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[-] RagingManticore
Okay guys: read transcript and phoned up the Toronto police department. theyve got a missing persons case still on the books from January 2017 for a ryerson engineering student age 22 named joseph macklay, last seen near a condo off adelaide west, fifteen minutes from downtown bay street. local real estate records say theres a corner one bed plus den unit still listed hasnt sold since. sooooo either a *really* well-researched creepypasta or ???????!!!!!?????
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[-] KevlarTuxedo
lol youre a tool—links or its bullshit
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From a subforum on www.prepperforums.net, posted June 5, 2018:
Hello everyone.
I’ve been drafting this post for a couple of weeks now, after my last trip into town, when I realized that my interview with the “GridLost” people had gone viral. Honestly, I never expected them to release it in any form. I just wanted to tell myself I’d told somebody. I still don’t know if I haven’t made a really big mistake. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
That’s why this is going to be my last post to these forums, or any other. I’m cutting the last cord. I want to thank everyone for everything I’ve learned here, and I hope I’ve given as much as I’ve gained. If I came into this community out of fear, I think I’ve found something like peace, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
Some of you are probably going to ask why I’m not trying to make more out of this. I mean, if you believe me, then you accept I saw something that proves everything people think they know about the world is wrong, or at the very least horrifically incomplete—and when there are millions desperate for any reason to believe there’s something out there beyond the 9-to-5, beyond iPhone line-ups and Netflix, why would I not trumpet everywhere I could? Some people would say even a universe full of horrors is better than a universe full of nothing but us.
To that, I say: Wait until you meet one.
If we do live in the bubble I think we do, then the single best thing I can do is not poke more holes in it than I have to. Maybe it’s temporary and futile; maybe the bubble’s going to collapse anyway, one day. Maybe we’ll all become nothing more than parts of the same EM spectrum we’re living off of, energy reduced to its lowest thermodynamic denominator, constantly preyed upon, consumed without ever being destroyed. And in that endlessness will be our end, an ouroboros knot, forever tied and untying—no heaven, no hell. Just the circuit, eternally casting off energy, the sparks that move this awful world.
But not today. Not if I have anything to… *not* say… about it.
This is Harmony6893, signing off.
FISH HOOKS
Kit Power
Sarah was buying a coffee in the train station when she first saw the fish hooks.
She was reaching for her change, mind already on the journey and the meetings that would follow it, when she saw the single trickle of blood running down the man’s hand and onto the coins he was holding out to her.
She froze, her own arm extended, fist half opened, and watched as the dark-red fluid rolled over the man’s knuckles before beading on his fingertips. Her mind was blank in that moment—devoid of any sense of place, of self. He’s bleeding, she thought. Just that, as the droplet grew fat and pregnant. Her eyes, moving apparently independently of her brain, tracked up the fingers to the hand holding the money.
There, she saw the two-pronged fish hook.
It was stuck in the back of the man’s hand, piercing the flesh either side of a prominent vein. There was no line or wire on the end of it, but the skin around it was taut, as though the hook were pulling the hand towards her, and she saw—with a cool, detached clarity born of profound shock—that the skin between the hook’s entrance and exit wounds was puckered and open, causing fresh blood to well up in the holes and stream down the pink skin.
She stared at the hook in the man’s hand, thinking nothing at all. The moment stretched and stretched. She wondered vaguely what would happen when it snapped.
The small eternity ended when the man grunted. The skin puckered more widely, the curve of the hook clearly visible beneath his flesh, as his hand moved closer to hers and his fingers opened.
Blood splashed onto her palm; the coins bounced off her hand and fell from her nerveless fingers, scattering across the floor. It sounded like hailstones on canvas.
“Oh, I’m sorry, miss.”
She looked up then—the polite response so ingrained that it operated independently of the sudden roaring blankness in her mind.
It was the man who worked at the drinks counter, who took her order and handed her coffee most mornings. A young guy with a thin goatee, earrings, long black hair in a ponytail, and an easy smile that often reached his eyes.
The hooks were in his face too.
He was frowning with concern as she stared at him. The two hooks in his eyebrows pulled them down, causing the skin beneath to wrinkle. The blood ran from the holes down either side of his nose like red tears. There were hooks in his cheeks too, pulling his mouth down in dismay, leaving running red lines to his chin.
As he opened his mouth to speak, the hooks in his upper and lower lip tugged his mouth open, dribbling blood over his teeth.
The paralysis broke then, and her fist clenched over the coins left in her hand as she turned and ran from the station.
She had a moment of peace outside. The autumn sun was dazzling enough that she couldn’t see clearly. She shut her eyes against the glare, not caring at the crowd jostling around her, past her, into the station. She felt like an island in the middle of a busy stream, and in the moment she embraced her stillness, relishing the feeling.
Then she opened her eyes.
The hooks were everywhere.
She was looking down at the pavement, at the parade of legs in smart trousers and business skirts. The hooks were in thighs, in shins—red blotches on tights, crimson and clotted, like obscene poppies. Everywhere the hooks pulled flesh, stretched skin, dragging people into motion. Glancing up, panic rising, she saw more: a woman’s hand tugged to her face, brushing the hair from her eyes, droplets of blood falling onto her white blouse; a young man, ear buds in, the hooks pulling his eyebrows hard enough to almost tear, blood streaming down his face.
She saw more, and more, her mind a series of impressions of spiked bent metal and open wounds, and always the pulling, the stretching, and the pounding of her heart became a piston beat in her ears, and her mind filled with one thought, one impulse, to be away, and she started to sprint, fleeing blindly across the road, past a blare of horns and a screech of tyres, and up the street.
Eventually the pain in her chest got too much, and Sarah stopped running. She slowed to a walk, and then all but fell onto a bench. Her heart was punching a hard, heavy rhythm, and her lungs burned with each ragged breath. She gingerly stretched her legs out, wincing at the pain the movement caused in her thighs and calves.
She closed her eyes briefly, intending to focus on her breathing, to count, but when she did the image of fish hooks in skin came into her mind. She quickly pulled them open again.
She took in the park around her. The spring sunlight played through the leaves of the tree whose branches overhung the bench, dappling her skin with spots of light and shade. A cool breeze set those spots dancing over her and the tarmac of the footpath in front of her. Further away, the path sloped down through the middle of the grass, towards the edge of the park. She could just make out the shape of the archway above the train station entrance, and suddenly the cool breeze made her shudder violently. Her jaw began to judder, her teeth clattering together, goosebumps rippling under her cardigan. She let the shakes come, hugging herself and tilting her face up, looking through the branches and leaves into the lush blue sky.