You may call me Zuck. I write scary shit. I take scary requests. I like scary stuff.

In the day, I'm a college student, a computer programmer, a writer and some guy who does things. At night, I'm a superhero.

I have this blog for writing, creepy pictures, and to try and document an ongoing problem of mine that only gets more confusing. It involves a violent creature, a lot of unlawful arrests, and a stranger knowing my address. Think you can help? Drop me a message.

Questions? Comments? Requests?
www.formspring.me/zuckmyfic

Of course, the ask box is always open, too.

 

Remember this?

This isn’t creepypasta or anything like that; none of this stuff is made up. I was just thinking about a lot of strange things that have happened to me, and I thought perhaps some of them would be /x/ worthy. Obviously memories can be distorted by time, but this is just how it is in my head, and thinking back, there’s a lot of fucked up stuff.

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I haven’t done this in a while.

And by “this” I mean get back to what I was known for on /x/. Seems I’ve been so busy with all this damn drama lately I haven’t had time to just entertain, which is what I like to do best with my writing. I’ve just been thinking lately, wondering if there’s anything interesting from my less than normal childhood that I haven’t shared yet, and after a sudden obsession with rail safety videos (one scarred me for life as a child and I looked it up again, big mistake) I remembered a collection of stories in enough detail to write up. I have no idea how long this will be, but there’s some interesting stuff so I guess it’ll be a nice change.

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Because I can, here’s one of the aforementioned Marble Hornets fics.

This actually came from a dream I had, so it’s sort of just something I wrote rather than a theory or an AU.

Warnings for some serious angst and major character death, just lettin’ you know.

Words: 5,809 (wow).

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The young boy with the messy, dark hair stands alone before the line of trees, and for a brief moment he wonders if this is what it felt like to sail towards the horizon when one truly believed that the earth was flat. How did one prepare themselves for essentially stepping off of the edge of the world? He guessed it was much like what he was doing now – talking oneself into it and then in a moment of false assurance, stepping over the edge and taking the risk.

The wind whispered through the trees and the boy shivered, shadowed eyes scanning the darkness in between the jagged, gnarled trunks jutting up from the frozen ground around him. This was the only way, right? He had nothing here anymore; like missing pieces of a puzzle parts of his memory had dropped away into an unknown realm, and while the fact frightened him, he knew that there was nothing that could be done. They only way was to push forward, with a new name and new hopes and new dreams and so many new fears, oh God, so many of them.

His mother, he vaguely remembered, had always told him that he had a bad habit of causing trouble for himself. Perhaps that was why the word stuck in his head so much. Perhaps others thought the same.

Maybe it was the reason the tall man called him HABIT.

There’s that spot right behind the back of your head. It’s a tiny spot, seemingly insignificant, but it’s the most dangerous spot in the world.

Quick; as fast as you can, before anything can work out what you’re doing, reach behind you and grab at the air that’s settled in that spot. Bring your clutched fist in front of your face. Perhaps you’ll see a flicker of movement, a darker haze around your fist as you clutch the air from the most dangerous, most unknown spot in your entire existence.

Open your fist if you want. However, I would recommend just reaching back behind you, back to that same spot behind your head, and opening your fist there. Leave your hand there for a few seconds, and then carry on with what you were doing. After all, some things are best left unseen.

Hide and Seek.

When you were younger, I imagine you probably played hide and seek at one point in your childhood. Do you remember the excitement you would feel as you searched for a hiding place, all the while wondering whereabouts the seeker was in his countdown to finding you? Do you remember the slight hint of nervousness that you would feel as you clambered into your chosen hiding place, wondering if it would be good enough? How you would hold your breath and try not to giggle when you heard footsteps approaching you?

Oh, how naive you were. You see, sometimes, those footsteps don’t belong to your friend, or your cousin, or your brother or sister, or whoever was meant to be searching for you. You would have been none the wiser. You would have luckily assumed that it was still part of the normal game. But I can assure you that for at least a few of you reading this right now; those footsteps belonged to nothing from our world.

How can you tell if it were them or not? Well, these things never deliberately found you. That wouldn’t have worked out well for them. You had to leave voluntarily; and leave voluntarily you did.

Remember how you would climb out of the cupboard or the closet and things would seem too quiet? Your excitement over winning and not being discovered would quickly drain from you as your young mind grappled with the fact that something just wasn’t right. You would search out your parents, who would look familiar and yet alien to you at the same time.

For years afterwards, that closet or that cupboard, that old hiding place … there would be something within it that spoke to you. Perhaps a voice whispered to you, called your name.

Or maybe you could hear someone who sounded just like your current “parents”, sobbing and screaming for you?

It’s been years. We miss you so, so much.

Something of interest.

I was travelling on a train a few days ago when something strange happened. To me, there’s something distinctly creepy about travelling on a train when it’s dark outside. I think it’s the way the darkness just presses up against the windows while you’re trapped in this little tube of light, totally illuminated to anything outside that might want to spot you.

It was just turning from the darkening twilight into the pitch black of the dead of night. I watching as my reflection in the window got bolder as the landscape outside faded into darkness, broken only by the occasional lights of towns in the distance or the lit platforms of the various train stations we stopped in. The train ride itself was around fifty minutes long; I think we stopped six or seven times along the journey. I was sitting alone, with only a couple of other people in the carriage with me.

Just before we pulled into the artificial light of a station, I thought I saw someone standing behind me in the blackness of the window. The face was pale and long, the chin an elongated spike, and the eyes were huge and dark. I jumped, whirling around as the image disappeared as the light hit the window. Nothing was behind me.

 There was no sign of him as we went through the next two stations. We passed under a road at one point, and the tunnel had tiny gaps up at the top, where the light from the streetlamps filtered in, occasionally casting an orange glow throughout the carriage. Each time the carriage went black again, whatever was behind me moved closer.

Blackness: it’s at the other side of the aisle.

Light: nothing.

Blackness: it’s beside the empty seat next to me.

Light: nothing.

Blackness: it’s standing right behind me.

Light: nothing.

Blackness: its hand is reached out, almost touching me.

Station: nothing.

It was my stop, and I stumbled off of the train and watched as it pulled out of the station. There was nothing in my carriage until I saw the train vanish out of the line of light given by the last lamp. There, briefly, in the window, was a pale, long face, staring back at me.

I think next time, I’ll wait until morning to travel.

  

Daisy Chains.

Ages ago, when we first started dating, my girlfriend made me a daisy chain.

At first, I didn’t really know what to make of it. I mean, flowers? Not really something I can honestly say I’ve ever cared for. Sure, they’re pretty for a few weeks in the summer, then like everything they lose their beauty, they wither and they die. I always find that they’re at their most beautiful in the days before they die; as though they’re desperately holding on to what they once were. Nothing is more wonderful than the beauty something holds in the short time before it’s destroyed completely.

It sounds like I’m rambling, I know. Trust me; though this may be a little incoherent it does all work into itself. It will eventually make sense, though I can’t ever see it making sense to me. Perhaps that’s why I’m writing it down? Perhaps somewhere in these anonymous words I’ll discover a reason for what happened, for why things had to be the way they were? Maybe.

Anyway, where was I? I digress before I even start. Ah, yes. When my girlfriend and I first became a couple, she made me a daisy chain. She fastened it to my wrist and although she didn’t explain, I knew I shouldn’t take it off. It was a hard thing to explain to my friends – this was college, what male wore flowers around his wrist? However, eventually they, like I, came to accept the fact that it was there, and the next question I was asked regarding it was one that I was constantly asking myself. Why wasn’t it dying? Why was it never damaged? No matter what I did – showering, messing around with the guys, sleeping on it … it always remained in pristine condition. If I hadn’t been there when my girlfriend had made it, I wouldn’t have believed her that they were real daisies.

Things went well for a while. I loved her, she loved me, and we muddled along nicely. The relationship lasted two years before it started to turn sour. Not in the usual way – this wasn’t a case of us simply growing apart. I’m not really sure what happened by my girlfriend … she suddenly changed, as though she’d had a personality transplant overnight. She went from being trusting and loving to paranoid and hurtful, and although I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt (perhaps something had happened to make her like this? Stress? Worry?) I eventually couldn’t deny that, well … she’d turned into a bit of a bitch. I don’t like saying that about the woman I loved, but this wasn’t the woman I loved. The woman I loved was calm and kind, confident in our relationship and comfortable around me. This person was degrading, nasty, suspicious … and she was driving me mad.

Around this point, with exams coming up and the stress from our relationship (if it could still be called that) I began to get ill. It was nothing serious, just a cold that I couldn’t seem to shake off. She seemed to enjoy this greatly, until I eventually managed to pass it on to her. I may or may not have coughed on her food every day until she caught it, but in situations such as this, even petty revenge is excellent revenge.

I didn’t notice until my friend pointed it out, but while she was sick, the daises on the chain withered, some of their white petals curling up and turning brown. As she recovered, so did they.

I guess I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, but as things got worse between us, I saw a pattern. When I was hurt or ill, the daisies would be in perfect condition. Should something happen to her, they would whither, nearly die, and then recover as she did. I tried to ignore it; stuff like this just doesn’t happen, OK? But there was no denying it, and there was no denying that this bitch I now lived with was no my girlfriend. I hated her, but I’m ashamed to admit that I was slightly afraid of her. I’d never hit a woman, the most I would do is restrain her, but she would fly at me in rages fit for a childhood tantrum. She would claw and scratch and hit at me, and one day I pushed her back with a little too much force. I don’t feel as guilty as I thought I would, she deserved it. However, she took a nasty fall, and she cut the back of her arm up pretty badly; enough to require stitches.

Waiting slightly guiltily in the emergency room (I knew what the doctors were thinking of me, and she probably wasn’t helping to defend me any) I noticed that one of the stems joined the daisies together had been ripped slightly.

It didn’t take me long after that, to realize that her life and this chain were somehow linked. I don’t know how my girlfriend did it, but its reaction to when I was injured (it would thrive) to when my “girlfriend” was injured confirmed that whoever was glaring out at me from my girlfriend’s body wasn’t the girl I’d met two years ago. You can call me crazy all you like, but that’s just what I’ve concluded from what I’ve seen, and I know how to fix it now.

She fought tooth and nail when she saw what I was going to do. After I’d severed the chain with the bread knife I’d been hiding in my desk for weeks, I didn’t have her as my problem anymore. I don’t know what happened to my girlfriend, but I don’t think I’ll be getting her back.

It’s dark now. I have disposal to worry about.

I just remembered another story.

I’ve mentioned before that for a short time, I was an inpatient in a psychiatric hospital, thanks to severe depression. Well, I was just thinking about a woman I met while I was there. Her name was Mary, and she was like a mom to me while I was in there. I was only seventeen years old, the youngest patient in that block by at least fifteen years, and she took me under her wing and looked out for me. Like everyone there, she had her strange little habits. She would always seem to know when I was coming up to her room, and she would be sitting on her chair, hands clasped in her lap, smiling at me as I came through the door.  

 “I like to sit at the window,” she would tell me often. “I can only stare out, though. They never let me open the windows.” 

 We had to ask permission to open the windows, of course. Even though we were on the ground floor and the windows couldn’t open very far, I guess the nurses had to know when one was open to make sure we weren’t … I don’t know, letting in the sparkly leprechauns we hallucinated or something. Mary and I would talk for hours, and the woman who shared the room with her (a born-again Christian who used to try and convert everyone so often that we all started calling her Jesus - she seemed to like this) would always leave, so it would just be the two of us.  

 I was in there for a while, but when I was allowed out, Mary was still an inpatient. I promised to visit her, and after a week of settling in, I came back. I had timed it so it was the tea break, and the nurses recognized me and after asking me how I was doing, they let me take myself into the small cafeteria room. Mary was sitting at a table by herself, a cup of coffee in front of her, and she was smiling and waiting for me, like she’d known I was coming that day. Of course, I hadn’t told her (the trip had even taken me by surprise; I’d just ended up there). She seemed thrilled to hear that I was getting on a lot better now, and before I had to go, she gave me her number and made me promise to keep in touch. 

 “Or you could visit me here if you need me,” she said. “I’m here quite a lot.”  

 I promised to keep in touch, and then I headed on my way. 

 When I did call the number, just to see if she’d made it home yet, I was informed by a machine that the number had been disconnected. This was strange, as Mary had often spoke of her husband who still lived in the house, and of many siblings and children who would visit. I haven’t spoken to her since that day in the cafeteria, though if I have a day where I’m worried or concerned, I’ll think I’ll see someone who looks very much like her out of the corner of my eye. I think, if I were ever in a moment of true despair, she’d be back in her room at the hospital, should I ever go back to find her. She’d be sitting at the window with her hands clasped, smiling at me before I was even though the door.  

 It has been said many times that most people will meet people in their lives who aren’t exactly human. They could be ghosts or even angels, or perhaps some unfortunate people will come face to face with a demon or a malicious entity. I’m not too sure what Mary was, but I’m convinced that it wasn’t anything bad. The fact that she always seemed to be expecting me, the way she was always in the right place at the right time … it all seems too perfect to just be a coincidence.

 Looking back, I did get some weird looks from people passing by the table when I would be talking to her. Strange, and certainly something to ponder over.