VELCOME MORTALS TO HEXBEARS HYELLOVEEN SCARETACULAR- cough
Gather around the campfire and listen to my story, and then share your own in the comments below. The only condition is that it better be pants poopingly spooky or else the poop ghost will getcha!
He wants your poooooooOooop
Our story begins in a graveyard. It was getting dark and Morty the groundskeeper was about to leave after doing a routine inspection of the cemetery grounds. As he walked to the gate and reached out to push it open, he heard a faint whisper, as if someone was standing behind him, but he couldn’t quite make out the words being said.
His turned to the direction where the sound had come from, but saw nothing. “Is someone there?” He asked loudly. No reply. He began to get slightly annoyed. If some teens were hoping to trash the place after dark, he didn’t want to deal with it. He shrugged and decided it was a problem for security.
He began to push the gate again and as he did, he heard another sound, right behind him. This time, it sounded like running footsteps. He whipped around quickly.
“What the hell?!”
Nobody was there, but there was a shoe, sticking out of the mud, just a few feet behind him. He stared, it was starting to get pretty dark now, but it was definitely a shoe. He carefully walked over and picked it up. Yeah, a large mens dress shoe. So it wasn’t teens. A homeless man, maybe? No, a homeless man wouldn’t mess with him like this, right? And it was too nice a shoe. Maybe the shoe had been left by an earlier visiter during the day, he thought.
“But then how do you explain the sound of running feet?” A voice said, clear as day behind him. He spun around. Again, no one was there.
“Ok you can stop messing with me now, cut it out. It’s closing time.” Morty said, admittedly not as assertive as he wanted to sound.
But whoever the voice belonged to didn’t seem to hear. It suddenly spoke again, sounding almost like a host enquiring to an audience,
“And what of the whispering he heard before?” It asked.
“Where the… Heck is that coming from?” Morty grumbled as he looked all around, his eyes fell upon some of the graves nearby, and his blood ran cold
“And how then do you explain the man emerging from the grave?” The voice said.
Morty screamed. Climbing out of the grave dirt, halfway out of the ground to his waist was TV sensation Johnathan Frakes.
“We got you.” he said with a cheeky smile.
Once I stopped in a subway and I hate all the sudden choices you gotta make so I usually just focus on some sort of meal deal on the menu and stick to it, which is how I ended up with some sort of sandwich drenched in sweet chilli sauce. There are alot of things which my shitty genetics has decided to punish me for eating but that sugar filled syrup is my mortal nemesis, this sandwich is my world killer. I still eat it though, because every aftermath from consuming it is so bad that I basically turn into a feral animal, slipping only back into consciousness when the macrobiome regains control of the micro, plus I just got peer-pressured into paying five quid for this sandwich Im gonna eat it.
I dont even get halfway through my foot long chicken filled hyper-laxative before my gastric system attempts to depart my torso, at this point the IBS blinders slip on and I am suddenly completely removed of all social anxiety, I am prepared to shit in a bucket in front of the whole store and god if it will allow me to return to the pretence that I am in control of my own bodily functions (and finish the rest of the sandwich). In this tiny subway there is only one door, right in front of the extremely long queue of people waiting to pay too much for not-bread and horrifically square meat. It has bathroom signs on it, but there is no way this door that a couple of teenagers are currently leaning against is the bathroom surely? They may as well have put windows in so the unwilling spectators could get a good look at the horrors they are hearing.
I do not care, I am a meat machine born to shit, I rush the teenagers leaning against the door, scattering them in my wake as I slam the door shut and turn to discover there is no lock.
There is no lock
For a moment I fall back on my instinctual irish catholic childhood and begin to categorically list all the transgressions against the Pope that could have led me into this tiny section of hell. Is it friday? Is this because I ate meat on a friday? Why dont I know what day it is? Jesus Sam you need to get your life together. Then Gut-Brain resumes control and my world narrows to the disabled friendly toilet that is dangerously far from this unlocked door. If it swings open, I will be at the mercy of the non-shitters beyond that door. Forever haunted by the smug denial and hatred as they turn their disgust for their own base needs outward on to me, they will put me down like the animal I am and I will welcome it.
In this moment I am the most in tune with my own body as I will ever be. My muscles sing with power as I perform the shameful act. My eyes see clearly now, I do not just see a door rattling in the breeze, I see the ancient wooden soul trapped within, and it sees me. I am in its mercy, in this moment it would be so easy for it to yield to the wind that buffets it everytime another queue obsessed Anglo enters this slophouse and expose me to the world entire. I am part of the cancer that killed its kind and it would only be just in taking its revenge on me, even as I silently plead for the opposite I know this is true.
The door begins to shake violently, more than just mere wind, someone is trying to get in. I yell and scream and plead and beg with the stranger on the other side of the door not to enter, but they are deaf to my cries. Perhaps they are not a man at all, but another walking vessel for the hunger that drove me down this dark path, seeking their own escape. My only saving grace is the broken nature of the door, the very thing that caused this whole mess in this first place. Unseen forces batter that door and jiggle the handle, they even succeed at one point, the seal cracks and the world burns, but only for a moment. I slam the door shut and abandon that moment to the void, I excise that reality and form a new one where the door remained closed and I can still pretend to be human.
The ordeal has passed, I carefully rebuild my facade of decency as I wash my hands and destroy the evidence. Now that the forebrain has regained control, the oceanic fear of the judgement of strangers comes rushing back in. Surely they heard my pleas, surely they know.
But as I open the bathroom door, braced to be beaten by a mob of retched sallow cheeked Liverpudlians for my crimes, I see nothing but the barely held but tamped down rage of the average English Queue Enjoyer. All is bliss in the court of Subway, I stumble out into the cold air and rejoin my friends. Are they my friends anymore? I have aged a lifetime in that bathroom, I am a different man from when I entered, a broken man. When I enquire about the door, they look at me in puzzlement.
“No one was at the door, and we didnt hear anything”
Did I imagine the whole thing? Was it some vision of a darker world, a message to change my ways before it was too late?
I begin to eat my sandwich.