Hunted Hunter

My name is Christopher Beck.

I’m a hunter, and I lived in the state of Colorado before . . . Well, before my life changed forever.

I hunted almost every day. I didn’t need to go to grocery stores or supermarkets, I needed only what I caught. Hell, I even stopped using guns at one point, and made myself a bow and arrows to hunt with.

I lived alone in the woods, with the nearest town being at least two hours drive away. It was better this way, I preferred being alone and at peace. I entertained myself by creating arrows when I had the time, or writing to relatives who were “concerned” about me spending all my time alone. I used the mail to write, I didn’t have a computer or a TV or anything “luxurious.” The mailman was the only person I saw regularly, and we didn’t speak often, which I was perfectly fine with, and I assumed so was he.

One day, I got a letter from my grandmother, who hadn’t written to me since a week after I left my city home. It was an invitation to her 90th birthday party. She was having it in Atlanta, where most of my relatives lived, and I was slightly torn over whether to attend or not. On one hand, the brief time in my childhood when I was close with my grandmother, she had been sweet and loving to me, and I would definitely feel guilty if I didn’t attend. On the other hand, Atlanta was a big city, filled with a lot of people, and at her party there would definitely be a lot of people.

I decided that spending some time with my grandmother on her birthday would be worth shifting through crowds, and I went to the town nearest to me to buy some nice clothes.

When I got back to the cabin things seemed off.

Nekropotencjał: Wojna umarłych

kontynuacja creepypasta: Nekropotencjał

Potęga czyni to wszystkim. Zdeprawuje każdego z nas, albo przynajmniej tych, którzyj jej doświadczyli.

 Pomimo tego że wszyscy dążymy do zanurzenia się w morzu nekromancji, niełatwo nam jest utrzymać się na nim. Nasze człowieczeństwo jest jak wybrzeże, palmy i cały ten suchy ląd. Jeśli przeciwstawisz swoje człowieczeństwo naprzeciw faktowi bycia magiem z piekła rodem, wybrzeże przeciw bezmiarowi oceanu zrozumiesz, że bycie magiem jest znacznie bardziej zabawne. To przemawia do Ciebie. Nie możesz tego odrzucić, więc płyniesz dalej, nurkujesz dla lepszych doznań. Zamiast jedynie zanurzać stopę, odczuwasz to całym ciałem.

 Kiedy pierwszy raz płyniesz przez ocean umarłych, wody porażają Cię. Wstrząsają pokazując Ci rzeczy, których nie rozumiesz, ale które być może BĘDZIESZ w stanie zrozumieć. Może się zdarzyć, że pewnego dnia uznasz, że masz już dość pływania i odwrócisz się, by popłynąć z powrotem, ale lądu już nie będzie. Nie wrócisz. Będziesz za to wciąż wciągany pod wodę, przez rekiny i jeszcze coś innego, jakąś nieznaną otchłań pod Tobą. Jedyne, co możesz zrobić, to płynąć w dół, do miejsca, gdzie jeszcze nikt nie był przed Tobą.

jvk1166z.esp

Ostatnio była niezła burza naokoło jednego moda do gry Morrowind. Plik to był jvk1166z.esp.Nie był udostępniony na większych forach poświęconych Elder Scrolls, zwykle na mniejszych forach i grupach rpg... Wiem też, że został on rozesłany emailem do "wybrańców".

Dlaczego wywołał burzę? Wyglądał na wirusa, gdy próbowałeś włączyć grę z aktywnym modem - gra się zawieszała na pierwszym slajdzie "loadingu" na pełną godzine, by zaraz potem powrócić na pulpit z raportem błędów itd. Wszystkie sejwy zostałyby uszkodzone, a mod nawet by nie mógł być otwarty w construction secie do morrowind. Na forach użytkownicy byli banowani za wysyłanie tego jednego moda...

The Woman Who Lived Next Door

On the morning of April 13th, 2004, police were called to a house on the outskirts of a small village in central England by neighbors who had heard a sound that had chilled them to the bone: a single strangled scream with an abrupt cut-off.

“We have a right to know”

“We have a right to know,” said Dallas.
The men were standing out on Bergeron’s front porch, smoking cigarettes, with the exception of Dallas, who had taken up smoking a pipe after garnering a subscription to Playboy about six months back. There were four of them: Frank Dallas, John Kelly, Alan Gottfried (whom the men referred to playfully as “Gott”) and Nathan Bergeron. The wives were inside Kathy Bergeron’s kitchen, playing bridge and gossiping and listening to the news on the television.
It was what happened every week. It was normal.
John Kelly and Gott said nothing, simply looked down at their feet and smoked a little quieter, somehow. Kelly was a contractor, and the only bachelor in the group. He was perhaps the most-well-liked man in the neighborhood, by both the men and women, but he was a simple man, and not prone to abstract thought. Still, he was kind-hearted, and that meant more than brains in a lot of ways. He had nothing to say to Dallas, not because he agreed or disagreed, but because he was not sure.

The Wanderer

This is a true story.

Back in the 1990s, a girl committed suicide after viewing an image posted in an old newsgroup.

The image was of a figure - which some identified as a woman - standing in the middle of a lonely road. The figure is transparent to the point that its legs are barely visible and is illuminated by an unknown light source coming from the direction of the camera. Whether it's headlights, a hand-held flashlight, or the light of the camera itself isn't known for sure, as the actual source of the image has never been identified. No facial features can be made out, but the figure is most easily identified by its long, bony appendages which partly resemble a spider's legs. Those who have seen the image or know of its existence have come to know the figure in it as "The Wanderer."