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#horror
freegameplanet · 5 hours ago
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Descent is a tense and atmospheric low rez Sci-Fi horror adventure set aboard a creepy abandoned research vessel!
Read More & Play The Full Game, Free (Browser)
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scurybooween · 15 hours ago
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Something weird is lurking outside around your house this Christmas. Will you let them in?
New one for @halloweenshirtcompany
Austin Pardun
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swollenbabyfat · 16 hours ago
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The Rabbit and the Hare
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coitus-n-carnage · 10 hours ago
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Vampyres, 1974
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danskjavlarna · 14 hours ago
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From "Bewitched" by J. T. C. (1972).
My modest collection of vintage horror imagery is screaming along.
Wondering about this post?  Wait for the dissertation (TBA). For now:  Weblog ◆ Books ◆ Videos ◆ Music ◆ Etsy
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kinasin · 7 hours ago
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ambroses-mascot · 14 hours ago
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I’ve never agreed more.
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lostcybertronian · 18 hours ago
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His Head on Your Heart
This has been done before. A serial killer/someone tries to kill the reader and Michael thinks the reader is dead. I know this has been done before. But it’s my turn now.
Trigger warnings for blood, violence, death, knife use
---
Rain strikes the roof outside as you stand at the stove, stirring a pot of marinara sauce, keeping an eye on your spaghetti in the pot next to it, bubbling away, and humming whatever pop song is stuck in your head at the moment. The wind howls, and the house creaks against it as if in response. All in all, a pretty dreary Halloween.
    You take your pasta off the stove, sidestepping the bowl on the floor to get to the sink and drain it. It’s not hard to forget that the Myers house is fucking old; the ceiling drips every time there’s even a light shower. With downpours like this, there are leaks all over the house.
    Thunk! A branch smacks the kitchen window as you’re pouring pasta water into the sink. You gasp; your head snaps up.
    In the reflection, there’s a shape. A half-blurred silhouette.
    “Michael?” Is he back already? Thud goes your pot to the counter. You spin to face the figure in the hallway.
    The man stands silhouetted against the yawning doorway, his baggy, ragged clothes drip-drip-dripping rainwater to the old, scuffed boards. His long hair plasters itself to his angled face. 
    Definitely not Michael. The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up as you press yourself against the counter, only now remembering that you were planning to replace the rusted, sixty year-old locks. Remembering the news report about a crashed bus. An escaped convict.
    “Just like you,” you’d told Michael, who’d only tilted his head, unimpressed.
    The convict stares at you. You stare at the convict. The clock ticks on the kitchen wall, filling the overwhelming silence. Your marinara sauce begins to burn.
    He lunges. Your hand whips out. Finds the handle of the pot, still half-full of spaghetti. You throw it in his direction and dart toward the living room without staying to watch the spray of hot water and pasta. You do hear him slip and go down with a heavy thump and a curse.
    You skirt the dining room-- hip checking the table in the process and stumbling, only to quickly right yourself-- and bypass the living room, heading for the stairs, scrambling up them without stepping on any of the squeaky boards. You’ve done this before, with Michael; this game is not an unfamiliar one.
    The convict is skittering after you before you even reach the landing. You risk a glance over your shoulder and see him at the bottom of the stairs, thin, pock-marked face twisted into a snarl. 
  You throw yourself up the rest of the stairs. You have a hiding spot that Michael has never found, in the ceiling of Judith’s closet. If you can only reach it--
    A pair of hands seize the back of your sweater and yank, pulling you into a rank embrace. 
    Panting, you do what you can; fight. You stomp at his feet, writhe against the iron-tight bear-hug you’re trapped in. But it’s only when you suck in a breath and pop your head back against his chin does the convict give a yell, spin you around, and slam you against the wall.
    Crack! Your head connects with drywall. Stars float across the enraged face hovering mere inches from yours. His nose is bleeding. You feel some sort of satisfaction.
    This doesn’t last; your world turns to a blur, then to a spiral as he spins you again and gives you a shove. The stairs fly up to meet you. 
    Nothing.
---
    Michael stands on his porch for an indeterminate amount of time. He holds a knife in his left hand, the remaining three fingers white-knuckled. His blue jumpsuit sticks to him; it’s drenched and dripping with rain and blood. More blood spatters his mask.
    The door has been forced open. It hangs outward, spilling light onto the half-rotted porch.
    Michael stands just outside the square of light, breathing in the rainy autumn air. His first thought is that you are gone, that you’ve left him the one night you could arguably get away with it.
    The muddy prints say otherwise, so does the half-congealed pasta sticking to the walls and floor, and the heavy burnt smell lingering in the air. 
    So does the intruder wandering around the kitchen, shoving random food in his mouth and items into the pockets of his dirty, two-big pants. He hasn’t noticed Michael, standing still as a statue on the front porch, just outside the square of light.
    But where are you? Michael steps into the house, silent. He looks left. He looks right. It is unlikely you left, more likely you were interrupted.
    He looks up the stairs, and sees you; you’re sprawled across the landing, your head lolling over the first step. Your eyes are closed. You aren’t moving. You look dead.
    Michael storms into the kitchen, not bothering to be quiet; his own breathing is loud inside his mask and his heartbeat thunders in his ears. Surprisingly, the intruder doesn’t notice him until Michael grabs a handful of his long, messy hair and with a quick jerk of his arm rams his head into the counter.
    “Ach!” The intruder chokes; food spews from his mouth. He struggles, but Michael puts an end to that by forcing his head to the counter again before jerking it back, then painfully to the left so that they’re shocked face to blank, unfeeling mask.
    How quickly surprise turns to terror as the intruder realizes he’s inches away from the Shape of Haddonfield. The Boogeyman itself. 
    An enraged Boogeyman whose world had gone black and gray at the sight of you lying motionless upon the stairs.
    The intruder must see his own death reflected back to him in Michael’s one good eye, because he renews his struggles, using his wiry strength to fight with everything he’s got; he flails his fists, stomps on Michael’s booted toes, attempts to headbutt him despite Michael having a firm grip on his hair.
    It does not take Michael long to tire of this. He shoves the knife through the intruder’s throat and watches, his head tilted, as the intruder drowns in air, blood spilling down his front and bubbling at his mouth.
    Blood flames bright red across the floor as he drags the intruder’s corpse from the kitchen.
---
    Your head pounds. There’s a crushing pressure on your chest. You try to open your eyes but the world spins and nausea wells up in your throat and there’s something blocking out the ceiling. Where are you?
    You cough, your ribcage rebelling against the pressure, and that something moves.
    The floor-- are you in bed?-- beneath you shifts, and when you open your eyes again Michael has lifted his head to stare at you. His breathing fills your ears, even louder than the rain hitting the roof outside.
    “Michael?” You manage, as he continues to stare. Stare and breathe. His right eye gleams, his left is lost to the darkness of the mask. Your voice is watery. It cracks when you open your mouth to ask, “What- what happened to-”
    Michael shifts again, clamping one massive hand over your mouth and nose. Don’t talk about it. You nod frantically into his hand, your aching chest heaving, and he pulls it away.
    “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
    Your senses slowly come back to you. You’re lying in the bedroom, on your back. Michael is lying next to you, on his side. He’d been resting his head on your chest, ear right over your heart. The last thing you remember is the convict’s face, sneering, as he pushed you down the stairs.
    You wonder what Michael saw when he got home to draw such a reaction to your question. You look at him; he looks at you. What did he see?
    No answer, of course, comes from him. 
    You groan as he lays his head back onto your chest. Everything hurts. You probably have a concussion, bruises; you hope it’s nothing worse than that. That it can be dealt with in the morning.
    While Michael isn’t dry-- his jumpsuit is damp from the rain, and his mask is slick with rainwater and blood-- he is warm, like he always is. You find yourself falling asleep to the sound of his breathing and the heavy pressure of his head on your heart.
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60sgroove · 3 hours ago
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I think it's very amazing that I do horror films when I had this awful childhood. But maybe that's why I'm good at it.
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