User blog comment:HumboldtLycanthrope/The Collaborative Cliche Pasta/@comment-24101790-20150307044417/@comment-26030957-20150307153002

It was strange that his mother wasn’t home yet. She was usually always home by now. She hadn’t called, either. As a matter of fact no one had called. His best friend Doug hadn’t called, texted or sent an e-mail and all the chat rooms were quiet. No biggy, it was a Friday and everyone was probably busy getting ready for the weekend. It did give him a strange feeling, though.

He focused on the next level of the game. The backwards music was starting to really freak him out a bit, and as he played horrible and gruesome images kept coming to his mind. Foul and violent thoughts of his mother being crucified, naked. Roman soldiers laughing and flailing at her till her skin was a shredded mess of gore. He kept seeing his friend Doug stretched out on medieval torture devices, pulled slowly by the his bound hands and feet till he burst at the waist and their viscera poured out from him in a bloody torrent of guts. He kept imaging that one English teacher that had been so kind to him, Mr. Jones, in an Isis video being beheaded, his lifeless body falling to the sand in a crimson puddle while Jihadi John waved his decapitated head about and screamed about bad grammar and punctuation.

It was unnerving. And he felt a presence behind him. Something lurking just out of sight. But whenever he would turn to look there was nothing there. The uncanny and awful sensation worsened till he felt himself grow physically sick. He ran to the bathroom and wretched in the toilet, the fear pin prickling his skin into goose bumps, his hair standing on edge, his body lacquered in sweat. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, and when he looked up in the mirror…..