Tales of The Third Eye # 1

Some people say it is real, some however say that it is a figment of our imagination. To be branded as a crazy child for even just a few months felt like years of solitude and suffering. The solitude did end a some point, but the suffering did not. Most of the time it lay dormant, but at times when it is awake, strange things happen… in my perspective at least.

It all started when I was at the age of 5. Back then, I was living in Japan taking my kinder classes and just living my life without worrying about anything. Just eating, sleeping, playing, and occasionally taking a bath. (Because it is super cold back in my place you’ll have second thoughts of taking a bath. Just stripping down is a big pain in the ass.) Back then, I didn’t know what was normal and what was not. I had playmates in my room that were strangers. Even as a child, I was an introvert. They would just appear out of nowhere and ask me to play with them. There was two of them if I could remember. My mother didn’t tell me to stop playing with them. In fact, she was asking me if they wanted any beverages, in which the answer was no. She knew. She knew the fact that my playmates were not human even though they look very much like one. What are they then?

Me and my mom would occasionally go outside on warmer days. We go to the park, but she always tells me to not talk to strangers or anyone that I don’t know for the matter even though there were many kids playing. It was then when I asked her about my two playmates. I didn’t know them. They just came out of nowhere yet I am allowed to talk to them much less play with them? She then talked to me about something special that only me and my mom could see. At first I was confused since I was a child and all.

So after that small talk at the park, we went home. Although I was really confused abou me not being allowed to play with anyone else at the park. I only begin to understand my situation when my mom told me the truth. It turns out, there was no one else in the park, just the two of us.

Slate Road Ext.

It is late afternoon. A soft breeze blows and rattles the leaves on the sprigs in a tree-strewn spot of earth in the heart of Manila. The sky is darker than usual and a shadow of a tall man is seen in the distance, in an isolated road. I take small strides into the alley. The sign reads, “Slate Road Ext.” I see the man, or rather “thing” standing. Moments passed by, I still am thinking, “am I really going to pass through here? I wonder what would happen.”

Before anything else happened, I felt more wind passing through his corner. it seems like all my happiness, if there’s any, my energy, and my positive vibes were blown away with it. I kept thinking, imagining, and wondering, would I stay here, until the sun goes down? I just close my eyes, trying to remember someone dear to me, to help me lessen my fear. Am I ready for this? I can’t handle it anymore.

I hear whispers, from where? I look around for the source. It is the shadowy man! He’s whispering “ten, ten, ten, ten…” Why, of all numbers, ten? I approach the man with all my courage and ask. He looked at me straight into my soul with piercing pitch black eyes. “You’re one of us now.”

Everything went black. When I returned to my senses, I find out that I, myself, was whispering, “eleven, eleven, eleven, eleven…”

 

P.S

This story was made by me and my friends. We passed the paper around every two sentences and tried to see what we would make. This isn’t the best story there is, but it sure has a deep meaning if you try to understand it. If you can’t, feel free to ask me personally 🙂

Random Creepy Shorts # 15

I heard this story from a friend, who head it from a friend which was told by her cousin… I think. I’m not really sure, anyway, this is one of those sad stories that are creepy in a way. Anyway, it goes like this…

The year my mother and father were wedded, my father bought his wife a very beautiful Baccarat chandelier. It weighed one ton and hung down two entire flights of stairs. Because it was so large my father searched high and low for a home that could accommodate it. He chose a very old palatial home in the Welsh countryside. The mansion was six stories tall and in the middle of the home was a tall, spiraled atrium with a glass ceiling. The stairs wrapped around the walls of the spire, encircling the great chandelier at the top.

As far back as I can remember I would spend my days lying underneath the cascading crystals far above and watching the twinkling prisms catch the sunlight and cast vibrant, breathing rainbows across the walls. My mother would smile at me and giggle to my father behind her hands. I was a romantic, she said, a dreamer. Father would smile knowingly but never bother to glance my way. He only had eyes for my mother, at least until my brother George came along.

But I wasn’t a dreamer, no, I fought sleep with every breath. I much preferred to spend my evenings dancing in the star fields that twinkled in the spire on clear nights. If moonlight shone into the great atrium, it was transformed by the Baccarat into a million shimmering, glittering tiny stars. The chandelier was always gently, gently swaying even without a draft in the house and it would make the crisp, vibrant Celestials dance upon the wall to a song I could almost hear. And I would dance among them.

One day I awoke from an afternoon nap to the sharp sound of a protesting metal groan. I arrived at the bannister just in time to see the Baccarat’s metal supports snap in two. The chandelier fell half a story until it was brought to a violent and abrupt halt by its last remaining support — a thick, nylon rope. George was playing with a train set far below and I screamed at him. He looked up at me for just a moment and then he was obscured from my view as the nylon snapped and the chandelier went crashing down five stories to the first floor where my mother had thrown herself protectively over George.

My father would only shed his tears for them behind closed doors. A week after their deaths, Father had the Baccarat repaired and re-hung. It had been my mother’s and he loved her deeply. Perhaps he liked to look at it and think of her. But I like to think he re-hung it for me because he knew how much I loved it.

But the chandelier wasn’t the same. The gentle cadence it had loyally kept was now replaced by a stillness as absolute as death. The rainbows were dull, almost colorless, and the dancing stars that had once glittered upon the walls at night were absent and the spiraled atrium remained as dark as the heart of an onyx.

I still spend my days and nights lying on the floor looking up at the chandelier and hoping its magic will return to me. Some days I can almost see the vibrant colors and speckled starlight. Most days I see nothing at all.

But nothing at all is better than the nightmare that peeks through the veil sometimes, cruel and uninvited. Sometimes I can feel the cold and the hunger and the pain in my chest. Sometimes the dark nights and dull days make sense. Sometimes I can see the chandelier for what it really is. Because sometimes I remember that it wasn’t the Baccarat that my father hung at the top of the atrium that day

it was himself.

Random Creepy Shorts # 10

When you were young, do you remember going to campsites and stuff like that? Where you have to sleep in the wilderness for one night and try to at least not die in the process? Do you remember those times when you and your friends sat around a bonfire telling creepy stories? Well this story was one of which that I remember so clearly. it goes like this…

I’ve been lying down for hours now. It’s 3:15 AM and there’s not much I can do. You know what the worst part about my situation is? I’m in the same room as my parents. They keep looking at me, and I can’t help but look back and try not to cry or scream. Their eyes are focused on me and their mouths are wide open. There’s a strong scent of blood and I feel paralyzed with fear.

Here’s the thing. The second I make any hint that I’m not asleep anymore, I’m completely f*cked. I will die and there’s nobody around to save me. I’ve been trying to think of a way out but the only idea I have is to rush for the front door and scream for help, hoping any of my neighbors hear me. It’s risky, but if I stay here, I’ll surely die. He’s waiting for me to wake up and see his masterpiece.

You’re probably wondering what’s going on.

About three hours ago, I heard screaming from the other side of the house. I got up and went to check on the noise before realizing I had to use the restroom. Instead of doing the smart thing and investigating, I used the bathroom first. I would’ve gotten myself killed right there for my stupid actions. I did my business and took a peek outside the bathroom. There was blood on the carpet. I got very worried and ran back to my room, hiding under the sheets like the p*ssy I was. I tried to convince myself to go back to sleep, and that it was just some really vivid dream or something.

But I heard my bedroom door open. Like the terrified child I was, I peeked out from under my blankets to see what was going on. I could see someone dragging my dead parents into the room. He was a bald guy with a mask. He looked like a psychopath, tall and slender, with its back straight as timber as it dragged my parents. But unlike most psychopaths. It seems that he was aware of what he was doing.

He propped my dad up on the edge of my bed, and made him face me. He then sat my mother down in the chair and positioned her towards me as well. He then started rubbing his hands on the walls, staining them with blood and then drew a circle with what seemed to be a lotus flower. He had made what he would probably call a masterpiece. To finish it off, he scribbled a message into the wall that I could not read in the darkness.

He then positioned himself under my bed waiting to strike.

The scariest thing now is my eyes have adjusted to the darkness since then, and I can read the message on the wall. I don’t want to look at it, because it’s terrifying to think about it. But I feel I need to see, before I’m killed.

I peek at the psychopath’s masterpiece.

I know you’re awake.

Random Creepy Shorts # 9

The Good Samaritan

'The_Good_Samaritan'_by_David_Teniers_the_younger_after_Francesco_BassanoToday, as I went to the church (yes, I am quite a religious person and yes, I also believe in God if you would ask. I’m catholic by the way) and as I listened to the priest’s homily and bible reading, it occurred to me that what he was reading is in fact a very famous parable known to many whether they may be christian or not. As you may have read from the title up there, it says “The Good Samaritan.” Now I won’t be narrating the whole story since you probably know it. If you don’t, go look it up, SHAME ON YOU!

Just kidding, anyway, since you know about The Good Samaritan, let me tell you that there is a deeper meaning behind it other than just being kind to others. Pardon me for my bible preaching but here it comes, 3…2…1. So Jesus was asked by an expert in the law or a lawyer. The layer asked Jesus, despite knowing the answer himself, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus then answered, “What is written in the law?” their conversation went on until Jesus told the story to the lawyer.

In the end, Jesus told him to “Go and do likewise.”

You see, it’s not important whether you know what is good or what is bad. Knowledge itself is not adequate to be a righteous man, because to be one, you must also know how to apply this knowledge in real life, and not just in words.