Oh my! I just realized I never roundup’d the last chunk of stories I wrote last year. They are:
Echoes in Static - A voice speaks to you through your monitor. And as words drip from its static-filled mouth, drift to your rapt ears, your world unravels around you, bit by bit.
Adit - The tunnel in his backyard calls to him. At first glance, it’s just simple stormdrain. But he knows it’s much more than that: It’s the place of his birth.
The Unseen - Christian loves urban exploration, delving into the forgotten corners of humanity’s vast labyrinths. But his most recent expedition brings him deeper into the abyss than he’s ever been, brushing against the Unseen: the foggy world from where all unknowable creatures come.
Red and Blue - Part one of four: Caroline wakes up deep in a swamp she’s never seen before with no recollection of who she is or how she got there. Or, for that matter, how to get home.
Black and Red - Part two of four: Caroline is in love Michael. Well, she thinks she is, anyway. He’s a little weird, though.
Red and Black - Part three of four: Michael doesn’t know how the book found its way into his possession, but he can’t stop reading it now, can’t get its voice out of his head. Incessant. What does it want?
Black and Blue - Part four of four: Each beat is significant.
And there we have it!
Black and Blue
Caroline staggers out of the swamp, her clothes pissing the brackish water onto the ground around her. She holds the hole in her stomach, for fear that her organs might comes spilling out. She doubts that it will make much of a difference if they do; she is dead after all.
Things are coming back to her slowly. She remembers getting sick. She remembers Michael hunched over her, fucking her. She remembers him sucking the life out of her. She can still feel it distantly, like a torch on the horizon. She knows where it is—where he is. She’ll follow it like a beacon, say hello.
She trudges out towards a stream of lights: a road. She wanders through the charcoal-sketch trees in a state of shock. She didn’t mean to leave those two men in the boat that way, screaming in fear. She just didn’t know what else to do, so she slid back into the water. She doesn’t need to breathe anymore, so this wasn’t too much of a problem.
They’re probably still out there, maybe hightailing it back to whatever shack they came from. She wonders, vaguely, what they were doing out there in the first place. Fishing, maybe.
She stumbles out into the road. Michael is somewhere to the north. She can feel him in her chest, where her heart should be. It’s almost like a pulse. Almost.
The pavement is rough and inviting under her feet, each step slopping mud like splatters of blood.
She begins walking.
Red and Black
Michael doesn’t exactly remember how he got involved with Daesell or, for that matter, all that black magic that now surrounds him. He knows it has something to do with his great uncle’s strange little bookstore in downtown Sandford. Uncle Bryson’s shop always held some power over him, got into his head somehow. All the books seemed to speak to him, call to him. But one in particular, that little black book he now casually consults, it spoke to him in a voice that demanded rather than suggested like all the others.
He doesn’t know how the book found its way into his possession. Logically, he thinks, he must’ve stolen it, but he doesn’t remember how or when. One day he looked down to realize he was holding it in his hands, reading it. He dropped the book suddenly, leaving it in the middle of the street. But as soon as he got home, it was sitting patiently on his bookshelf, like an obedient pet.
The ideas the book put in his head, it made him a little funny. He started saying and doing strange things, and not just in the privacy of his own apartment, but out in public, people staring at him, horrified, repulsed. He would wake up, blood running from his nose and from gashes in his face, gashes that would mysteriously close up by the time the morning rolled around only a few hours later.
Okay! Sorry for my sudden and mysterious disappearance! But I’m back!
… For now.
NaNoWriMo went off without a hitch, which, I suppose, shouldn’t have surprised me considering I’ve been writing a short story every week for ten months straight—a feat any writer will tell you is kinda stupid crazy. During that month of insanity, I was given the breath to clear my head and decide what I want to do with the future. I’ve got 40 stories up (soon to be 42 in a few minutes, but I’ll get to that in a moment), which is kind of ridiculous. I could just carry on and keep writing these, one a week, until I go crazy or die—both equally viable—but I’m staring to feel a bit of weariness edge in on the whole process. If you’ve been paying attention, you may have noticed that in recent times I’ve been starting to drag on my deadlines. My stories have been getting shorter, simpler and, dare I say, a little less imaginative. It’s time to shake things up a bit, which is exactly what I plan to do.
Yes, dear followers, I’ve decided it’s time to put the blog on a bit of hiatus. I plan on continuing to post various creepy and atmospheric pictures and, occasionally, a short piece or two, but instead I’m going to start focusing on polishing up the stories I already have with the intention of submitting and, perhaps, getting them published. I’m also going to make my first honest effort at writing a novel. Not start something and get bored, but actually write, finish and edit a novel. Like, hire a freelance editor and everything. Maybe even try to get an agent if I’m REALLY FUCKING LUCKY, haha.
This could either be really exciting or really soul-crushing. Probably a little bit of both. But I’m actually feeling fairly optimistic.
Anyway! I promised you guys I would write two more stories and I did! They’re the second half of the story I started with Red and Blue and Black and Red. I’m going to post both of them right here and now in a couple minutes, so keep your eyes peeled!
So yeah. There you have it! It’s been super fun, guys. Working on this blog has been one of the most rewarding and creatively strenuous things I’ve ever done, and I’m so glad you were all here to witness the madness. You guys have been nothing but supportive and flat out lovely.
Is this the end of Jamie Kinn? Fuck no! Is this the end of Jamie Kinn’s Creepypasta Machine? No, no and no. I’m going to need breaks while working on this novel, so you better believe there’s going to continue to be stories, and, as I said, I fully intend on continuing to reblog and post various picture and other stories. Plus there’s always my stupidly large back-catalogue to thumb through, should you ever feel the urge. Consider this hiatus my cocoon. Who knows? I may emerge as a terrible, malformed creature of unspeakable horror. With a book deal.
Stay in touch! Because I’m not going anywhere, not really.
I love you aaaaaaallllllllllll~ ♥
"Each beat is significant."
Black and Red
Caroline can’t remember the last time she was so happy. She’s been sleeping normally, eating normally. Feeling normal. She feels for the first time since high school like she can actually talk to someone and carry out a normal conversation. And it all started when she started dating Michael.
She never saw herself being with someone like him, someone so confident and fearless. He is everything that intimidates her in people. Loud, challenging, sometimes overwhelmingly cheerful. When she talks to him, he gives her his full attention and actually listens, actually participates. And it scares her.
But she’s getting better.
He’s started staying over at her place now. Actually staying the night, staying until morning and then helping with breakfast. His stuff litters her bathroom and bedroom floor. They’ve gone to his place a few times, but Caroline doesn’t like it very much. Dank little hole in the wall studio apartment way across town. It’s dark and the whole building smells bad. It reminds her of her old dorm back in Sandford U. with her terrible roommate and her roommate’s obnoxious boyfriend. She hated that dorm, too afraid to say anything when they walked all over her, her privacy, her kindness and consideration.
But Michael isn’t like that. He cares about her.
Red and Blue
She wakes up facedown in the mud, blowing bubbles. And when she sits up, she sits up suddenly, taking a deep gasp of air and screams in terror and confusion. Her world has been torn out from under her and now she is in the swamp.
The water is deep and her legs are dangling over the edge, buried in black muck. She draws them up under her and clambers to her feet, fingernails digging into the trunk of the tree growing beside her. It is dark but the moon is shining through the sparse branches overhead, creating patches and pools of pale white light.
She clutches at her chest and covers her mouth, stifling another scream. How did she get here? One moment in her bed and the next half submerged in brackish water, the taste of salt and grit in her mouth. She’s mostly naked, but the air is warm and humid and clings to her skin like a damp cloth, smothering her, gagging her. The water smells putrid and it makes her stomach churn.
She has to get out of here. She has to get home.
Behind every building, between every fence, there is a space. Some are graffiti-choked, garbage strewn across grass and concrete. Some are barren, and, besides the surrounding structures and detritus building up around the edges, you would swear no human had ever taken a step into its sphere.
Strange things grow out of these places, naturally, like weeds out of a crack in the sidewalk. Holes that appear overnight that seem to plummet straight through the center of the Earth, bottomless, lightless. Structures built out of rebar and concrete that look eerily human. Slight warps in time and space, like the shimmering of summer heat.
These places and things exist everywhere, in the corner of you backyard, behind your workplace, in the storm drain beneath you street, in the crawlspace that you don’t know about. They exist because you don’t visit them, because you don’t know they are there.
They are spaces were the Seen becomes the Unseen.
Sometimes lives will seep through these spaces because it is here that the walls between worlds are thinnest. Where the dark meets the darker-than-dark.
The border wanes like the surface of a soap bubble, weakening and growing thinner and thinner until, finally, it pops.
And then something comes crawling through.
- Bryson Hesse, The Unseen, unpublished
Christian slithered through the crack in the wall and landed feet-first on the concrete. The slap of his soles echoed around him, through the dark space. He swung his flashlight around to the far wall as he righted himself, shifting his backpack back up to his shoulders.
Got a new story for you guys! It’s called The Unseen and I’ll be posting it a couple minutes.
I was originally going to do a big infodump about the inner working of the Sandford/Willow Hills universe, but decided to do it through story instead. So consider this an intro to some of the more abstract laws that rule this universe. Sandford and Willow Hills 101 if you will. Derp.
Bryson Hesse, the dude that “wrote” the excerpts, is a staple figure in this universe. You guys haven’t met him yet, but expect to see him pop up at some point. Huzzah!
He stared out his window, through the graying yard to the tunnel. He could tell by looking—he had been born there.
It was the nicest place he’d ever lived—nicer than the rotting, water-stained apartments, nicer than the cracker box house his parents had owned back in Willow Hills. This was a testament to his success. He’d made it, eclipsed his parents, his brothers. He was on his own, straight out of law school.
It was only an apartment, true, but this was just the beginning. There was a lot of room to grow in the firm where he’d been hired as an associate. He was going places, he’d been told that in confidence by Alec Johansen, one of the partners in the firm and the man who had given him the job in the first place. It would be a long, difficult road, Alec Johansen had told him, but if he stuck with it, kept his head on straight, his chances of making partner were excellent.
He rubbed his forehead, wiping the sweat away from his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to work or the last time he’d received a phone call from the firm, first asking where he was in a stern business-like tone, then with an element of worry, maybe even fear, and then, finally, pure bitter disappointment. It was right around then that the calls stopped.
Soooo… I’m an idiot because I forgot to post a roundup last month! :O
So this roundup is a bit of a double feature. Let’s take a look at all the stories I’ve written in these two months:
The Machine Pillar - Todd wakes up in an abandoned swimming pool, a massive pillar looming before him in the darkness. He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s gotten here. When he gets home, strange things begin to happen to him, like the piece of machinery that seems to be growing out of the back of his hand…
At the Edge of the Woods - Dogs tearing each other to pieces, an ominous package wrapped in animal skin and the first comings of winter, blood set in the frost. What lies at the edge of the woods? And what horrors live within?
Ainsley - Ainsley has a unique problem, one only her friend Bon can alleviate. Together, the two of them set out in the darkened streets of Sandford in an attempt to satiate Ainsley’s hunger—but time is running out and the sun is rising. Ainsley needs the sacrifice her blood demands; if it doesn’t get what it wants, the consequences could be dire—for the entire human race.
Hanna and the Ghost - Some ghosts are lost and wandering souls, creatures of pity. Some are entities of pure anger, bristling with fury and loss. Others are just assholes. Unfortunately, Hanna has to find this out the hard way.
Snowed In - Jon sits in his chair, shotgun clenched tightly in his hands. Upstairs, something that is not quite is daughter is stirring, beginning to move. With their cabin buried under eight feet of snow and miles away from civilization, Jon has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
The Baphomet - It wasn’t his fault the gate was left open, it wasn’t his fault the stupid dog got out. But now it’s raining hard enough to drown an elephant and he’s stuck looking for the worthless mutt. But what’s that thing sitting beneath the brush, watching him? And why does it have antlers coming out of its head?
The Pit - Lost in a hallway deep underground, dark concrete and dim electric lights, a thumping far off in the distance, like a tremendous heartbeat. Rooms line the hallway, doorways open wide. So many doors and so many ways to go, but no exit. No way out.
A Red Envelope - It’s only once a month. Easy money. No sweat. (Note: this story is graphic. You have been warned.)
Well! That’s all of them! As always, thank you, everyone, for the continued support. You guys are awesome. ;__________; ♥
Keep reading and keep checking back every Thursday!
You wake up.
The familiar dusty light coming through your window is absent. For a moment, you think maybe there’s an eclipse. Or maybe the sun has disappeared suddenly and you only have a few minutes before the planet snap-freezes, extinguishing all life.
You get up. Your windows have been painted black from the inside. But you don’t remember anything from last night, not after you got home from work. Fingerprints. There are handprints and fingerprints all along the frame of the window. You squint at them. Are these yours?
In between the noise, in between the static, radiation emitted from every device, you feel me. I know you’re there.
You’re pressed against the glass, trying to feel the ghosts on the other side. Your love, your enemy, acquaintance, friend. Stranger. Tags and identifiers you’ve applied to the people you’ve surrounded yourself with. Freak, fuck-up, beautiful, wanted. And I’m with you.
You wake up.
Warning: this story is graphic and abound with explicit mental, physical and sexual abuse.If you have a problem with any of these themes, you should avoid this story like the plague. Fair warning.
“Open your mouth; here’s your money.”
- Swans, “A Screw”
It’s easy money, and it’s only once a month or so. That’s what I tell myself; that’s what I tell Caitlin. Caitlin doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the ground like she’s seeing through it, like it’s the glass at the bottom of a boat and she’s watching all the little fish swimming beneath her feet. She bites her lip or she bites a knuckle and I just laugh a little, waiting for her to stop.
I’ve taken to wearing long sleeve shirts to cover all the burns and the bruises and the scars. It’s over a hundred degrees down here, but I don’t want people to see. I’m afraid they might recognize me. Like these disfigurements are some kind of signal, a reflective sign on the side of a highway or Morse code transcribed into my skin. I keep expecting a knowing flash in someone’s eye, a moment of sly recognition and then they’ll cut my tongue out because I know too much. But it hasn’t come yet. I can’t imagine what kind of circles these people travel in, but I don’t think they do their shopping at Whole Foods.
It’s very simple really:
I receive a letter in my mailbox. It’s always in a blood red envelope, so I know what’s coming when I see it and my stomach tightens up and I feel a little like throwing up. The paper is black and inside is a time and date written in silver ink.
New creepypasta coming up in a couple minutes! This is the culmination of a whole month’s worth of listening to nothing but early Swans. It’s also something of a love letter to Eyes Wide Shut, one of my favorite films.
I should probably mention that this is pretty easily my most graphic story. I’m going to post a little warning at the beginning, so take heed dear followers. This is as close as I’ll ever get to torture porn, my least favorite of all the various branches of horror. But this is a story that, once it popped into my head, I was kinda obligated to tell.
Keep an eye out! It’ll be up in just a bit.
Curt staggered through into the hallway. The dim reddish electric lights trailed down the walls, perforating the darkness every few meters. Empty shell doorways—slightly skewed, staggered at faintly different intervals—filled in the gaps between. His breath poured out of him in great plumes of vapor, dissipating into the stale air. He clutched his arms to his chest and shivered.
He didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten here. One minute, he’d been on 3rd and Stanton, then he’d taken a turn at the intersection, on his way to Eliza’s apartment, and the next thing he’d known he’d been in a dark concrete room, streaks of blackish sludge staining the walls. There ‘d been light bulbs along the walls, but they were so faint that they hardly blemished the darkness. They looked hand-blown, dusty, so ancient.
The ceiling in the room—if there had been one—had been so high that it had disappeared into shadows above. Directly ahead had been one doorway, open wide, doorless, hingeless. It was through this that he had just stumbled.
“Hello!” he shouted, stuffing his hand into his armpits. His voice echoed down and down. No response. “Hello!” he shouted again, taking his first tentative steps into the hallway. He listened.
Faintly, in the distance, he heard a rumbling sound. The pulse and pound of machinery. Or perhaps a giant’s heart.