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Keeper Of Eternity

Over the past millennium, science and medicine has advanced so far as to put miracles in the hands of men. Many of the diseases that were fatal merely five hundred years ago now have cures or at least treatments thanks to the brilliant minds of man. That being so, there’s still one fatal infirmity humanity has yet to overcome, and that’s mortality.

For those devoted enough, however, there is yet a way. Located just off the East Coast of North America somewhere is a shrine dating as far back as the earliest recorded civilizations. Lost to the ages now, there is but one path to this shrine, and it still sends its call, as if daring the hardiest of man to make that perilous voyage.

If you find yourself in Savannah, GA someday and think you’d like to play your hand at immortality, simply hop in your car and continue east out of town along E President Street and continue along it until it turns into Islands Expressway. If the forces deem you worthy, or if they’re simply in the mood to watch in amusement as you throw your life away, the sky will darken with rainclouds–even if it was clear and blue only moments before–and the forest about you will seem to glow. Keep your eyes peeled and you should see a turn-off into the woods a few minutes after this happens.

Now if you’re carrying a map you’ll probably notice this path is not indicated anywhere on it, but pay that no heed. Continue along the tight and densely overgrown path at a slow pace, for if you go off the road here, you’ll have no hope of ever finding your way out of this forest, and no tow-truck will ever find the turn-off to come retrieve you. Simply follow the path before you–for while there are many bends, there are no turn-offs from this one. The trees will only grow denser as you progress, until the limbs scrape like fingers along the top of your vehicle (you should probably note that it would be a very bad idea to undergo this journey in a convertible).

Eventually, after approximately forty-five minutes to an hour of driving, you should come to a dead end, where the trees tighten about you like a noose around a doomed man’s neck. If you have a GPS system in your car it will proclaim that you’re about fifteen miles into the Atlantic Ocean. Do not attempt to reverse at this point, for you’ll find that the path is no longer there. Check your watch, or your phone, or your car’s read-out for the time, for regardless of the time of day not a single ray of light will spill through these densely packed trees. If it is dark out, or if it will be dark out within the next few hours do not open your door, and do not turn off your headlights. You may turn off your car every so often to save gas, but you’ll want to crank it up again periodically to keep your battery from dying. If you let down your guard in this forest at night, you’re as good as dead.

If you were wise enough to start this trip early enough, and it’s still light out, you may exit the car at this point. You’ll notice the trees around you leaning in your direction, as if peering down at you curiously. In a loud assertive voice proclaim, “I am here to claim my fate, and none here shall stand in my way.”

You’ll hear a sound behind you. When you turn to look you’ll notice a small path that hadn’t been there before. Do not hesitate, do not question it, simply walk purposefully forward and start down the path before you’re trapped in that clearing indefinitely. The path may wind drastically, depending on which way you were facing when it was created, simply continue walking and do not look back, no matter how loud the rustling gets behind you.

You’ll soon find yourself ankle-deep in a swamp, and you may find the sound of frogs croaking a soothing change from the forest’s lively rustling. It would be most wise at this point to find the longest thickest branch you can, for the marshes of Georgia can hide the nastiest creatures in only a foot of water, so you’ll need to feel your way along like a blind man.

Only about 10 yards from the forest-line the land drops off into the ocean, and unless the forces are feeling particularly cruel you should be able to see the log poking up out of the water right away. If not, you’ll need to search, and it may take a while but once you’re near it there’s no mistaking it. Walk until you feel the ground break away beneath you, then get into the water. When you’re touching the log, you’ll want to take in the largest lungful of breath you can manage, then dive under and swim to the bottom as quickly as you can. It will be a long swim but do not turn around, even if you think you’re about to faint. Swim as fast as you can and keep going down, keeping a hand on the log until you come out the other side.

You’ll resurface in a pond in the middle of a dark forest much similar to the one you just exited, only just at the edge of the pond will be an ancient building of indeterminable origin. Go inside. Fires will be lit, marking your path to the shrine of the Keeper. A large statue, the likeness of the Keeper, will stand at the far wall and at his feet will be an empty bowl. Address the Keeper in a loud, confident voice, saying “I’ve come very far, and all I ask for is something to drink.”

His response will be a single, very personal question, and he will speak it directly into your mind, so listen carefully. When he has asked his question, do not take too long to answer, and answer only in the truth. BE VERY PRECISE WITH YOUR ANSWER. He will know if you’re trying to hide something. Once you have answered him completely, the bowl at his feet will fill with a strange liquid. This liquid will reflect the entire rainbow’s spectrum of colors, and it will bear no scent. You must drink this liquid, or you will never leave the forest alive. Depending on whether or not the Keeper liked your answer and deems you worthy, the liquid may be plain tap water, or a lethal poison. If it is the latter, you will only know once the symptoms begin to take hold. If it is the former, you will be free to leave.

The forest will part before you, showing you the exit, much like the years will part before you, leaving you alone to endure the eons. You will see your family and loved ones die, and you will see wars begin and end, but you will never die. You will see the sun explode and the earth burned to a cinder, but you will never die. You will know the true meaning of eternal life.

Felt

Five hundred twenty six dollars and thirty four cents.

This is my paycheck after two weeks of full-time employment at the Thrift-Sak. It’s enough to pay the rent, two tanks of gas, and the car insurance on my jalope of a ride.

My apartment is a complete s**t-hole. When Sandra used to come over, she told me that the cockroaches were complaining. She was always kind of funny like that until she didn’t have a face anymore. She stopped talking, eventually. I should feel awful that it happened, but I really have no right to complain.

Four thousand, nine hundred dollars.

The sun is starting to crest over the city line, but that’s what I won last night. What did it cost me, exactly?

Two packs of Marlboro lights (in a box), a Rockstar energy drink, and Sandra’s face.

It wasn’t my fault that they got her, really. I played to the best of my ability, and so did she. She’s always been one hell of a card player, let me tell you, but maybe she caught the wrong river card on the wrong hand. Maybe I’m ten percent better than she is. Or, maybe, I just got lucky. Ask me if I got lucky, and I’ll tell you…. I did, okay? I GOT LUCKY.

It’s 5:43am and I have to be at work at the Thrift-Sak in seventeen minutes. I’m parked outside it, now, contemplating on whether I should go in or not. I’m leaning towards no. After all, I’m living in the fast lane now. I made my breakthrough, but not in a way that I’d thought possible.

People all over America play poker. Some for fun, some for sport, some as an excuse to see a hot girl take her clothes off, and some to make a living. I wanted to be that person for the longest time. Last night, I found a game with the highest stakes I’ve ever encountered, and now, I’m thinking it’s possible that I could be upgrading soon. New place, new ride, new haircut.

Their game starts at midnight. Rule number one is that you don’t play unless you bring a friend. Rule number two is that one person leaves a winner. Rule number three is that the game is off unless they get a full table of nine players.

Last night, I was number nine.

The buy-in is not of monetary value. In fact, the entire concept is a little distorted if the only poker game you’ve ever played is in Vegas. The rules are no limit texas hold em, which means that any player can go all-in for their entire chip stack at any time. The difference is…. you don’t buy your chips.

Your ultimate goal is to win money. When you’re invited, you know what the pot amount will be. Last night, it was four thousand nine hundred dollars. Tonight, it’s sixty two thousand, three hundred twenty dollars. Why the sudden increase, you ask? Because they had a winner.

It runs every night except Sundays in the back room of Romantico. It’s one of those f**-hack metrosexual clubs downtown, by second avenue. People in that place are rail thin, and they wear Under Armour, lycra, and every other tight-fitting material that you could think of. Most of them are doped up on some substance or another. It’s not really my kind of place, but what goes on in the back room is completely discreet. It’s under wraps, per the owner of the property, but it always starts at midnight.

I was never too fond of Sandra in the first place, really. She looked great naked (she has a tattoo of a purple crescent moon on her hip, and she smells like lilacs), but she was always a b***h to work with. She’d only come over if she got too drunk and her shift ended one or two hours before mine. For once, I asked her to go with me to the club to play cards, and she told me to go chop my d**k off. I told her which club it was, and all of a sudden, she was all rosy-eyed. I think she’d played poker two times in her entire life. I needed her, to get a chance at the pot. I didn’t care if she lost. She was shitty with her money, anyway.

The room itself is made almost entirely of stone. It’s cold in there, despite the fact that it’s a hundred degrees in early August before the sun goes down. There are broad, sweeping drapes that make a coverlet around the old rock, making a perimeter around the room. There are no windows, no openings whatsoever. The drapes are the brighest, deepest blood red that you will ever see. The candelebras that are scattered around the corners cast an eerie, crimson flamed glow towards the table itself. If you exclude the modern additions, it would look like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. The Masque of the Red Poker Room, if you feel me.

The table is some kind of black, charred material that looks like a mixture between wood, glass, and ebony. When you fold your hands on it or rest your elbows on the rim, your skin will get warm. Then, you’ll feel hot. Then, it feels like you just ran your hand under a broiling water faucet. For that reason, I usually kept my hands in my lap. I learned to memorize my cards so I didn’t have to peek at them after the first time.

The felt of a poker table can have a surreal, plush feel to it. Like a pool table, except it’s molded over with a top layer of plastic that allows the cards to skim across it easier. This felt was the smoothest and most exotic that I’d ever seen, except that you could feel it moving. Put your chips in the center, place your fingertips on it to raise the edge of your cards… .and I swear you could feel a heartbeat. The surface is peach-colored and smells strongly of women’s perfume. For some reason, touching that felt gives me a hard on. I guess you could say I’ve taken gambling to an unhealthy level.

When you first enter, you’ll think you’ve lost your mind. You’ll see heaps and heaps of chips, but some of them are more of an off-colored white than the others. When it finally hits you, you’ll realize that your chips are made of human bones. All nine of you will exchange a nervous glance with each other before the blinds hit and the clock starts ticking.

When you go all-in, you don’t put any chips in the middle of the table. Instead, you stand up, walk to the back corner of the room, and they put their hands on your shoulders. They’re waiting, you see. To make sure you made the right move…. that you really had the best hand. You’d better be sure. Bluffing in this game will cost you a lot more than your mortgage.

One by one, the people around me would go all in. I was surprised that Sandra was doing as well she did, honestly. People would go to the corner, they’d bust out, and they would leave with the guys in the robes through the back door. I didn’t know who they were. They gave us our chips, they told us to sit, and they got pissed at me when I tried to smoke at the table. They weren’t any different than the fat, cocky pit bosses at the Mirage, really.

I played tight, and I tried to trap people when I knew I had them in a tough spot. I was a table bully, and I was catching some cards. Before I knew it, there were only three of us left, and Sandra had enough chips in front of her to entertain a pack of dobermans for a year. A few minutes later, she knocks out this other poor chap in front of us, and we’re down to two at around three in the morning.

I look down, and I try hard not to let a little smile break the corners of my mouth. I have two kings. “Cowboys,” as some call them… or “danger rangers.” The second best starting hand in poker. Although there are two of us left, the stakes are getting high. We both know that whoever wins this game isn’t going to work at the Thrift-Sak ever again.

What would you do with that kind of hand? You’d go all-in, of course. And that’s what I did…. before the cards even came out. I stood up from my chair, waltzed over to the corner, and the dark robed observers clamped their bony grasps in to my shoulders.

Sandra rises to her feet, as well. She flashes me that stupid, sideways grin that makes me want to spit in her face. “I’m all in too, Dicky-Dog.” She walks over to the other corner, and they have her locked in, as well.

I hate when she calls me Dicky-Dog. My name is Richard. Not d**k. Not DICKY-DOG.

That’s when I saw her cards on the table. She’d turned them face up, like mine. Pocket aces. Bullets. Pocket rockets. The big cheese. The number one best starting hand in no limit hold em. Suddenly, percentages were racing through my brain. I had an eleven percent chance of hitting another king and beating her in this hand. She was an eighty nine percent favorite. I hear a low grunt, hot breath expelling across the back of my neck from the robed figured on my right. Their fingers are crushing in to my flesh, now, even deeper. They know I’ve made a bonehead move, and that I’m probably the next one heading through the gated door. At least I know, either way, that I’m not going back to the Thrift-Sak tomorrow. She’s giddy like a school girl.

The turn card is a three. My winning percentage has just been chopped in half. I now have a six point five percent chance to win. One last draw.

I’ve never been as scared as I was in that moment, but then, the dealer in the black robe laid down the last card. The king of spades. I was saved, and the look of horror and revulsion on Sandra’s face was almost classic. Her little khaki skirt does a poor job of hiding the fact that she’s pissing herself. They must be really digging in to her. The voice that I hear next makes me want to pee on myself, as well. It’s definitely not human.

“Three of a kind kings beats a pair of aces.”

The figure at the table rises to his feet, and he extends his sleeved arm outward, pointing directly at Sandra’s face. For the first time, I can see that his finger is not of human origin. It’s made from the same material as my poker chips.

“We have a winner for this evening. The tournament is over.”

As they escorted me out and the gate came to a close with a slow groan behind me, the last thing I could see was Sandra’s face, twisted in absolute horror. She was missing her lips. I had a briefcase full of money and a head full of images that I will never forget.

It’s 6:28AM now, and I am officially almost half an hour late for work. I toss my Thrift-Sak shirt in the wastebin by the gas pumps, but as I leave, Chaz is pulling in to the parking lot. Chaz is a pretty good worker, and he doesn’t really give me a lot of s**t. I like Chaz. In fact, I’ll be inviting him to tonight’s game. He’s never played poker before, but I told him the stakes aren’t terribly high. It won’t even cost him anything to buy in, right?

I’m looking forward to touching that table again. There’s a purple half-moon crescent on it, just at the corner by seat seven. It smells faintly of lilacs.

You never answered me! scream

Do you know the molly doll story?

To invoke the hive-mind representing chaos.
Invoking the feeling of chaos.
With out order.
The Nezperdian hive-mind of chaos. Zalgo.
He who Waits Behind The Wall.
ZALGO!

Anyway, I shall produce moar of said creepypasta.


The Other Earth

Remember this:

Should you ever despair of life so much that you want to die, you have the means at hand and yearn to end your life, you have written a suicide note to those you will leave behind and you are prepared to die...at that moment, stop.

Get a pair of scissors. Cut away at the note until you end up with a piece of paper in the shape of a key. Go to a door, any one will do. Push the paper key forward and turn your hand as if unlocking an imaginary lock.

The lock is real. Open the door. There you will find it. The other Earth. The one that awaits to replace this one when it dies. That death is inevitable, but in the meantime the other Earth will belong to you.

Be warned: the other Earth is very different from this one.

Moonlight Films

In many stores and establishments that provide videos of a less than savory manner, a business card is kept. Some stores keep it well hidden, locked in a safe, and will deny its existence. Others will show you if you ask for it by name. None will have it displayed in the open.

On this card is a name, "Moonlight Films", and a contact number. It is always a local number. Go to any payphone in your city and dial the number. The answer will be prompt but all you will hear is silence. Wait thirty seconds. Then you will be served.

A dry, monotone male voice will ask you a question: "Is the road from life to death dark?" The correct response is: "It is moonlit."

If you answer with anything but the correct reply, he will hang up on you. If you fail the first time, I'd suggest not trying again. But if the question is answered properly, the man will say one address in your city and then hang up.

Go to this address and you will find that it is a small, dingy apartment. The carpet will be dirty, the wallpaper flaking and wrinkled, the windows cracked. It will smell of tobacco smoke and decay. On the stained old coffee table there will be a paper bag. On this bag your full name will be written in red sharpie.

Open the bag and you will find an unlabeled video tape. Take it and place exactly $10.99 in the bag then leave.

You can watch the tape if you like, but you don't have to. I warn you: it's not pleasant. You will see a room or chamber papered in dessicated skin, the furniture will be crafted from flesh and bone. The tape will last approximately 32 minutes and will depict the murder of a person and the subsequent crafting of their body into furnishing - lampshades made of skin, tables made of bone.

After renting the tape for one week, you must return it to the apartment by sliding it through the mail slot when the time is up. After that, never return to the apartment and definitely don't call the number ever again.

I'd also suggest you not keep the tape more than a week. The owners will not be satisfied with a mere late fee - and you know, a good home can never have enough accessories.

gonk

During the war a soldier faithfully wrote his mother every week so she would know he was all right, until one week she didn’t get a letter and immediately began to worry. Within a couple of weeks she got a letter from the Army saying that her son had been captured and was being held in a Prisoner-of-War camp, and they assured her that they had no reason to believe the American prisoners were being mistreated in any way. A few weeks later the woman finally received another letter from her son, it read: “Dear Mom, Try not to worry about me, they are treating us well and I’ll be released as soon as the war is over. Make sure that little Teddy gets the stamp for his collection. Love you, Joe” The woman was overjoyed to hear the news, but was confused because she had no idea who “little Teddy” was. She decided to steam the stamp from the envelope and have a look. When she did she saw that written on the back of the stamp were the words:

“They’ve cut off my legs”.