Acies ab Vesania

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Entry #6 Death is a hallway, A dark and dreary way, Down which we all walk. When we no longer talk, No longer feel. Our wounds do not heal. Like a storm it comes, Rumbling, turning, it hums A tune we all fear. My ears no longer hear, All joy has gone. My head I lay my hand on, My eyes no longer see. Finally, death has come to me.

Entry #5 Tonight I write this message, knowing that tomorrow I shall be led to the gallows and hung for the numerous crimes I have committed during my career as a pirate. While these acts demand no less than what I am doomed to receive, there first is a great burden of which I must relieve myself. I beg the indulgence of whomever comes into possession of this note, that they heed my words rather than dismiss them as the ramblings of a condemned madman. I was once a man of good standing and education, the son of Professor Henry Robert Brantell, who is well-known and respected in the academic community. Though I am loath to sully the family name further, I am ultimately behooved to swear upon it that all you are about to read is true as the tides themselves. So it began when our captain acquired the heading for the mysterious Isla Abismo, a fabled place in the mid-Atlantic rumored to harbor both great riches and great evil. Few sailors have even heard of this island, but we were among those few, and our captain thought highly enough of the legends to murder a man for its location. The voyage to the island itself proved a bad omen, for misfortune beset before we even set sail. The ship’s cat, which kept rats from overtaking the bilge, abandoned the ship at the docks, though a man swore he saw her watching us from the docks as we departed. It was as though she knew it was to be an ill-fated trip. Many other small, yet increasingly bothersome troubles beset us as we crossed the vast ocean. Of these I shall speak no more, for they bear little relevance other than to emphasize that our voyage was cursed from its conception. The captain’s headings proved true, and at last we set eyes upon that foul island. Protruding through the putrid canopy of jungle on shore was a lone bell tower. It stood as the marker of a long-abandoned Catholic monastery built atop the central hill years ago. Aye, the Spanish had been here first, but little more than rumor spoke of what they had done here. The captain was convinced the monastery was secretly a depository of great riches, of which the Spanish had spread superstitions to scare away the few sailors who should become privy to its existence. I was no man to believe in the supernatural, yet, as our vessel weighed anchor, and I began to gaze upon that alien shoreline, and an inexplicable sensation of utter dread overcame me. I wanted nothing to do with this place. The longer I stared upon the island, the more my mind began to perceive things not truly there. Rather than dismiss the illusions, I instead delved ever deeper into these outlandish imaginings, and sensed a slow, rhythmic pulsing that was reminiscent of the beating of a heart, though slower and like the rumble of thunder in its omnipresence. Louder this sensation grew, the tremors reverberating through my bones, while my eyes no longer took in the sight of the land before me, but instead a blackened void conjured from the deep reaches of my mind. Into this imagined abyss I gazed, feeling as though I should never see the light again. The captain’s voice in my ear and his hand upon my shoulder abruptly jostled me from my stupor, and not a moment too early. He seemed rather irritable, leading me to suspect he had already called me a time or two and been ignored. As it was, the reason he wished my attention was to inform me I was to join in the shore party with him. As the jolly boats shoved off and carried our force of ten men across the waters between ship and land, I hoped to myself that this expedition would prove my delirium on the deck to be nothing more than the manifestation of a mind weary from travel. We reached the shore, leaving a pair of men behind to mind the boats, while the remainder of us forayed into the sickly jungle. As we hacked aside foliage with our cutlasses, I found myself in awe over the foreign plants and creatures that called this place home. It was clear to me that the twisted, nearly colorless vegetation, which sprung up from the soggy detritus underfoot, was like nothing to exist anywhere else. Pale vines coiled like snakes around thin, contorted palms, while carnivorous shrubs could be seen caressing the meatless bones of long dead mammals. At last we arrived at the crumbling sanctuary, finding it strangely devoid of overgrown despite being surrounded by jungle. In fact, there remained a clearing surrounding the monastery, as though the grounds were still being maintained by active tenants. But further survey of the area seemed to indicate that any plants that tried to grow there had simply died. Furthermore, the edge of the jungle around the clearing looked even sicklier and more perverse than the deep reaches from which we’d come. This was not all, for I could see rising from the dirt in the clearing, a series of shallow grave mounds, with broken wooden crosses protruding from the ground at their heads. The captain ignored these things, quickly leading the men across the clearing up to the collapsing doors of the monastery. I lingered a moment longer to fully consume the grim vista, noting the presence of a single open grave, dug shallowly into the ground but without occupant. It appeared to fairly old, showing signs of erosion from rain and weather. One empty grave, indicative it seemed that the last man had dug it for himself, but had no one left to place him inside it. I finally joined my shipmates as they finished breaking down the rotten door, releasing the foul, stale air within. We moved into the stone sanctuary, finding it as though it had been left undisturbed for a hundred years, then spread out to search of the vast riches we had been promised. I found something much different, within the stone belltower we had seen from the sea. There, on the floor in the middle of a great spiraling staircase, I found the skeletal remains of a what must have been the man whose unoccupied grave lie outside. Though one might have supposed that he had accidentally fallen from above, a different explanation etched itself into my mind. The man had killed himself, either by leaping from the top of the tower, or hanging himself from the rope that would once have dangled from the bells above, though would have been disintegrated by now. As I stood there in the still silence of the hollow monolith, my eyes were drawn to the skull of the dead man, where I locked gaze with the empty voids which once held his own eyes. Seemingly without reason, I began to wonder what this man had seen over the course of his life, and what it was that had prompted him to end it. And the deeper into this question I delved, the more I could feel it once again; that terrible, rhythmic throbbing of an origin I couldn’t comprehend. Within those empty sockets of the dead man’s skull, I began to see the blackness once more, and within the depths of it, I saw technicolored flecks of light, like the twinkling of distant stars. The elevated voice of a crewman interrupted my thoughts, bringing me back to reality. I moved to rejoin my shipmates, finding one had discovered a hidden trapdoor to the rear of the monastery, under which lie a stone stairway leading down into sheer darkness. This forced us to light torches before entering. As we descended into the bowels of the earth, the walls transitioned through several clearly different styles of blocks from several different ages. It would seem the monastery above may not have been the first building on this island. At last we arrived at the base of the stairs, where we found an enormous chamber akin to a giant well, cylindrical in shape and a hundred feet in diameter. There was no floor, but rather a deep pit that seemed to stretch eternally downward. An old but sturdy wooden platform jutted-out from the wall into the chamber, and it was onto this that we stepped. There was a flat, wooden lift suspended just at the outer edge of the platform, held up by a wooden crane built into the walls above. A capstan was mounted nearby, with a long chain connecting it to several gears and pulleys, allowing men to easily raise and lower the lift even when there was great weight upon it. My unease had reached such a point by now that I suggested to the captain that we go no further, but he would have none of it, but he knew I did not wish to go into that pit, so he commanded I remain on the platform. He and four members of our party stepped onto the lift, while two men remained with me. Of those two, one was a hearty Scotsman called MacGregor, while the other was a strong, young lad named Willie. As the those two manned the capstan and began to lower our comrades down, I stood at the edge of the platform and watched the lift sink into the darkness. The torches held by the descending men were soon choked from sight completely, as though clouded by a mist that hung just a few dozen feet below the platform. During this time, it did not occur to me to offer assistance to my fellow crewmen, though they seemed to be handling it well. At long last, the chain went limp, indicating the lift had reached a bottom somewhere down below. MacGregor and young Willie came to a halt, plunging the chamber into a gravely silence. Even the flickering of the torches seemed to make no noise as I continued to gaze down into the empty blackness, waiting to hear a call up from the men below confirming their discovery. The other two joined me at the edge, not one of us daring to disturb the sound of silence. How long we stood there, I know not, but eventually the stillness was broken by cries from far below. However, these cries were not cheers of joy, nor reports of success, but rather screams of utter terror, the likes of which a man cannot soon forget once he has heard them. I commanded my comrades to raise the lift in a sudden wave of panic, now finally electing to assist my comrades as we all rushed to the capstan. As I pushed, I felt within me that throbbing once again, first thinking it was my heart being stressed by the labor I was placing upon it. But it took little time to realize that it was that same sensation I had felt before, that horrible, otherworldly vibration that resonated only within my own body. Louder it grew as higher we raised the lift, until at last I could barely move myself forward my body trembled so greatly. But no further did I need to go, for I realized the lift had been fully raised, and hung innocently in the same position where we had first found it. To our horror, there was not a man upon it. We began to approach, but were suddenly struck by an unearthly odor so repulsive, that MacGregor doubled over and violently heaved onto the floor. I managed to put my sleeve over my face in time to avoid doing the same. When I finally stood directly before the lift, I found that it was no longer dry as it had been before. Now it was covered with a thick, iridescent liquid, within which tiny particles of light twinkled like distant stars in a night sky. All at once, that terrible throbbing sensation, which I had momentarily forgotten, returned to me in full force. Whatever this despicable substance was, it was the source of my ills. I just stood there, frozen in terror, while poor Willie let out a cry like that of a madman, before fleeing up the stone staircase. MacGregor regained himself long enough to release the locking mechanism on the lift, allowing it to plummet back into the abyss, taking with it that vile slime and its unbearable stench. All at once, my senses flooded back, and I could think of nothing but to run. And run I did, though I remember so little else from that time, only that we eventually made it back to the ship and the first mate agreed to set sail away from that accursed island. Poor Willie never regained his reason, and MacGregor began to show signs of madness as the days wore on. I believe I have only retained my own sanity due to sheer force of will, for I have greater fear that some fool will make the same careless error we did. Only three men ever became privy to the location of that blasphemous Isla Abismo, the Captain, the First Mate and myself. And when the first mate decided, as we were being boarded, that he’d rather die with a blade in his belly than a rope around his neck, I alone was left to know this secret. It is a secret that I shall happily take to my grave, and happily to my grave do I go. For every night I now dream of that blackened void filled with distant, twinkling stars, and feel in my bones the beating heart of the primordial demon that forever has, and perhaps forever will, lie in wait at the bottom of the abyss...

Entry #4 Inhuman Nature The sky’s scarlet rays faded as evening broke into dusk, bringing on the light of the moon. It was quiet in the sense that there were no noticeable disturbances that night. The cicadas chirped, and the cattle were lowing, the rural town of Bedburg was at peace in the world. There was the occasional cow mutilations, but it was nothing to worry about, wolves were common in 14th and 15th century. The black plague was still a problem, but that was minor compared to what this town had in store. Pale moonlight illuminated the dark fields of Bedburg one night as a ghastly event took place. Silvery grey fur became stained as the beast devoured its prey. An unsuspecting lamb. The lamb had been ripped open and its insides had been eaten raw. Peter was one of the first townsfolk to arrive at the call of his good friend George, “Looks like those wolves are at it again. Pesky buggers, we should find a way to keep them out.” “I better get to work on a better fence for now, can’t spend all day mourning the dead can I?”, George replied. “I better do the same.”, He concluded, and walked down the road to his own farm. Peter was one of the wealthier farmers in the town, and it definitely showed as he walked through the streets of the town. He was well-known, a personable people person, and many knew and greeted him by name. When he arrived home, he kissed his wife and hugged his kid. Today had been the start of something, something dark, something gruesome. While Peter might have been an upstanding man in his community, he was not that man during the hours of the night. As a child he had been given a belt by the devil himself, something he had hated and so had locked it up and forgotten about. That was until he had unknowingly rediscovered it looking for an extra one the evening before. When he adorned it, it had a certain effect on him. He transformed. Peter was stronger, faster, and smarter than he had ever been. Sharp claws emerged from his fingers as his whole body became coated in a silvery coat of fur. He grew taller and his face elongated into a terrific snout which glistened with sharp canine teeth. He left his home and his wife and kid and went out for a hunt. It was when he was on the other side of time, he honed in on a lone lamb that had gone astray in George’s field. Easily overtaking it, he ripped the lamb open with ease and devoured its insides. He felt empowered, he was invincible, unstoppable, and no one would know it was him. This carried on for about half a year; day after day there would be mutilations. Each one bloody and gruesome. Although the townspeople were getting smarter. One had set a trap out and Peter had been foolish enough to fall into it, resulting in him losing his hand. The next day the farmer found the wolf paw and it was time to get serious. For the rest of the year they started to go on hunts, while Peter picked off their livestock. It turned out losing his hand had been an advantage. While the townspeople went out and searched for the seemingly supernatural wolf, Peter opted to stay home and take care of his hand, as he had lost it in a farming accident. The townspeople were none the wiser either. By the start of the next year, Peter had grown tired of livestock. He wanted more, more of a challenge, something more delicious. On the third of February, 1583, Peter left his farm as normal, and went into the next town over to do business with some of the people there. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet on his way home he passed Stasia Greenwold, Mr. Greenwold’s youngest daughter. An opportunity he couldn’t miss. Peter put on his belt and transformed once again, snatching up young Stasia and mangling her body beyond recognition. He was happy. He couldn’t stop there either. No, as the months went by, he attacked and killed many other kids. Some of the girls, he raped just because he could. Peter was invincible, and no one would stop him. Not children, and certainly not adults. July of that same year, he encountered two pregnant women on his way home, and couldn’t resist once again. If there was a god out there, he was not present as to what happened to those two women that night. Peter ripped them open and feasted on the fetuses they held. Blood spread everywhere, and when they were found the next day, there was no doubt in the town’s mind that they were dealing with a werewolf. Although their best attempts, they could not catch this supernatural killer. So the brutal murders kept going on, and no one was the wiser. One night, Peter watched three people on a walk outside the protective walls of the city. He went and hid in the nearby underbrush. As they approached, Peter called out to one of them, “Hey George, mind helping me with a load of this wood?” Although when George went to go and help out his neighbor, his skull was brutally smashed. When George didn’t return, his friend John went to look while his wife Mary stayed on the path. John was ripped in half and his corpse tossed with George. Mary however knew something bad had happened and attempted to flee into the nearby woods, where Peter chased her down, and ate her entire body. After that night, he started getting cocky, and soon enough the townspeople went out on a hunt, and pursued him for three days. When he finally gave up, he took off the belt and they caught him, arrested him and tried him. He was found guilty, of being a werewolf. Now it’s a good thing that stories like these are not true, because they show the horrors of what we really are, this kind of human nature is absolutely astounding, and unbelievable. It’s this kind of horror that keeps us up at night, with our only comfort being that this didn’t really happen. Except… it did. On the 29th of October, in 1589, Peter Stumpp* was found guilty of being a werewolf, and was fastened to a wheel with burning metal pincers. It was on this wheel where they tortured him and ripped the flesh off his body. It was on this wheel where Peter confessed to 16 murders not including the countless livestock. It was on this wheel where the townspeople broke his arms and legs through the spokes and left him there to die, until three days later, where they decapitated him and burned his body at the stake with his daughter and wife/mistress. The horrible things people do, but hey, it’s human nature. *Peter Stumpp is one of the many names used for the “Werewolf of Bedburg” and it is not known which name was his real one.

Entry #3 Vasquez and the Next Postcard Tell Mom that I’m fine. Okay? The mother meets Vasquez at the police station. She has already spelled it out. Her hands shake as she gives the detective the postcard, but she no longer cries when they meet. She is tired, he thinks. They are both tired. On the front of the postcard: leafy palm trees along a white beach (Haʻaheo No ʻO Honolulu; a sash of red block letters). On the back: curly purple handwriting. Some of the ink has smeared towards the creased bottom corners. The mother leaves. Vasquez reads the message. The insouciant way the writer styles her ‘m’s evokes within the detective images of nameless schoolgirls at their desks, crouched over spiral notebooks, pretty as they craft their secretive notes, their long hair spilling onto desks behind them, gathering loose strands of hair into buns with twisting fingers, pulling, beckoning. Coffee. Right now I just need some time alone. Time for me to make my way in the world. The evidence is bagged and sent to the lab. It’s nearly six o’ clock. Most of the station’s uniformed men and women are already back home. Vasquez waits for the email from the lab to arrive. It’s a formality at this point. He can already picture the succinct confirmation of all he knows to be true in this world. That Anna Winters is always the author of the postcard. That Anna Winters has been missing for seven. Eight. Years. He waits for the caffeine to kick in, for his stomach to complain. But most of all, he waits for the email. Vasquez and the skeleton crew. U need to stop looking for me. We don’t know where you are says the disemboweled golem of letters, stamps, napkins, red string, black string, postcards – more postcards, taunting, always mocking: Nashville (The Stage is Set for You), Algona (Home of the Largest Cheeto), Juneau (What’s a Little Snow?) – , futile check stubs, misaddressed envelopes, index cards with confident leads, unshakeable motives, grainy suspects, photographs of Anna: fur-coat Christmastime Anna; forks-over-turkey Thanksgiving Anna; black-and-white-milkbox-have-you-seen-this-missing-child smiling Anna; all vivisected by seventy-three tacks to Vasquez’s cubicle wall. I’m so sorry says Vasquez. Realize that I’m happy where I am. The new transfer takes his break at Vasquez’s desk. She sounds like a brat, he says, inspecting the photograph of the postcard. She probably just ran away with some guy with an RV. Vasquez shakes his head. She was too young. Vasquez knows that Anna was just twelve when she was abducted. He knows it was just another school day. He knows she had English in the morning. Then vanished by mid-morning. When the security tapes turned inscrutable, the interviews indeterminate, it was the English class where Vasquez followed Anna’s footsteps to the tragic break in the case. Enjoy the rest of your lives. The email finally arrives and he imagines Anna sitting at her desk. Pencil twirling in concert with a ribbon of hair as she contemplates the lesson for the day. Poetry. She reads haikus, measures the iambic feet of a Shakespearean sonnet, loses herself in the recursion of the villanelle, but no form so captivates her as the acrostic. It is elegant in its simplicity. She is crouched over her spiral notebook, pretty as she crafts her first acrostic, her long hair spilling into the dreams of a desperate detective at his desk, who reaches out towards the fleeting shape of a missing girl. He has already spelled it out. Vasquez opens the Anna Winters file and adds another word to the decoded list: torture.

Entry #2 Variety Meat The woman was in her thirties, but she felt a thousand years old, her joints creaking and popping as she shuffled from one nondescript room to the next, carrying a notepad with a stack of forms, wishing desperately that the senior researcher would discover the existence of tablets within this century. She had evidently seen too many spy films when she started on her career path. There was the idea of creating cutting-edge technology that remains hidden in society, waiting to change the world when the timing was ripe that enticed her. She wanted to work on a secret science project. Now that she had gotten her wish, her job was to ask a test subject how their meal went. Opening the door to her side of the room, she was reminded why she hated this place when she looked at the content of the food trays, and the hostile glass pane that separated her and a perfectly normal young man like he was a leper or a criminally insane lunatic. This was the sort of thing that makes people distrust scientists. The silent tapping on the table stopped when the man had noticed her. He grinned amicably. “So, doctor, was this an experiment on how well a person follows cryptic orders? Because you know that’s been done to death already, right?” the man said. The researcher mentally rolled her eyes, though she outwardly smiled. She was going to have to deal with a talkative test subject, then. Something that she would have welcomed in literally any other circumstances except this. She would rather get this batch of interviews done with and get away from the hellish drones of wings that assaulted her senses. “Oh, no, it’s really just is about the food,” the woman said, “If it was about obedience, there would be more chocolate. Besides, it’s no longer allowed for research projects to lie -Well, most of the time, anyways,” she hazarded some truth to get the conversation going. “Well, yeah, I know that, but generally you hire professionals for these sort of things, right? Because I don’t see how a layman like me can discover the uh, minutiae of your canned foods. These are canned, right?” “What makes you think that?” she asked, clamping her mouth shut slightly in surprise at her own raised tone, “The chefs would be offended to know that!” she said, hoping he’d buy her excuse for her tone. “Whoops,” the man chuckled, “I’m really sorry I said that, then.” “So, does that mean you wouldn’t eat them if they were on the shelves?” “No, no, I think they’re pretty much like any ready-made meals I have eaten. Didn’t mean to imply it was bad. I still don’t see why you need to experiment.” “It’s just to be sure,” she answered, pushing the form in a slot, as an unnecessary automatic system slid the stack of paper to the man. This seemed to startle the content of one of the food trays, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, one decided to fly through the opening. Without breaking stride, she grabbed hold of it and tossed it in the nearby bin, the force of the impact seemingly killing it. As she wiped the ketchup off the table, she hoped the test subject didn’t notice that. His calm expression as he scanned the form suggested that he was none the wiser. “So… this isn’t the point where you tell me that the meat in the spaghetti was actually made out of bugs, right?” the man quipped suddenly. There was almost a hint of sincerity in her fake laughter. “Ah, no, of course not. They’re not insects…” As she watched the creatures squirming in the trays, their hallucinatory patterns shifting like a Rorschach inkblot, she wished they were insects. The man impaled one with his fork, twirled it in his delusion that he was eating spaghetti, and bit off its head.

Entry 1 Theme for this reading: Wake Up Sean!!! I had always believed in the phrase, “Get a good night’s rest.” Unfortunately for me, that is something that I have absolutely no experience with. Many of my friends have absolutely no idea of what I speak about, but when something like this happens to you time and time again, you begin to question the very power of the human mind. Once again, I face the illusion of trying to tell myself that its only a dream, and I can try to be optimistic about it, and that would be nice. At my age, you would think that Sleep Paralysis is something that occurs every now and then in millions of people all over the world; it really bothers me that I cannot share this with anyone. It’s as if I am alone in this fight against something that is BOTH terrifying and horrible all in all. My ex-gf would always tell me that I had the power to overcome anything; she said that I was one of the smartest men she had ever met, and with so much Scientific knowledge, that I would be able to conquer things that really got to me. I never understood exactly WHY the mind paralyzes the entire body during a deep sleep, and why this event in itself isn’t ruled as some kind of a disorder, so I cannot judge anyone else for what kind of experience they might have with this event in itself. I can reminisce on this ONE time in which I was literally in a mindset that I was going to die!!! Having heart Palpitations in a previous time period, I was really trying to get enough rest for my good ol’ ticker. I know that I was not panicking or anything, so I cannot direct myself to come to any kind of conclusion on this, so you be the judge and tell me what YOU think. It was February 14th 2017, and the family had pitched in from cleaning up the Catch Basin, which had backed up and flooded the basement. While I cannot state what medicines I was taking for my Heart Condition, I CAN verify that something else had triggered this terrible episode of S.P. I keep my computer running all night, with clocks in multiple places so that I can keep a good track of time, having the skillset of Computer Repair. I had told my sister that I was going to get back up at 2:30 am, and that I had a lot of work to do. Whatever happened, I would find myself awake, with my eyes open, and unable to move. I could move my eyes around, seeing as the time on my clock had indicated that it was exactly 1:43 am. It was well-lit in my room, and my computer was still running a program for converting something for a computer client. This was when I could not put together what was really going on with me. Why couldn’t I move? Then came that low, Demonic growling sound that seemed as if something was getting closer to me, ready to do something horrific. What the fuck was going on here? Was I awake? Is this what my Grandmother was always talking about? Was this when the stupid Witch would come to you and sit on your chest? Even in my own mind, everything around me looked fine, but the sound around me was drowned out seemingly, almost non-existent. Was there anything that I could do to get myself together? I felt my body beginning to slip, as things began to become dark all around me. My thoughts were running wild as to what it was that I could do to get myself out of this; but I couldn’t not move worth a shit!!! I was trapped between reality and a dream state, but was I? Then, the moment that defined what I sincerely am afraid of came to be at the very instant of my trouble; my Heart was slowing down!! It was as if it was struggling to push my blood through my body!! The growling was coming closer by each second, and there was nothing that I could do about it! Why in the hell is this shit happening to ME? I might not have much money, but I DO take care of my only daughter with every fiber of my being. I simply had to think of something to get myself out of this shit before I end up with some kind of mental damage!! I could see the room getting darker still, as my shortness of breath got only worse, making this situation even more complicated than I had first begun to gather information from ever so quickly. I had to move a limb or something to try to trigger for my mind to “catch up.” This was the basic assessment that I had made. I had read up on REM Sleep, and I had no idea that Sleep Paralysis was plastered somewhere before you get into REM Sleep. It’s to prevent your physical body from acting out your dream State. Well this isn’t any good for me!! I tried shouting for help, but nothing was coming out from my vocal chords!! DAMMIT: I’ve got to do something to trigger my waking state or I was going to DIE!! This wasn’t panic; I could feel myself slipping from reality, literally!! You know the old phrase, “When you are dying, people’s voices begin to fade and all that you see is darkness creeping up all AROUND you.” I should be the advocate of that phrase hands down; this instilled the belief of a higher power in me nowadays, seriously!!! I had experienced this when I was ten years old, and then again when I was about 14 or so; even then those episodes were not this mystifying and yet horrific. As a youth, I would’ve probably jumped up screaming or crying, knowing that Demons were trying to attack me or take my breath away or whatever it is that Dream Demons do. I am telling you that I have never felt so helpless, useless and yet full of hope at the same time and place. A phase of panic just could not help this situation whatsoever; a plan of action is what I needed the most; but HOW? Dammit all to Ethereal Energies and Angelic layers of Astral Projections!!! I tried to moved my feet, hands: ANYTHING, but that was to no avail; I tried to move my head, but that wasn’t any good. DAMN you Synaptic Response!! Why aren’t you working WITH me on this shit?? The Demonic growls were ebbing into my audio canals, as I was just scanning my memories to try to wake myself UP: Oh, did I MENTION that my Heart was just slowing down as well? This was something that even MY Scientific mind just could not register!! This has never, EVER happened to me before. Where is my Angel? Why isn’t this being protecting me from this THING that was now growling louder and louder, seemingly coming closer to do something TO me; though I do not know exactly how Dream Demons attack you during Sleep Paralysis. Was my mind in PANIC mode? Why in the hell was I NOT waking up FULLY to just function? This was just devastating; I could hardly see anything, and the GROWL was simply getting louder, as I scanned the room to see mostly darkness, with a HINT of my computer monitor’s light barely ebbing in its luminescence. I was assessing the situation: I’m going to DIE from Sleep Paralysis AND A MILD HEART ATTACK!! That’s just fucking GREAT!! I had been susceptible to Demonic Attacks before, and they were NOTHING compared to this! I can’t yell for help: I cannot depend on anyone right now: I HAD to wake myself the FUCK UP!!! THIS IS INSANE!!! Was I going to count my Chicken before they hatched? Was I going to the Doomed City in the Sky? I suddenly started to HEAR TRUMPETS or whatever they are, according to the Book of Revelations; OH MY SWEET CREATOR!! THOSE ARE “THE” Horns? Are you kidding me? My sister had come downstairs to check and see why it was so frigging quiet this time of night. Most could hear me moving computers around or having conversations with my narrative self about repair procedures. I was trying to shout from the top of my lungs to my sister, but she was not aware of the episode that I was going through. I could barely HEAR her, since everything was pitch black by now. I then felt a hand touch my Shoulder!!! It was HER!!! I could feel the sensation of numbness begin to subside in my right hand and the arm that was attached to it!! I clasped my right hand onto my sister’s left hand, as everything began to brighten back up. I could hear the shriek of the growling force, now in agony that I was now WAKING UP!!! I had finally came to my senses; for what seemed like forever was only three entire minutes of Paralysis; the worst episode I have EVER had in my entire life; I had a similar one at the age of ten, but nothing like this. I ended up going to the Hospital for treatment of my slow Heart Rate though. My Specialist had asked me what could have triggered an in-sleep Heart Attack. She asked if I was on drugs or anything of that sort. I cocked my eyes directly AT her, even while they had me on I.V Fluids and some kind of medicine to get my Heart Rate back into rhythm, as it was fluttering all over the place. I turned my body directly towards her, breathing in and out slowly since the Heart Palpitations were JUST beginning to slack up on my ol’ ticker. I replied slowly and carefully, “Sleep Paralysis is the oddest and yet the most terrifying event that I have ever in my entire life experienced Doctor. I think that would scare the HELL INTO you….” I now wear headphones to sleep; good music is what I use to combat the Paralysis or to decrease the episodes, for which you are NOT to experience in the first place. Having knowledge of this or still being aware of the mind locking your body down while you drift off to sleep can be mind-numbing. How do you even begin to process this series of actions from the human mind? I can listen to music in my sleep, and the Paralysis, PLUS that THING that I heard will not stain my mind anymore up until this DATE. An idle mind is the Devils Playground? How about Sleep Paralysis is that THING’S PLAYGROUND; whatever the FUCK it IS. I warn you all; keep your mind busy………………….You will thank me later.

The stories are posted in random order. Here is the rules for voting: One vote per person. A vote consists of three choices that you MUST rank from first choice through third choice, assuming you choose 3 stories. You must rank them, or else I assume the order you post them in is the order you intended (1st through 3rd). You can vote for less than 3. Basically, your first place vote gets three points, while your second place vote gets two points and your third place vote gets one point. This gives weighted votes, which we found resulted in better outcomes. In order to vote, you must have been registered on the site prior to October 17th. If you submitted to the contest, you do NOT get to vote . You either participate as a reader/voter, or a contributor. Pick one or the other. All votes coming from new accounts (or any other account suspected of being a duplicate) will be IP address cross checked- so don't even think about trying to cheat. Votes are submitted via PM to me. You need to put "Spinal Chills Vote" in the subject line, to ensure I catch it and move it to the designated folder in my PMs box, to ensure it is counted. I will respond to you before Halloween to confirm I got the vote. I will not accept votes until starting 72 hours after they are posted. I ask that all would be voters PLEASE take the time to read ALL entries at least once before voting- hence the 72 hour window before voting even begins. After, you will have until 11:59pm pst Monday, the 30th to get your votes in. The results will go up on Halloween.

Time ran out, and no additional entries came in. The monetary prize is off the table. In light of requests from individuals and some discussion with @supernal, I will still post these up and allow people to vote as they would before, and we will have two winners (1st and 2nd place). In the event of a tie at second, I will have someone who did not vote cast a tie-breaking vote for me. The two who win will get the recognition of winning, and my offer to provide a critique of your work. I am in the last year of earning a writing degree and have been writing for many years, so I can give you some insight in your writing. I will focus both on what you could do to strengthen this story in particular, as well as point out what I notice are patterns in the writing as a whole that could be addressed to strengthen your writing overall. The prize is optional--if someone would rather not receive one, that is their call as well. If you would rather have me go over something other than your winning piece, I am willing to tackle a document or section of document up to 2k words.

Less than 1hr left

Got 6, still 4 short.

PM

Up to 5 now.

Time is slipping away, and I have only 4 entries so far.

Did last year. We can hope history repeats itself. ;P