When You Have a Bad Feeling, Trust It

By Chef winterinthehellscape

//Source.

I was brought up very sheltered. Homeschooled until high school. My only social network outside of my family was my southern baptist church. As you can imagine, this led to a few issues where social interaction was concerned.  Continue reading “When You Have a Bad Feeling, Trust It”

Advertisements

1,000 Dark Jokes to Make Your Soul Rot

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source.

//Story contains references to animal cruelty, sexual assault, and other abuse.

Apparently, there’s a joke book called ‘1000 Dark Jokes to Make Your Soul Rot’, and I was wondering if anyone here had heard of it, because I seriously want to get my hands on a copy.

I’ve been into dark humour for as long as I can remember. No topic is off-limits. Terrorism. Slavery. Dead babies. Whatever. I don’t care about things being offensive; as long as it’s a good joke, I’m up for it.

So when I heard about ‘1000 Dark Jokes’, I knew I wanted to read it. The problem is, it doesn’t seem to exist anywhere. I’ve searched for hours online, I’ve looked on Amazon and Waterstones, I’ve scoured the local bookshops and libraries (Side note – I discovered that libraries are still a thing!). I even contacted some of the biggest libraries in the country and asked them to search through their stock. Nothing. There wasn’t a scrap of evidence that this book had ever been written.

Except for one forum. Continue reading “1,000 Dark Jokes to Make Your Soul Rot”

Radio Silence

By Chef bencbartlett

//Source.

36,400,000. That is the expected number of intelligent civilizations in our galaxy, according to Drake’s famous equation. For the last 78 years, we had been broadcasting everything about us – our radio, our television, our history, our greatest discoveries – to the rest of the galaxy. We had been shouting our existence at the top of our lungs to the rest of the universe, wondering if we were alone. 36 million civilizations, yet in almost a century of listening, we hadn’t heard a thing. We were alone.

That was, until about 5 minutes ago. Continue reading “Radio Silence”

I Got a Phone Call Threatening my Kid – Except I Don’t Have a Kid…

By Chef Bastard_Wing

//Source.

I got the call about 11am yesterday. Fortunately, or not, my office is one of those that’s chilled about people taking personal calls during the day. Sometimes you just need to talk to a plumber, a venue manager, or… this guy.

Thing is, if it hadn’t been a withheld number, I wouldn’t have answered. If a number displays you can just google it later, and a few of my friends withhold theirs out of habit. I’m already answering as I walk out onto the landing, expecting an opportunity to troll an insurance agent asking about an accident I’d never had.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello mister/’

‘Sorry, it’s a bit echo-y…’

the landing genuinely is echo-y, there’s usually someone coming or going from one of the other offices.

‘…what name was that?’

‘Just shut up and listen.’

‘Um. Right, who is th/’

‘Right now I’m outside/”  Continue reading “I Got a Phone Call Threatening my Kid – Except I Don’t Have a Kid…”

Delivery

By Chef Unxmaal

//Source.

I saw him for the first time in the freezer. It was late on a Friday night, really Saturday morning, and I was moving food to the cooler for the morning crew. I pulled a box from the shelf and turned, and there, right there by the door, he was standing. A dark shape — no, a dim shape, fuzzy in those few seconds of vision, my eyes not quite certain if they were focusing on the freezer door or this thing in front of it. Pale arms outstretched and raised towards me. Hollow eyes black against a pallid face, and a mouth that opened as if to speak. I heard the click and slide of tongue on teeth, underneath the low wheeze of the freezer fan. And he was gone.  Continue reading “Delivery”

Why I’ll Never Work at Applebee’s Again

By Chef Max Shephard

//Source.

I was never one to believe in bad luck, or curses, or voodoo, but when a mysterious man showed up one night for dinner at the Applebee’s where I was a waiter, I couldn’t help but wonder.

It was a Thursday night and I had just started my evening shift. Tammy, a 40-something waitress who wore the tightest tops they sold at Walmart and smoked menthols on her breaks, was complaining about a family of four who had only left her a 10% tip.

“Those little shits dropped French fries all over the floor!” she complained. “And the Dad spilled his lemonade. Twice! I’m tellin’ ya, next time I’m …. “ Tammy’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly, and she lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Oh my Lord Jesus, would you look at this…” Continue reading “Why I’ll Never Work at Applebee’s Again”

The Last Time Any Human Speaks to Another

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source.

Through the darkness of his closed eyes, Jack let the ambiance of the hall wash through him. Dozens of clearing throats. Hundreds of shuffling bodies. Thousands of fingers sliding along screens.

Amazing how he’d never really heard it before.

“Jack Willborough?” asked a gentle voice. Jack jolted in his seat and opened his eyes. An old woman stood before him, bent over with age, or perhaps just the pain of walking across such a cavernous room to reach his table.

“Yes,” Jack said, gesturing opposite him, “I presume you’re Alice?”

A nod was her only response. No doubt she had to rest her voice for a while now. Jack watched as she struggled into the hard plastic chair, face creased with arthritic agony. A long minute dredged by. Once the woman had settled, Jack leaned in to be more easily heard.

“Should we wait for the others?” Continue reading “The Last Time Any Human Speaks to Another”

The Crossroads

By Chef SteelPanMan

//Source.

There was a mirror in the room that reflected dust from the windows and the stilted light that came in. He saw himself in its reflection and he also saw past himself. He looked at the film of dirt and black marks upon the mirror and wondered how old it must be.

He wore a suit that he had never owned and it was a shadow in the dark room. There was music outside and he listened hard but he could not understand it. It floated beyond his ears and he could only feel it in a ghostly way.

He stared at the mirror and looked at himself.

To be insulted by these fascists is so degrading.

He wondered where he had heard that before.

Does that make me a bad person?

And he thought, yes, he must be a bad person, for he had never asked himself that question before.

The door opened and there was tepid light flooding in. The light hardly reached him and he saw more dust motes dancing in the air. A beautiful woman looked at him. She was older than him, a perpetual thirty, and she had a kindness about her and he had never seen her before.

“You are awake,” she said.

“Where am I?”

“This is the last outpost. We call it the Crossroads. Here is the last meeting place of both our worlds.”

“I don’t understand. where am I? Am I under arrest? What has happened?”

“Look outside, if you will. You might understand then.”

The window was yellow from light, a blinding hole from an outside that did not want to be seen.

Scary monsters and super creeps keep me running scared.

He blinked the thought away and looked out the window. There were people outside dressed in black and sitting in folding chairs and there was a priest beside a casket. He knew he was inside that casket.

“What is…”

“You know what has happened. It will take some time to digest, I’m sure. But please, we have so much to do.”

“No… No…”

He remembered something he had read on dreaming. It was called lucid dreaming. That was when you knew you were in a dream and then you could control it. He had tried to induce them many times before.

I am dreaming. I am dreaming.

He forced the dream to change but nothing changed and he was in the room with the woman and there was dust about and a feeling of dread overcame him.

I’m dead.

Then others in his mind:

Good. Scum like you should die.

He looked at the woman. Her kindness belied an easy attractiveness about her, a dangerous kind that told him she was sharp and prepared.

Just like every woman, he thought. You can’t trust them even in a dream.

His heart hurt. Or maybe that was yearning, an emptiness that he mistook for his heart.

“I am in hell,” he said.

The woman smiled and came closer.

“I know why you would think that,” she said. “But no. we’re in the other place.”

“This doesn’t look like Heaven.”

“Well this is an outpost, and this outpost is rarely used. You must excuse its condition.”

Around him were dark wooden furniture, a bed for resting that was well loved, and there paintings on the wall of nostalgic Americana.

“What’s going on? This is hell. It has to be.”

“So you admit you were wrong in your ideology?”

“I admit that everyone told me it was wrong. People these days can’t handle the blunt truth.”

“And what’s that?”

“That the strong survive and the weak must die.”

“Is that so?”

He was shaking.

“Yes.”

“And yet we’re here.”

In the mirror he saw himself and the woman. The image was a comedy with him next to her. He saw the marks on his face, the years of unkind genetics and the apathy that fostered it.

I could look better.

That hurt him badly.

I could have tried more.

She stared at him with some confidence that he was unaccustomed to.

“I was right then, if I am in Heaven. Our thinking is right. There is a Master Race.”

She smiled at him with a patience that made him angry and afraid.

“You’re a hero,” she said. “You’ll even get your own special place in Heaven. This is why we came to this outpost. The way is hardly used, but sometimes we get someone worthy.”

“I was right then?”

“You are a weak man,” she said. “Look out that window and tell me if you were right.”

Mourning him were his kind. They were a scant few and he was embarrassed by them. When he was alive, he had thought them brave and outlaws. They were outcasts and nothing more.

“This is a joke. I am in Hell. This is a cruel joke.”

“Is it?”

He looked at his hands and they were shaking.

To be insulted by these fascists is so degrading.

It was coming to him. what was that girl’s name he wondered? Was it she who had pushed him, or was she merely the last in an inevitable conclusion?

“Her name was Amanda,” said the woman beside him. “But she told you her name was Anne. She didn’t like you very much and thought you were a fascist.”

“How do you know?”

The woman shrugged.

He remembered he was crying. He had the gun in his hands and there was vengeance in that weight. He listened to that song. She had mocked him with its words and he had listened to it to hurt himself and culture that self-pity he had thrived on.

To be insulted by these fascists is so degrading!

He wondered what he had called her.

“You called her an animal when she would not go out with you,” said the woman. “She did not cry as you hoped she would. She mocked you with that line.”

“And I listened to the song.”

“You searched the internet for it in your obsession.”

“And I planned to…”

“Yes, you planned to do it. To really do it this time.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. You don’t know. Maybe a mall or a street. Anywhere there were people.”

He could feel the weight of the gun in his hand.

“This is Hell,” he said.

“No,” she said. “This is Heaven.”

“There is no Master Race. You think I am a loser like they all did when I was alive.”

“Yes.”

“Then this is Hell.”

“No.”

“How? And why?”

“Because you did not do it. You hadn’t the heart to do it. Like all your kind, you were a coward at the end.”

“So what did I do?”

“You know what you did.”

The moment was blacked out in his mind. Like the music outside, he could only sense it in an ephemeral way. But he knew what had happened. There was purpose against his skull. The gun was cold and he trembled and nothing had seemed so harder than to breathe and commit to what he did not really want to do.

But I did want to.

“Yes,” the woman said. “You did. And you did do it.”

“I killed myself.”

“Yes. And as a result you saved many. Your life was an abyss for others to be ensnared in.”

“So you reward me with eternity in Heaven?”

Suddenly he was glad and he felt righteous. But the woman was bigger than him, as though her shadow would engulf him. He wondered what angel could she be.

“It is not an angel that you fear,” she said. “It is a woman.”

And he was breathing hard.

“I am in Heaven,” he said. “You said so yourself.”

“Yes. You are in Heaven. But for you it will be Hell. You will find that there are not many like you in here. All your brethren shall be in Hell. Here you will be the outcast you always were. Here you will live in a house of boredom, forgotten as the dust, another piece of furniture for the mirror to reflect.”

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

And then:

“Your funeral is almost over. Look well at those faces for they are the living. When we leave this place you will never see them again.”

He looked outside and the gathered was thinning. People he did not know paid half-baked respects. Little kin was there, and they wore dead faces, hopeless faces that tried to make peace with what he had been and what he had ultimately become.

Nothing, he thought.

“Yes,” said the woman. “And so shall you always be.”

The Visitor in the Light Beige Robes

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source.

It took three days for the visitor to reach our facility.

Sharon was the first to see him, while she was on entrance duty sometime after midday. Of course, she didn’t know he was a “he” at that point. All he was at first was a bright reflection, a spot of sun glinting at us from a scope far across the rubble. A sniper, she presumed. That wasn’t a worry. Sniper bullets were far too precious to waste on settlement guards, especially sublurks like us; at the first sign of trouble we could hunker down, disappear into the endless tunnels that wound away into the dark folds of the Earth.

He wasn’t a sniper, though. When he appeared the next day, a dark figure lurking against the rising sun, we saw from his movements that he was observing us through binoculars. Though any more than that, we couldn’t discern. He kept his distance and circled us, always keeping the sun behind himself, masking his features with its relentless glare. Bernard wanted to send a team out to track him down, but the Major refused. It was likely, he said, that the visitor was trying to lure out scouts; all the easier to butcher them for meat, far from the protection of the facility. Continue reading “The Visitor in the Light Beige Robes”

Someone Knocks on my Door Every Night

By Chef BloomMilk

//Source.

Around last Wednesday on the 20th my roommates and I finished moving into our new apartment. The place is pretty nice, nothing too fancy, but a good size for the three of us. Our apartment has a nice open kitchen and family room, and connecting to it is a narrow hallway with all of our bedrooms. Every night since we moved in has been really odd though. Continue reading “Someone Knocks on my Door Every Night”