Waverly Hills

    Venturing into the eerie depths of Waverly Hills Sanatorium, my companions and I weave through the dilapidated remnants of what was once a bastion of healing. This place, with its dark history and whispered tales of spectral hauntings, holds a reputation as one of the most haunted locations in the world.

    Through broken doorways and along crumbling corridors, we traverse the decaying labyrinth that time has forgotten. These weathered walls bear the weight of countless stories, the echoes of suffering and anguish lingering in every gust of wind.

    Rooms upon rooms reveal themselves to our curious eyes, each with its own macabre tale to tell. The ravages of time have left their indelible mark, reducing this once grand establishment to a mere ghost of its former self.

    Yet, amidst the debris and decay, we stumble upon a sight that captures our attention—a shattered statue, the remnants of a monkey frozen in a permanent state of destruction. Some have dubbed it "The Monkey King," a moniker that carries an air of both reverence and foreboding.

    As I gaze upon this twisted relic, I cannot help but wonder about the secrets it guards. Was it a symbol of mischief and playfulness, or does it carry a darker significance, a portal to the otherworldly? The absence of ghosts may deceive the senses, for this forsaken place holds secrets that lie beyond the realm of the visible.

    Whispers of forgotten tragedies resonate within these crumbling walls, even if their apparitions elude our mortal gaze. The absence of specters does not diminish the palpable weight of the past, nor does it quell the uneasy sensation crawling up my spine.

    In this desolate chamber, where the monkey's shattered visage looms like a grim specter of the past, I find myself ensnared in a web of curiosity and trepidation. The absence of ghosts may deceive, but beneath the surface of this forsaken abode, a maelstrom of forgotten souls and dormant spirits awaits its moment to materialize.

    Waverly Hills Sanatorium, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur, holds its secrets close. And as we wander through its desolate halls, the sense of anticipation grows, for the truth, like a slumbering beast, waits for the opportune moment to stir from its restless sleep.

I wake up

The Balloon Has Gone Up

    Yearning to serve my country, I make the decision to enlist in the military. The journey begins with a grueling two-week boot camp, a crucible of endurance and discipline. Alongside my comrade Chad, we find ourselves thrust into the company of seasoned soldiers, their eyes reflecting the weight of experience and the scars of conflict.

    Together, we march to the battlegrounds, braving the horrors of war. The air was thick with tension, the deafening sound of gunfire, and the acrid stench of fear. Our hearts pound in unison as we face the unknown, driven by duty and the unyielding camaraderie that binds us.

    Yet amidst the chaos, tragedy strikes with a cruel and unforgiving hand. My mother, a beacon of unwavering support, ventures to visit me in the midst of the turmoil. But fate, ever the cruel mistress, unleashes its merciless blow. An enemy soldier, lurking in the shadows, springs forth and in a split second, snuffs out the light of her existence. Grief clings to my soul like a suffocating shroud, engulfing me in an abyss of despair.

    Despite the weight of sorrow that threatens to consume me, Chad and I press on, our footsteps heavy with determination. We continue to navigate the treacherous path of battles, our minds scarred by loss but our resolve unwavering. Each engagement, a reminder of the fragility of life and the sacrifices we make in the name of duty.

    In the midst of the turmoil, a small helicopter emerges, its blades slicing through the air like whispers of hope. The pilot, a figure of unknown origin, turns to me and beseeches for assistance. His request is simple—to wipe away the encroaching dust that threatens the delicate machinery while we soar through the heavens.

    In that moment, doubt gnaws at the edges of my conscience. I confess my lack of experience, my inability to fulfill the role bestowed upon me. The pilot, understanding the weight of my admission, nods with somber understanding. "I appreciate your honesty," he murmurs, the gravity of the situation etched upon his weathered face. And so, the opportunity slips through my grasp, the winds of destiny carrying me in a different direction.

    Regret lingers, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and the cries of fallen comrades. In this realm of uncertainty, choices are made and fates intertwine. I am left to wrestle with the ghosts of what could have been, the path not taken—a solitary soldier, burdened by the weight of an unchosen destiny.

I wake up. 

Couch

     Within the walls of my relative's house, an unsettling presence lurks. A creature, elusive and mysterious, scurries through the hidden recesses of the couch's cushions. Its rustling echoes like a secret whispered in the dark corners of the night. But this is not the first encounter with the uncanny that this dwelling has seen.

     Earlier, I had the fortune or misfortune, depending on one's perspective, to stumble upon a diminutive raccoon—a tiny creature no larger than a mouse. Captivated by its unique essence, I carefully ensnared it, confining it within the confines of a glass tube, an odd trophy of my curiosity.

     Yet, as if summoned by the strange magnetism that pulses through this family abode, another member of our kin emerges, clutching the newly apprehended couch-dweller in their grasp. Is it a squirrel or a ferret? The answer eludes us, its true nature veiled by the whims of the fates.

     Amidst this peculiar spectacle, I find myself drawn to the presence of my grandmother—a figure who seems to exist in a world uniquely her own. A cigarette dangles precariously between her fingers as she shuffles through a deck of playing cards, her weathered hands etched with a lifetime of stories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the electricity of the unknown.

     My gaze drifts downwards, capturing the image of the tiny trash panda, sprawled on its back, limbs splayed in every conceivable direction. Its vulnerability tugs at my heart, urging me to seek solace in the embrace of nature's embrace. And so, with a decision forged in the crucible of empathy, I resolve to transport the diminutive creature outside, allowing it to bask in the revitalizing touch of fresh air.

     Together, we step into the world beyond the confines of four walls, the creature nestled safely in my hands. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, as if the very universe holds its breath, awaiting the unfolding of this peculiar tale. And as we venture forth, I can't help but ponder the profound connection that binds us all—the living, the curious, and the enigmatic—in this ever-unfolding tapestry we call life.

I wake up.

Veiled Malevolence

    In the shadowy corners of my perception, a vision emerged—a tall, gaunt woman cloaked in the garb of a nun. A sight both mesmerizing and unsettling. She defied the laws of nature, suspended in mid-air, her body levitating four feet above the ground. Slowly, she rotated, casting an otherworldly silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop.

     An eerie hum emanated from her ethereal presence, a dissonant melody that sent shivers down my spine. As my feet propelled me forward, curiosity mingled with trepidation, an insatiable desire to unravel the enigma before me. I drew nearer, my heart pounding like a drumbeat of impending doom.

     And then, in the flickering light, her features became unmistakable. Her skin, as black as the deepest abyss, swallowed all traces of light, radiating an aura of malevolence. Eyes devoid of color or compassion pierced through the veil of my sanity, drawing me deeper into a maelstrom of fear.

     An icy grip constricted my chest, and panic surged through my veins like a toxic elixir. The revelation struck with undeniable force—she was not a mere mortal clad in holy vestments. No, she was a being of darkness, a harbinger of unnameable terrors.

     Yet, as I recoiled from her presence, my imagination unraveled a wicked tapestry. Within the confines of my mind, a distorted image materialized—a blasphemous fusion of divine and infernal. Jesus, distorted and twisted, adorned with a crown of horns. Arcs of electric energy gripped his hair, yanking it back in a torturous dance.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred, and I found myself teetering on the precipice of a horrifying revelation. The veil that concealed the true nature of our existence, of the forces that lurked in the depths of the unseen, was thinning. An unspeakable truth lingered just beyond reach, threatening to unravel the very fabric of my perception.

     My mind, a playground for the macabre, plunged deeper into the rabbit hole, consumed by a cocktail of terror and fascination. For what lay before me was not a mere encounter with a demon, but a glimpse into a distorted realm where angels wore horns, and electricity harnessed the hair of divine figures.

     In the face of such malevolent majesty, I trembled, my fragile sense of reality hanging by a thread. The world I once knew had shattered, leaving behind fragments of my shattered psyche. How could one reconcile the unfathomable horrors that lurked beneath the veneer of our existence?

    The answers, like whispers in the dark, eluded me, but I knew one thing for certain—what I had witnessed would forever haunt the recesses of my soul, etching a tale of cosmic terror that would forever leave me trembling in the embrace of the unknown.

I wake up.

The Republic Of Florida

    My family embarked on a journey through the heart of the New Republic of Florida, its gleaming capital rising before us like a monument to a new era. A city transformed, where the name of Donald Trump loomed large, and a palpable sense of change crackled in the air. It was a landscape shaped by the hands of ironworking cowboys, defying gravity as they constructed towering behemoths that scraped the very heavens.

     As our car traversed the immaculate streets, we gazed upon the colossal skyscrapers, still in their embryonic stages, reaching skyward like giants awakening from a deep slumber. The symphony of construction echoed through the air, a testament to the indomitable spirit of progress and the promise of a brighter future.

     In the midst of this architectural metamorphosis, a newfound hope settled within our weary souls. We embraced the dawning of an era that held the promise of change, of possibilities yet untapped. A collective anticipation swelled within us, like a chorus of whispered dreams, as we eagerly anticipated the marvels that awaited us on this journey into the unknown.

     Amidst the towering structures, we glimpsed a glimpse of the future, a tantalizing taste of the yet-to-be. And with every passing moment, our anticipation grew, fueled by the belief that within this city of dreams, anything was possible.

     Only time would tell. For now, we embraced the intoxicating allure of progress, embracing the vision of a city that dared to dream big. And as our car continued its journey through this evolving landscape, we carried within us a mix of excitement and trepidation, our hearts filled with the anticipation of the things to come, be they blessings or curses in disguise.

I wake up

Celluloid Dreams

     I found myself within the hallowed halls of the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, a sanctuary of cinematic nostalgia. Room after room brimmed with the relics of a bygone era, VHS tapes piled high like towers of forgotten memories. The air carried the weight of countless hours spent lost in celluloid dreams.

     Amidst this labyrinth of analog treasures, a figure emerged from the shadows—Jack Packard, the harbinger of cinephile wisdom. With a knowing smile, he confirmed my suspicions, acknowledging the existence of another video store hidden away on the upper floor. A realm yet unexplored, beckoning with the allure of undiscovered gems.

     We embarked on separate paths, Jack leading the way as I ventured deeper into the heart of the house. Each step carried the anticipation of revelation, the sense that the secrets of this cinematic haven were on the cusp of unveiling themselves.

     In a quiet bedroom, I sought respite upon a well-worn bed, its history embedded in the very fabric of the room. A flicker of movement caught my eye—a feline intruder, its gaze fixed upon me. "Here kitty kitty," I cooed, inviting the creature closer. But innocence belied its true nature as it lunged, claws sinking into my flesh. Laughter bubbled from my lips, an incongruous response to the chaotic mix of pain and adoration.

     A voice in the background offered a peculiar suggestion—to wave and greet the cat as a gesture of goodwill. I complied, hoping to quell the storm brewing within this unpredictable creature. But my efforts were in vain, as it pounced once more, its playfulness edged with a dangerous charm.

     Guided by an invisible hand, I found myself in a room where Jack stood in the company of Jay Bauman. The glass window before us revealed a private domain—a shower stall occupied by Mike Stoklasa. The room hummed with electric anticipation, a hidden power waiting to be unleashed.

     Four buttons adorned the wall, beckoning us to play with the unknown. Jack's finger met one of them, and water cascaded from the showerhead, an innocuous act amidst this peculiar setting. And then, my gaze fell upon a button, an enigmatic invitation that read, "Are You Afraid of the Dark?"

     Driven by curiosity and a hunger for the unexpected, I pressed the button, igniting a chain of events. Green slime, reminiscent of Nickelodeon's playful mischief, descended from above, landing with a sickening splatter upon Mike Stoklasa's unsuspecting head.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and surrealism blurred, as if the very essence of cinema had taken on a life of its own. Laughter mingled with the discomfort, an amalgamation of joy and unease that seemed to define this enigmatic realm.

     Within the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, I had ventured into uncharted territories, where the whimsical and the uncanny danced a peculiar waltz. And as I stood before the glass window, witnessing the aftermath of my impulsive act, I couldn't help but wonder what other wonders—and horrors—awaited me in this surreal domain of cinephile enchantment.

I wake up