. A perfect loop. An infinitely repeating point in time with no end and no beginning. Like a snake, swallowing its tail. The Artifact creates a universe from this moment. The universe expands and becomes all there is… and Teotihuacan is trapped in that moment. Never changing, never decaying, never becoming overgrown with vines. This is the birthplace of time itself.


This other I who has stolen the Artifact must be in the catacombs now.

I’ve got to…

I’ve got to go back. I have to warn my past self. I know this… me… this version of me from the past… will eventually find the room with the radio and the piles of journals.

The journals! I’ll write this in the journals! That way when I—that other I—finds them, that I will know to return the Artifact to me! Then I—we—however many versions of myself there are in here by now—we can escape the pyramid through the staircase, and return the Artifact back to Earth!



In the meantime, I wonder if… I wonder if I can communicate with this other me… by means of this radio?…



Hey! I know you’re there! I just heard a voice cut through the static! Press the transmit button! PRESS THE TRANSMIT BUTTON!