#horrorstory
In the empty corner of my room, ten thousand black eyes stared back at me from a shape stitched into the dark; still as death, yet somehow breathing with the room. I held my breath, my back pressed against the headboard, heartbeat pounding loud enough to betray my location.
The crack on my wall looked like a roadway; another split beneath it, that formed a crossroads— like the walls themselves were guiding the thing closer.
Then it suddenly twitched. Every hair on my body rose right alongside whatever black fur covered its limbs.
I shut my eyes tight, counting breaths like prayers… one… two…three… When I opened them again, the corner was empty. “
Oh crap…” I said under my breath. Because a monster you can see is one thing— but a spider that disappears in your bedroom at night…
feels almost supernatural.
THE END?
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 4:28 PM UTC
she loved him
and he loved the way she loved him
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
The gritty, grinding
Of the Langoleers
Sawing and gnawing
The bringers of fear
My mind is their playground
They are all that I hear
They are the Langoleers,
I tell you -
And they're at it again
I am trapped in their torrent -
Their tormenting pen
They've knocked me out for the count,
Now they're gloating
And ready to win
They're pouncing on my pain
And stirring up sin
They boast of their victory
Wearing a despicable grin
This sinister cycle of seismic suffering
Is all that these ******* Langoleers
Have been offering
I look towards the future -
Fiery hell is all that I'm seeing
As I watch these wretched Langoleers
Torture my entire being
While in their grasp,
There is no hope for escape
There is no hope for a freeing
As I scream in endless agony -
I'll eternally be seething
They are the Langoleers
And this is my story
Forgive me, friends,
If my tale is quite gory
But they are the Langoleers
That's just how they've rolled
Now I am just glad
That my stories been told
This is the story of the Langoleers
My torment
My darkness
The source of my fears
Take note, and beware
The horror
The nightmare
Of the Langoleers
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 4:13 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
I gotta be a man for you,
Eliminate The circumstance for you,
There's no other quick way to prove,
How deeply I'm so in love with you,
We create our own little horror story,
Witches and covens make the best out of a love spell,
I couldn't tell,
You give me no hell,
But you make me tear up when I stare down at you,
Watching the light as it propelled,
Giving pride to others when you react alot,
Serving the audience like giving out crack,
In plastic bags where the dreams grow,
So does the shrums,
I swear your ambition can consume,
Replace my fragments,
Kissing would be hell and heaven,
Screaming back and forth,
Arguments,
We'll never get into one,
I love more than the sun,
If I could blow it for you I would,
Maybe,
Do something your feelings never could,
I miss you violet.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC