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April 8, 2019

I’ll start this with a very simple point: if I stop posting, then something has happened. I might disappear, but I’m going to make damn sure it’s not without a trace. A lot of people have been getting the story wrong lately, and if these are my last words, then I want them to be the truth behind that night. One of my ancestors was known to have been accused of similar crimes, but his words were lost to time. That’s why I’m posting this online - so that it is never lost, and so that my words can reach a wider audience.

I should give a little personal information so that should something indeed happen, you guys can link it back to this. My name is Mallory, and I live in a coastal town in Nova Scotia, Canada. That’s about all you need. Some of you might already know who I am and where I live just based on that alone. As for the rest, I’ll let you do the minimal work it takes to find the articles about the murder to figure out where I am. If you’re that determined to hold a protest calling for my imprisonment or whatever on my front lawn, then you can do a bit of research.

Who knows? Maybe during your reading you might see the police accounts that have proven my innocence. I guess people need someone to blame though; hence why I see so many comments online putting me at fault for Jake’s death. And yes, after I tell my story here, you might be even further convinced that I… that I killed Jake. But I won’t get anywhere by just saying “I didn’t do it”. So here goes nothing.

Jake Mcleod was my best friend. I don’t mean that in the mournful eulogy way that people talk at a funeral - he truly was my closest friend. We met way back in grade school and have had each other’s backs ever since. After graduation, we both found jobs within town; Jake at a gas station, and myself at a fast food place. Jake always liked cars and working around them, so he was content with his job. As for myself, I didn’t really know what to do with my life yet, so the fast food joint was better than nothing. At least I got to know the locals, that was nice.

March 27th. It was a cold Sunday night. Typically, we would go out on a Saturday to the bar for some drinks and billiards, but Jake hadn’t been feeling well Saturday and I had to work an extra shift. So we decided to meet up the next night instead and suffer the consequences come Monday morning. I would’ve been fine with meeting up next week and just skipping this one, but Jake said that he really wanted to talk to me about something, so I agreed.

So there we were, in the bar, sipping beer and knocking balls in holes, the dizzying noises of bar chatter and bad radio music in the background. After having lost my fifth game of the night, Jake called for a break. We took a seat in a booth, and after a few moments he decided to finally level with me.

“Mallory,” he said, “I’m leaving town.”

He told me that he had been offered a new job out of town as a mechanic. His girlfriend was planning to move to the area as well for her own schooling, so it was a win-win for them. Unfortunately, the place was not a fifteen minute drive away, meaning that it would become harder for us to hang out. And he was leaving within the week.

It hurt a bit, since almost every other friend I had left already moved away too, but I understood how much this meant to him. Jake loved cars, so this was a big step up for him, and I couldn’t let myself get in the way. Besides, this was the twenty-first century; we could still easily keep in touch. But breaking this tradition of weekend pool night was definitely saddening. He could tell it upset me a bit and bought me another beer, but I smiled and told him it was alright. We stayed there a bit longer, played one more game, and then left.

It was about midnight by the time we left the bar. Since it wasn’t too far, we chose to take a short walk along the waterfront. Winters are long and annoying here in the Maritimes, so there were still a few tiny chunks of ice floating in the harbour. The sidewalks were slippery still - some spots covered in treacherous black ice, others holding the dirty mountains of snow still melting away.

The waterfront was empty, and so in our addled states under the light of the streetlamps we laughed and joked for no reason. Now we were passing by one of those piles of snow, and I decided it would be funny to start some thirty second fight with Jake. So, chuckling to myself, I stumbled forward and reached for the cold, moldable solid, and called out to Jake. “Hey, Jake?”

He didn’t respond, so I figured he just wasn’t paying attention. “Jake?” I had the snowball formed as I asked again. No answer again; he didn’t even say “Yeah?” or “What?”, as I was hoping he would. So I turned and prepared to throw the snowball.

I received a kick to the face in response. I didn’t know what had hit me at the time, but regardless it was hard. Already teetering, my foot hit a patch of black ice, and the next thing I knew I was on my back. There was a loud thud as my head slammed against the cement, pain enveloping my head like a mother swaddles her child. Dazed, I reached back and touched my skull; it was leaking, just so slightly, leaving my fingertip stained red.

As my eyes fluttered, I finally noticed that the streetlight had been blocked by a form. Focusing on it, I was able to discern what - no, who it was, and my heart felt like it had fallen from a great height. Jake was hanging from the streetlight, and it was his flailing foot that had kicked me as he struggled to break free. I lied there, on the cold pavement, watching the life drain from my friend as he was choked to death before me. My body wouldn’t respond to any panicked prompting, and my vision continued to fade in and out. So all I could do was witness Jake Mcleod’s last moments of fighting, then twitching, before he finally went limp, drifting in the evening air like a windchime.

Tears welled in my eyes, making it even more difficult to tell what was happening, and between fits of blubbering I tried to call Jake’s name. He wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t. My gaze was then averted to what was holding him up; it was a strange cord of a bright white colour, almost like its interior was filled with Christmas lights. Many thorns stuck out along the sides of the rope, and I could see the dark lines along his neck where blood raced when they had pierced him.

His face, thought now lifeless, was frozen in place, still holding all of the last emotions that raced through his mind before death overtook him; fear, sadness, but most of all… desire. A desire to live. There was no knot or noose of any noticeable sort to break his neck; it was simply slung around his neck to make him suffocate. His hands were still clasped around the rope, as though they could still, at any moment, free him from this travesty and save his life. But it was not to be. Instead, I was to stay there on the sidewalk with my best friend now swinging from a lamp post.

Then, and only then, my spine shook as a thought occurred. I looked around anxiously from my position on the ground, trying to find the perpetrator of this act, before I met the same fate - or worse. My eyes darted up and down, left and right, but without being able to move my head, I was rather limited to how far I could see. So in the end, I could only wait for him to reveal himself to me.

And reveal himself, he did. From what seemed to be out of nowhere, into my field of vision, came the ghastly face of a man. It glowed almost like the rope, white like sea foam and cold as the ocean, but wispy and… translucent. He looked to be in his mid thirties, but I couldn’t discern any real features to identify him. Everything on his face kept shifting eerily. His eyes frightened me the most - or, what appeared to be, lack thereof. Then, slowly but surely, a closed lip smile formed on his haunting face. And it continued to grow, larger than should be possible, and yet his lips stayed tucked together. That uncanny smile as his… eyes burrowed into mine. It’s an image that is burned into my memory, right between many images of Jake’s swaying corpse. I tried to utter a question, a demand, anything - a why, a who, a what, but no words left my own lips. And once I was thoroughly traumatized, the man simply stood up, turned, and began to walk passed Jake, coat tails flapping in the wind…

… before vanishing on the spot. That’s when I was finally able to scream.

The night air was cold. It found the cracks in my jacket’s defenses and began setting upon me without mercy. I continued crying out for someone, anyone, to come to our aid. But no one came. I didn’t want to look at Jake, but there were no stars to see on that cloudy March eve, and so I was forced to think back through all our memories together as my weariness overcame me.

The next thing I can remember is the different feeling against the back of my head. It was soft and comfortable, and of course I realized soon enough that it was a pillow. But it wasn’t my own - you all know how recognizable one’s bed is. So the moment that I knew this wasn’t my bed, I shot awake, and the pain came searing back as I was blinded by a white blur. Memories of the murderer’s face raced through my spinning mind, but once I’d calmed down, I was able to make out where I was. It was the local hospital.

My parents were quite tearful and relieved to see me awake. There was a lot of hugging and crying and, yeah, that kind of mess. But the “celebrations” had to be put on hold. Now that I was awake after what I was told was a three day sleep, the doctors wanted to speak with me. The police as well.

I immediately asked about Jake, with a slim hope that he too may have just been knocked out, but the officers wanted me to answer their questions first. I told them everything I just mentioned - the night at the bar, walking on the waterfront, being kicked in the face and falling down, watching Jake’s body flail around, and finally the misty faced man smiling down on me before disappearing.

Once I had finished telling my side of things, one of the officers coughed and asked if I was certain about the hanging. I shouted at them that I was dead certain - how could I not be? That image was burrowed into my brain. Then the cop looked me in the eye and replied. “We found no rope or anything of the sort at the crime scene. Jacob Macleod was found dead on the ground next to you with several lacerations around his throat, small but deep.”

The tornado returned to my brain and began to scramble my thoughts. The officer asked if the man had perhaps taken the rope away with him, but I clearly remembered him just disappearing and leaving Jake up there. They just repeated that he was found lying on the sidewalk with me, a light layer of snow beginning to build on top of us both. From the way he was positioned, they were also able to discern that he hadn’t fallen from that kind of height, but just went from standing level to the ground.

I asked how we were found. The bar closed about an hour after we had left, and one young couple that had been visiting the area decided to have a romantic stroll in the snow along the waterfront. Then they bumped into the two dead bodies on the ground (well, one nearly dead and one certainly dead) and called 911. Services didn’t arrive until after I was unconscious, so the officers suspected that the killer may have returned to collect the rope for whatever reason. As for the misty appearance of the suspect and the rope, they chalked it up to alcohol, something something, brain injury. They didn’t doubt my story, save the whole rope thing, and figured that the suspect must’ve thought he’d succeeded in getting us both.

The doctor told me I had received a concussion, and that I’d have to stay with them for a few more days before they’d let me go, since I’d hit my head pretty hard. So about a week later and after some more tests, I was released from the hospital and sent home. I just crawled back into bed, depressed by the loss of my friend and terrified that the killer might spot me and try to finish the job.

Rumours began to circulate. They thought that I didn’t want Jake to move away for some insane reason, and took the most drastic measure to stop him from leaving. Really? Like, seriously? How does that even sound remotely logical to you? But emotion overwhelms rationality, I suppose. And so, those that grieved for Jake pointed a finger of blame to me, either for committing the act, or not helping prevent it.

But I know what happened. I know what I saw was real. That misty faced man, the thorn covered rope… their ghastly appearances. Pieces of their forms, wispy and flowing in the winds like strands of hair. And that cruel stare, that malice ridden smile… There was nothing earthly about that man. I don’t know who or what the hell he was, but that was not a living person before me that night. My blood ran cold when his eyes bore into mine, in a way I’ve never experienced before. No man could do strike fear like that into someone’s heart. And no man could simply be extinguished on the spot, to just vanish into the wind!

And if my fears are correct, then it’s likely he knows that I live. Either through some sixth sense that the undead possess, or perhaps if he keeps up to date with the local news. It could have been a hallucination, sure. But either way, I doubt he’ll want to keep me around for much longer. I’ll keep updating this blog with more information regarding the case… if I’m still around to do so. If not, then this has been the truth. Good bye.


View all comments (6) >

marco_p0L0: bruh this is so bullshit, stop with the creepy nonsense and just confess

mary_oswell: daniel this isn’t funny. first you murder ur best friend then you make up this ridiculous story to explain it all??? you killed my boyfriend you sick asshole, cant wait to see your ass in prison

morgan_k96: I’m sorry to hear that man. I cant imagine how terrifying that was. Look, we should meet up and hang out some time, its been weeks since Ive seen you buddy. - Morgan

yahts-n-thots: yeah this guy is full of shit. either he did it, or he’s trying to get clout by making a horror story out of his friends death. guy’s fucked.

Somnium: I heard a lot of rumours about this case so I decided to look more into it. Everything Mallory says here lines up with police reports and such. So I believe him. Stay safe man, that guy could be anywhere

creepy_stories_for_the_dark: Love this story, man! Mind if I narrate it on my channel? I’d give you full credit!


April 19, 2019

He came back. And I don’t know what to do now.

I’m just going to assume you’ve read my first post, since I don’t want to relive those memories right now. Not with everything that’s happened. And it’s a waste of time. Also, thank you to Mary for just throwing my name out there despite my desire to stay somewhat anonymous… and I’m sorry. For those curious, I’ve already deleted the comment, so… yeah.

I didn’t attend Jake’s funeral. I got a lot of reprimand for that, but I was terrified for some reason that his killer would be there, getting some sick kick out of watching his victim being lowered into the earth. I didn’t leave the house for a good week, cowering under my sheets and reading the responses to the first blog. I would only leave my room to get food or use the bathroom, only to return quickly to bed and mindlessly watch Youtube videos to take my mind off of things. My parents checked on me daily, but they mostly left me to my own devices. They figured that this was just a coping mechanism. The police continued investigating to an extent, but with no real leads to go on, things were moving slowly.

I attempted to do research about that thing, the mist man, but every time I tried, those damned images would fill my mind; first Jake, then the smile, and Jake again. Then, akin to holding one’s breath and running through a cemetery, I managed to swiftly enter a search result: “misty ghost killer”. I wasn’t really expecting much, nor should I have been, and naturally it didn’t return any relevant information. Just a bunch of spooky ghost stories for me to indulge in and haunt myself with even more, should I choose to. I avoided them like the plague.

It stormed one night, one of the first heavy spring rains. The wind rattled against my shutters all night long, forcing me to stay awake in case he showed up, even if it was only one knock, just to fuck with me some more. Not that my sleep schedule wasn’t already ruined. And so, there I stayed, locked away in my room by my own doing, Swiss army knife always in hand should the mist man come for me.

I only left the house one other time before the second incident, and that was for a doctor’s appointment. Just some basic stuff, checking on how I was doing, if my head felt funny, if I was coping well with losing my friend. The doc took notice in my reclusive behaviour and said that if it and my mood continued for too long that they might direct me to a therapist for additional counselling. Great.

Then… Morgan messaged me. He left a comment on the last blog, alongside trying to contact me in every shape and form. I didn’t respond, because again, no interest in going out in the open, thank you! But, Morgan is the persistent type, and a few days ago he showed up at my door. Mom let him in, and he pretty well dragged me down the stairs to go outside. Lily was with him, another friend from school. Seeing her made me… quite happy. I’ll admit it now; yes, I’d had a crush on her for a bit, but never really did much about it and just tried to suppress those feelings after high school. As my behaviour should tell, I’m not the bravest man on earth.

Morgan and Lily had come along to make me breathe some fresh air instead of the depressing stink of my fifth-day-worn jeans. I mumbled something about being busy, but it was easily overpowered by Mom saying it was a fantastic idea, which left me with no options. It wasn’t a clear sunny day, but one of those days where the sky is covered in clouds ready to burst, and there’s a light mist to the brisk morning air. So, sloppily pulling on my raincoat, I found my shoes and stumbled out to meet my old classmates.

Now Lily was in a lot of my classes over the years, but Morgan I only really got to know during the last year of high school. But that didn’t stop us from bonding over online games and such, we made such a great team… the three of us. God. Morgan seemed to be dealing with the loss far better than I, but he was also a really determined guy. He’d persevere through anything with a grin on his face. Lily was more timid, and not much for talk, but she was still quite sweet when you did interact with her.

We wandered into town and stopped by an ice cream parlour, where between comforting bites I retold them the painful story. Wandering on through town, our shoes clapping against the wet cement, it was nice being around other people again. But before long, I’d grown distracted and didn’t notice where we had ended up. We were back on the waterfront - not on the same spot as before, but it was enough to strike my heart with anxiety. A hand on my back made me whirl on the spot and nearly trip - scaring a shy Lily and friendly Morgan, whose hand was taken aback by my reaction. “Come on,” he replied. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

The sun stayed hidden, and the air stayed damp. We had passed the high school and were now strolling through the suburbs, passing along a large hedge. That’s when Lily asked her first question since we met up: “Do you really believe that Jake’s killer is a ghost?”

I stopped for a moment, beginning to doubt myself. It all could have been as the doctor described; just a hallucination in a high stress situation, mixed with alcohol and hitting my head really hard. But that cold… that fear he put into me, that was real. “I don’t really know,” was all I could say. Because I truly didn’t. And that was worse than having an answer, because I had no idea what to expect from the murderer.

That’s why I was frozen on the spot when Morgan’s face exploded. Pieces of brain matter and blood splattered over my jacket sleeve, but my brain was caught off guard so hard that its wheels were spinning in mud. Lily’s screams became muffled and distant as I tried to comprehend what was happening so I could react properly, but it took far too long. And as Morgan fell to the ground, out of my line of sight, I was greeted with a more horrific sight: the shining white barrel of a gun, with its entire body seemingly smoking from that one shot.

Lily’s touch finally broke me out of the trance, and I began to move in the direction she was pulling me in. I was glad I got to hold her hand in that moment - it was a strange comfort while trying to avoid being killed. But, nothing good seems to last for me. Lily screamed again as she was jerked back, and when I turned, I saw the mist man’s ghastly hand clutching her hair ferociously, refusing to let her escape.

“Let her go!” I howled, pulling on her hand as hard as I could. But it was for not. I saw the purest form of shock and terror ripple across her face as the fiend yanked her back and stuck her in the back with a knife. I kept pulling in a futile attempt to save her life, but Lily did not move. All she did was jerk and cry out as the man struggled to drag the knife up and through her body, only being able to do so by thrusting it upwards so far before having to thrust again. And when he couldn’t cleave bone, he withdrew the knife and stepped away.

Lily dropped into my arms, and I held her as I kneeled on the pavement. I watched as the last pieces of her consciousness faded away, her eyes eliciting the same fleeting life that Jake’s spasms contained. I had no words for her. Only tears flowed. I couldn’t even bring up the courage to say “I’m sorry”... or “I love you.” All I could do was cry out and take in the image of her face, glancing at Morgan to mourn him as well.

But he… he wasn’t satisfied with just their lives. He wanted to burn me, to torture me. With a strength I never expected, he ripped my sweet Lily from my hands and swung his knife around her horribly, destroying any ounce of her former beauty in seconds, before letting her drop to the ground, like a child bored of their ragdoll. My brain screamed not to look; it wished to keep the memory of her face from only seconds before, but everything felt slow. I could not take my eyes off of her as the man took her from me, and so the mess of flesh and scars was my sight to behold.

I sat there, bawling for the dead, before looking up and finally getting a look at my assailant. I had called him “the mist man” before, but to actually see him drove the name home ever more. His entire form was drifting and flowing, yet there was no wind on this road. He wore an old fashioned trench coat, similar to one a sailor might have, tattered and ripped in several places, yet swaying in the breeze like the retreating mists. The shoulders had parts standing up like sharpened spikes. Hanging from his side was an equally old flintlock pistol - the same gun that took Morgan’s life. The knife rested in his hand, but it dripped not with crimson red, but a fluid that matched the unholy white of his body. He had one of those sailor style hats as well, the one shaped like a triangle, and it hid the top half of his face. Only upon lifting his face to greet me did I once again feel the unrelenting power of his stare, and the cartoonish smile scrawled across his face.

There was nothing left to do. Slowly, I crawled back from the spectre on my hands, keeping both eyes fixated on the creature, before scrambling to my feet and sprinting for my life, screaming through the neighbourhood for someone to help. My eyes were blurred by tears, so I nearly ran down the first person I ran into, an older man walking his dog. I grasped his arm shakily and pointed down the road, telling him about “the mist man”, and what he had done. The guy craned his neck down the road, and his eyes widened before answering. “Oh, shit-! Come on, come on, he’s coming!”

I did not want to look behind me, out of fear that I’d freeze up yet again. I just listened and followed the fellow - who I later learned was named Gary - to his house. Gary locked the door behind him, and told me to go down the hall, into the kitchen, and call the police. As I did so, I could hear Gary rushing between rooms upstairs, and just as I finished explaining the situation to the police he returned. In hand was his own rifle - what kind, I had no idea, but seeing it both frightened and reassured me I’d be alright here.

Gary asked for the phone and I handed it right over. He explained the situation to the police as well, saying how we were in his home, at this address, and we had locked the doors and closed the curtains. We were told to just stay on the line and wait for the police cruiser to arrive.

The ensuing wait was the longest and quietest wait of my life. I nearly had a heart attack when the operator asked if we were still on the line. Other than the occasional “yes” or “no” into the telephone, and the ticking of a clock’s pendulum, Gary and I waited in near complete silence, listening intently for any sounds of an intruder attempting to finish off the only two witnesses to his crime. In that time though, the images of my dead friends ran on repeat, no matter how hard I tried to push them down and concentrate on the here and now.

With the sound of a siren approaching, the operator told us that the police had arrived. I thanked her quietly as knocking could be heard. From the backyard. I swallowed and looked at Gary, whose face went flush like mine. We both turned, and out the glass patio door we saw him. There was another knock, now from the front door, and I screamed. “HELP! He’s in the back!”

Gary put his rifle in the corner and pushed me to the front door, both of us scrambling along the way. I reached the lock and undid it, allowing the police to run through into the kitchen. I frantically pointed in the direction of the mist man, and they seemed to understand well enough. Gary and I were escorted over to the police cruisers, open to the curious eyes of the neighbourhood. I could make out people standing in their living room windows, gawking at the scene. But it couldn’t be more uncomfortable than the situation I was just in.

They wanted to ask us some questions of course. One of the officers had been there during my recovery at the hospital, so I was more reassured talking to her. I told her everything you’ve already read above, but unlike at the hospital, she wasn’t so kind. A hint of doubt clouded her eyes, and every look she gave, each raised eyebrow, only made me worry.

Then she asked to do a pat down. My heart finally sunk, but I agreed, thinking I was just overreacting to all of this, and that everything was going to be okay. I had forgotten about one crucial element though: my knife. Next thing I know, I’m being put under arrest for reasonable suspicion involving the murders on that street.

Waiting in the interrogation room, my anxiety was only peaking. The only thing that kept me restrained and not lashing out wildly was that I was innocent. The Mallorys had a bad history for being falsely accused of crimes (my own dad was nearly thrown in jail for sexual assault against a woman he’d never met), so it seemed to be a genetic thing that we grow more restless and angry than the average person when this kind of thing happens. But I didn’t have the same self confidence as my predecessors. I was scared, terrified that I was going to be locked up after having to witness my three closest friends being executed by some demented maniac set on ruining my life.

The cops eventually came in and began the questioning. We went in circles for a while, with little progress being made. When I asked about the REAL suspect, they told me that one officer had made chase, seeing his coattails leaping over a bush in Gary’s backyard, but lost sight of him shortly after. They asked why I had a knife; I told them it was in case of situations like this. It was the truth, and I hoped it seemed reasonable enough.

The interrogation continued, but there wasn’t really any kind of confession they could get out of me. I knew what had happened, and Gary corroborated my story. He has seen the figure approaching and when it knocked on the patio door. My knife had no traces of blood on it, and there were no guns around the scene of the crime that could have done the damage to Morgan’s face. So, they had no choice but to let me go - however, they stated that they were going to keep a close eye on me, both for my protection and others. I understood their concern and thanked them.

On my way out, the female officer - whose name I finally learned, Riley - asked me a question. “Mallory. Is that the name I’m thinking of? The whole folk legend name?”

I sighed. “Yeah. It is.”

I suppose a quick history lesson is in order by now. The Mallorys came to my town near the beginning of the 1800s, but there was an old rumour that surrounded the first settlers of my family. Apparently, back in Europe, wherever my family originated from, one of the brothers of the guy to first come over was executed for mass murder. There wasn’t any proof of this event, but people still affirmed that it happened. My grandfather was into genealogy while he was still alive, and even he couldn’t find anything about a Mallory committing such a crime in the history books. It was just a rumour, but it was one that made the family name look bad.

Think of it like having a friend with the last name Hitler. Okay, maybe not that bad, but you get my point. Locally, we were the “ones to watch out for”. Hence, my childhood was made all the harder because of it. Parents would tell their kids to stay away from the Mallorys, that they caused “bad times” wherever they went, and so most kids either stayed away from me, or bullied the hell out of me. Jake was the only friend I had growing up, and then later Morgan and Lily hung around me too.

Anyways. Now the police have their eye on me, and I’ve committed to staying in my room almost entirely. Back to where I started, I suppose. Only with less. Jake. Morgan. Lily. People’s trust in me. All gone. The Mallory name is starting to live up to its reputation. And that scares me.


View all comments (23) >

Somnium: This is getting really weird. You look into anything about malevolent ghost sightings?

marco_p0l0: holy shit how is this dude getting away with this? why are you still writing this shit??? STOP

yahts-n-thots: what a embarrassment to all the poeple this guy has killed. unbelieveable that his ass has been mailed to prison yet

Juniper_69: WAIT A MINUTE GUYS what if gary helped with the murder??? He had a gun, and mallory had the knife!

Frederick Swan: You might wanna go see a medium or some shit, if this really is some kind of ghost. From the description it sounds like something that came from the same era as your family members who settled the area. Maybe there might be truth to the rumours you mentioned. (as for those who are going to blast me for offering help, I only believe this with a grain of salt, but we should still offer help just in the off chance it’s real)

creeplordX: wow that was really scary i don’t think i can sleep

Renee_H98: STOP LYING YOU BASTARD TURN YOURSELF IN

mary_oswell: YOU FUKING CREEP HOW DO YOU KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH THIS

kid-serious1408: fucking kys liar @Somnium you too

(Read more)


May 2, 2019

I’m so sorry im sorry im sorry

I can’t explain right now but i promise to soon plz believe me i didnt do it ill tell my story soon but youll have to wait a bit


View all comments (84) >

marco_p0l0: WHAT DID HE DO NOW APOFNDNOGFDSJF

mary_oswell: TURN YOURSELF IN DANIEL THERE’S NO HIDING IT

Somnium: Oh god. I hope everything is okay.

Juniper_69: HE SLAUGHTER HOSPITAL PATIENTS JESUS CHIST

marco_p0l0: HE MURDERED A LOBBY OF PEOPLEANINDSOIFSNJFD

killer-weiner: this guy is seriously psycho, i hope the cops kill this son of a bitch

qwertymnbv: TURN YOURSELF IN

aquarius-mary76: Mallory, you really need to see someone. Whether your mental health is degrading or if there really is a spirit from the afterlife haunting you, you need help.

creeplordX: OH MAH GOD HE REALLY DID IT WAS ON THE NEWS I SAW IT WITH MY DAD

FBI Agent 69: bruh

jeffery-woulds-007: TURN YUORSELF IN!!!!!!!

(Read more)


May 3, 2019

So, as most of you who regularly tune in may have heard, the man appeared again. And he… killed, again. It was cruel, it was horrific, and yet again, as weak as this excuse may be starting to sound, I did not do it. This is not some case of “the little boy who cried wolf”. In fact, it’s the very opposite of that tale; the wolf is here, and I have been trying to warn you all. It’s you, the townspeople, who refuse to believe.

I’ll have to make this as quick and thorough as possible - two terms that don’t go together easily. I’m not writing this from my own computer, so please forgive me if I don’t have the time to give a great recap on what’s already happened. Even these two paragraphs are wasting valuable time I could be using to prove my innocence, so I’ll wrap it up here and just get to the truth.

It was not long after the second incident. I had another doctor’s appointment, so my mother drove me to the hospital. The lobby was moderately busy when we arrived, so we had to sit in the waiting area for a while. The whole time my paranoia was prevalent; my foot refused to stop bouncing against the floor, and I was constantly scanning my surroundings for any sign of the mist man. A small breeze from a passing patient would startle me, causing my head to whip around and confront the person that had made it. I was barely able to stop myself from screaming at them to leave me alone, and to stop hurting my friends. The look in my eyes was enough to freak them out though; that ravenous, primal sense of alert I’d seen in the mirror every morning after a tiring night of waking up repeatedly in fits of screaming.

When the doctor finally came to see me, my mom let me go on my own. She figured I’d be more comfortable talking to the doc if it was just between the two of us. I managed to give her a small smile of thanks, the first remotely happy face I’d been able to put on in weeks. I followed the doc through the disinfected halls, seeing some patients being rolled by on beds or escorted by relatives. The smell of rubbing alcohol was palpable, stinging the inside of my nostrils.

We sat down in his office and got right to it. He did some standard health tests, before we got to questioning. He asked if anything hurt, I said my head was fine. Did I have sleeping problems though? Yes. Every night I watched the mist man kill my friends again and again, before grappling me by the throat and choking the life out of me. He took note of this, then asked if I was eating well, getting out of my room when safe, etc. My behaviour had not changed much, so I told him the truth.

Once we were done, the doctor told me that I likely needed more specialized help and that he was going to refer me to a therapist for my mental issues, while I was to come to the hospital just a few more times to check on my head. Disgruntled, I accepted the slip of paper with unrecognizable gibberish and thanked him, before leaving.

Now the hallway was no longer busy. I could hear people whining and babies crying. Something in my heart dropped like an anchor, and I began to jog down the hall - only to round the corner into the lobby, and see him there yet again. He stood in the center of the room, only staring in my direction with that same unnerving smile across his bastard lips. I could see his knife in his left hand, dripping once more with a milky white fluid. Swallowing, my eyes slowly drifted to his right, where his hand gripped the collar of my mother’s blouse. Her eyes stared blankly to the ceiling as blood rushed from her neck, a large and horrid cut running across her throat. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched the skin begin to tear, the cut opening all around her neck, before finally meeting in the back as the monster tore her head from the body, spinal column dangling below.

Others in the room couldn’t contain themselves and began screaming - a few lost their lunches. Myself, however, felt something different. Through all the horror and grief, bypassing the flashing images of my dying friends, one feeling began to swell: rage. As my blood boiled, I looked to my right and saw a hospital cart with surgical supplies. I grabbed a scalpel and gripped it tightly. My breathing grew heavy, starting to quicken, and I waited until I could overcome my fear and let my rage take over. If I didn’t try to stop him now, there would be no overcoming him, ever.

But, my anger did not overpower my fear yet, and so I swallowed litres of saliva and stared down the mist man while frozen on the spot. He simply continued his strange smile and dropped my mother’s head to the floor, before turning away. What came next… God. I wish I could forget. It’s a sight I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But I need you all to know my pain, to know how much I’ve lost, and how evil this thing is.

He… killed them all. I’ve never seen anything move so fast. With every blink, the mist man was standing before another kill, his blade driven deep into a gut or neck. I tried to keep my eyes open for as long as possible, thinking it would stop him from moving if I didn’t close them, but the tears forced me to blink, and so I killed each person in the lobby by not acting. I saw him drag his knife across a man’s eyes, blinding him instantly, and letting him suffer. I saw him break open another kid’s chest and flay his ribs outwards, exposing his beating heart for all to see until it stopped. An old woman stood no chance to the beating and impalement she received from an IV stand. He approached a pregnant woman and slowly dragged the blade across her stomach, before reaching inside and yanking the unborn child out. He swung the poor thing by its cord, slinging it up in the air before slamming it against the polished floor, until all that remained was a squishy pulp of tissue, with shards of bone scattered throughout, like chocolate chips in a cookie.

You might be asking yourself, “Why didn’t anyone run? Why didn’t they scream for help?” They tried. I saw a few people either get up and sprint for the doors, or call out for help, but the instant they’d try, a rope of thorns would fly across the room from his hand and grab the person by their neck, before slowly dragging them back. I could see the thorns grow to pierce the victim’s neck, and their screams turned to gurgles as they choked on their own blood. And whether they were already deceased or not, the mist man would play viciously with their bodies, methodically carving off limbs and stabbing them into unrecognizable slabs of meat.

“FREEZE!”

The shout shook me from my trance, and I turned to my right to see two police officers rushing inside, guns drawn and aimed on the figure. Hope began to well up inside me; we were rescued. One of the officers looked at me; it was the officer that had been at the last two incidents. She looked at me and asked if I was okay. I barely nodded, my stomach doing flips from the overwhelming mixture of fear and joy. She finally saw him - she finally saw the mist man.

She never should’ve taken her eyes off of him. The right side of her face began to rip and tear apart, and her entire body fell to the floor. Various projectiles had flown into her, and all sense of assurance was ripped away as I gazed upon her exposed cheekbone. Hearing a thud, I turned and saw the other officer on the floor, a freshly made hole in his face forming a well of blood. The rage began to flow again, this time overtaking my thoughts even quicker. I glared at the demon, whose head was shaking rapidly yet without sound - a silent laugh and a bewildering smile. He was mocking all of those he’d slain, flintlock in hand.

Enough was enough. My will to act outweighed my fear, and for the first time, I lunged at the mist man. I drove the scalpel straight into his abdomen - only for it to pass through to the other side. He reared his head back and continued shaking it around maniacally, his lips not breaking contact. I raged on, slashing and stabbing, trying to hurt him back in some way, to even the score.

All the while, I could only scream one word: “Why!?” Why did he kill Jake? Or Morgan, or Lily? My mother; for what reason did she have to die? Or any of these innocents? Why wouldn’t he kill me, grant me mercy from this misery and just end my existence? Why me? Why now? Why did I deserve this torture?

The mist man’s head simply kept on rattling, giving no answer to my pleas. And then, as I fell to my hands and knees, defeated and depressed for a third time, he was carried off by a wind of unknown origin. His misty form was carried away, like dust in the breeze, with his smile being the last to go.

I sniffled and cried, my tears falling to the blood stained floor. I didn’t care that someone’s intestines were squished between my fingers. All I could do for those few moments were crawl over to where he had dropped my mother’s head, and cradled her in my arms for just a few brief minutes. As I came to terms with the situation, I realized that the police would be here soon. There was no getting out of this one - that is, if they caught me.

I searched my mother’s corpse for the keys to the family car, then hurried outside and drove off. I didn’t have a license yet, but I had been practicing. I could hear cop cars in the distance, but I never ran into them. Instead, I just chose a destination and drove.

Even if they trace where I posted this entry from, or look for my car, they won’t find me, not yet at least. I’ve already left the area, trying to keep my resolve and not steer off the road. And I’ve taken other precautions to avoid arrest as well. What those are I won’t say, as they’re likely using this blog to track me down.

But I needed to tell the truth. That’s all I’ve been doing since the day I started this, trying to inform the world of what has really been going on, and warn you of the serial killing spectre that follows wherever I go. I’m going to avoid people as much as possible for now, I don’t want another killing to occur. But I’m also going to look into the history books, and see if there’s anything I can find about some kind of vengeful spirit that haunts you and kills those around you. I won’t update until I find something.


View all comments (451) >

Juniper_69: WAHT THE FUCK APFINASKFNLNSDFS

FBI Agent 69: this arg is getting crazy, dudes actually killing people for his art

mary_oswell: daniel mallory you are a sick monster

marco_p0l0: HE’S A SERIAL KILLER NOW HOLY FUCK

ikea fan boi: this guy needs a bullet put in him. or ten, or one for every person he’s killed

aquarius-mary76: Daniel, this sounds incredibly dangerous. I would urge you to seek help, be it spiritual or mental.

kid-serious1408: put a fucking shotgun in ur mouth and pull the trigger, no one will miss you you are scum

popcornLad: come on dude, you can beat this thing!!!

yahts-n-thots: mallory is the new serial killer name to remember, he’s writing a blog so he can go back and jerk off to these scenes

creeplordX: I HAD TO STOP READING WHEN HE TALK ED ABOUT THE KID CUZ IT REMINDED ME OF ME

Somnium: You know, I was inclined to believe you at first, give you the benefit of the doubt, but I’m not so sure anymore. If you were really just trying to tell the events as quick as possible, why did you go into so much detail about each death? I’m sorry man, but I can’t back you up anymore. You need to turn yourself over to authorities.

(Read more)


May 6, 2019

Im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry god forgive me forgive my soul for i have ended your world


View all comments (709) >

marco_p0l0: HE KILED SOMEONE ELSE ASOKABFADLKBFSFDSF

popcornLad: what happened???? Are u ok???????

Somnium: Dude, just… stop. This is either becoming a really shitty ARG, or you need to turn yourself over to the police.

kid-serious1408: kys already

creeplordX: DID SOMEONE ELSE DIED?????!

yahts-n-thots: “yawn” boring, let’s get some action

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May 7, 2019

I saw the ocean today. It looked like it was going to storm; the skies were grey, the wind was blowing, and the waves were choppy, but there wasn’t any rain. Typical weather for the Maritimes I guess. All the ice had melted by now as well.

I’m sorry. I just.. needed something to start off with so I could get myself to begin the process of writing this final entry. Yes, this is the end. Yes, I found the truth. But finding it only cemented a horrific fate for the world, so tomorrow I’ll be deleting this entire blog to prevent any more people from learning of the mist man. However, I feel that I owe those of you who’ve been following this for some time an explanation - and besides, you’re already part of the problem, so there’s that.

So the first thing I want to say is: I’m sorry. Not for deleting my last nonsensical entry that was posted in a moment of desperation and fear, but for the truth I’m about to tell. After the hospital, I stopped by my house to grab a few personal things (the police car was gone, so I assumed that the familiar officer had followed us to the hospital), and left the short blog post saying I’d explain everything soon. Then I began driving for an old family cottage in a wooded area within the province. The area was of a fair size, with one large log cabin and a big barn around the back. All of the farmland from when my predecessors lived here was pretty much gone; you could see where it was, but the land would need extensive work to be useful for such tasks again.

The cabin was just about as old as the first Mallorys to settle here, and it was in surprisingly good condition, mostly thanks to the constant upkeep my family had put into it over the years. It was a meeting spot for summer barbecues and such, but any other time it was left completely alone. I grabbed the key from its hidden spot, dropped my stuff on the floor, then shuffled to the bedroom and collapsed into the sheets. I covered myself in the musty fleece blanket at the end of the bed and wept myself to sleep. I only dreamt of death, but my sadness kept me locked in the dream, and so I mourned for the lost souls through my dreams.

The next morning, I looked for some food, but naturally there wasn’t anything around. I had to go into the nearby village, but I couldn’t use my mom’s car. If it was spotted, I’d be caught too quickly. I knew that my dad was keeping a motorbike in the barn here as a present for when I got my license, so I swapped the car for it, fuelled it up with some gas from a canister, and drove it around the lot for a bit before trying the open road.

I managed to make it into town, and used some cash from my wallet to purchase the basics: bread, milk, toilet paper, bologna, mustard. On my way out, I noticed there was a library across from where I had parked. Debating with myself whether or not it was a good idea, I decided that it was probably the best place to go if I wanted to find any information on the mist man. So, I took my groceries with me and headed in.

The librarian was nice enough, and she directed me to where the computers were. Guess this village didn't know to look out for me yet. I thanked her, and immediately got to work. I'll cut to the chase; I didn’t find shit. Mostly just medieval myths about ghosts that cursed people to bad futures or other monsters that killed loved ones but not their target. But none of that helped me. Then I remembered the blog, and with painful recollection I recounted the recent events. The fact that I couldn’t find anything out about the beast, and yet that I was still trying to convince you guys of his existence was upsetting, to say the least. I returned to the cabin and just went back to bed, paranoid of either the cops or the demon finding me.

The next two days were pretty much the same. I spent the day in the library reading and looking for answers, to no avail. Back in the cabin, I did some scouring to find something to distract me and get me out of the habit of moping around. There were some old books and stuff, but that was about it. I also had to chop some wood for the furnace that afternoon.

Then came the evening of two days ago. After two days of nothing to show for my research, I returned home yet again to a quiet cabin and a mustard and bologna sandwich. I decided to look around the cabin some more, try to learn about my family. I noticed a book on a high shelf that I couldn’t reach, so I carefully shook the structure to try and make it fall. On the same slam that knocked the book off, something else fell from atop one of the rafters.

When the book just proved to be an old family album from the 40s, my interest returned to the unusual package that had fallen. It was a letter, tightly bound in a leather skin. Whoever wrapped it originally did not want anything to happen to it, but whoever had received it didn’t seem to want anyone else to find it. So why not just destroy it?

Opening it up, I found two distinctly different documents - mostly noticeable from the paper quality. The first paper read so:

“To whoever finds this:

These are the final words sent by my brother, Arthur Mallory. Though they contain the power to spread a curse most foul and cruel, I cannot bring myself to burn the last thing my dearest brother sent to me. I urge you not to read, but should you do so, know that you are perpetuating a legacy of evil.

Signed, Kenneth Mallory, 1814”

I blinked and had to read the words again. Kenneth Mallory, the original Mallory to settle in Nova Scotia from Europe. Which meant the other paper pertained to his brother, Arthur - the brother that was rumoured to have slaughtered many people himself. A chill sped its way through my spine - it sounded all too familiar. So of course, I was frightfully eager to learn what happened to Arthur.

The next section is a transcription of what I could determine from the contents of the letter. I warn you now; reading any further will cement your involvement in the problem of the mist man. But again, to those who have stuck with me this long, I feel you have the right to know the truth. So one last time, I am truly sorry.

“Dearest brother,

I write to you from a jail cell in (unreadable). I know you plan to sail to the New World in only a month, but before you go, I wish that you would receive my words on the truth behind my imprisonment. You turned your back to me when I told you that it was not my fault, and Father and Mother and all of our other brothers - and rightfully so. Only a fool would spout such nonsense to escape the punishment of his wrongdoings - under normal circumstances. But I tell you now, brother, what I did was for the good of mankind.

You know the village they claim I ruined, yes? Well, I was travelling through the countryside with my wife Hilda when we came across it. The town was cold, and miserable, with many downtrodden people wandering about it. When I asked what was wrong, I received no answer. I tried, over and over again, to get an answer, but none would tell me the problem. Only when I saw the coffins being taken to the local graveyard, and the number of mounds of fresh soil, did I know something was wrong.

We went to the local inn and I asked for a room. The innkeeper told me that I did not want to stay in town, and that I should travel by night and as fast as I could to get out. I told him he was crazy, paid my fare, and went on to bed. I was awoken in the night by a loud screaming, and after telling Hilda to stay in bed, I rushed out of the building to see a man standing in the middle of the road. He looked like any other sailor, but an aura of malice extruded from him. His heel had stomped its way into the head of a villager, and upon his face he wore the devil’s smile. But if these features were not enough to prove that he was indeed the devil incarnate, his form that shifted like a roaring fire had to be.

I called for him to stop, but he only looked at me with that ghastly look. Then, the next thing I knew, he had vanished before my eyes. Not knowing how to respond, I retreated indoors, nuzzled with my beloved wife, and held her close as I fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I was the one to scream as her mutilated face stared back into mine. Oh, Hilda! How I wept and wept for you, my angel. The innkeeper came upstairs, and when he saw me cradling her in my arms I thought I was done for. But he simply sighed, saying that I should have left. She was buried that morning.

He told me the story, or what there was to tell, of the creature, over a series of pints the next evening. They had no name for it, and it gave none to them. It had simply appeared one afternoon, and killed three people in the middle of the town square. When it was confronted, it summoned a mighty whip of thorns and slaughtered all of the men by knocking their heads clean from their shoulders.

The innkeeper then stated that it always seemed to commit more foul deeds the more people had seen it, so the town had a general rule about not going at night, and that if you heard someone’s death cries, you were not to go after them, lest you see the creature with your own eyes and continue the curse. They had tried to send for help, but each time someone left town, they’d be found hanging from the roof of a house the next morning.

I stayed in my room for days, thinking on what I had been told. I could barely sleep, as more screams rattled through the village. Each one I felt personally responsible for, as I had gone out and continued the curse by witnessing it kill that villager. And in my deep depression, I hatched a terrible plan. Having lost the good thing to come into my life since the end of my service as a soldier, I was going to save this village, and all of Europe, from disaster.

Yes, I killed them. They were just farmers, simple townspeople. They were not hard to fight, but it hurt to kill them. But I had to. If they continued to see the monster, then the curse would continue on. So I slaughtered the townspeople, and I burned their village to the ground. But I wasn’t going to survive either; I too had witnessed the demon’s actions, and so I too had to die.

I prepared to stab into my abdomen; a painful way to go, but deserving to atone for my sins. But as I plunged the dagger into myself, the blade was shattered into tiny pieces. In total shock, I looked up to see the angered face of the monster before me! Its smile had inverted, and its eyes looked upon with disdain and hatred. However, it looked unhealthy; its skin was stretched across its cheekbones, making it appear sickly whereas on the night I first saw it the beast looked like a normal healthy young man. I had weakened it by killing those people, but it refused to let me kill myself. It needed my knowledge of its appearance to continue existing.

I travelled on, trying to end my life in various ways, but the demon refused to let me die. It only seemed to have enough energy to appear on those occasions, but when it did, it did everything in its power to stop my suicide. A gust of wind would push me back from a cliff’s edge; a gun would jam if I tried to fire it on myself. Nothing worked. But now, I’m not the one killing me - it’s the state. And when I go, I’ll be taking this beast with me, straight down to hell where it belongs. So do not pity me, Kenneth. I welcome this chance to sacrifice myself for the greater good, and I hope you live a long and good life across the sea.

Your brother, Arthur Mallory”

My hands were quaking by the time I had finished reading. The mist man wasn’t gone - which meant Arthur was wrong about the curse passing to those who saw him commit evil. And connecting that thought to how I’ve been writing this blog… I realized the truth. It didn’t matter if you knew what he looked like - all that mattered is that you knew of him. I never described him in full, but you guys had an idea of his general appearance, and of his existence. We are all guilty. We are all perpetuating his existence. And now, with this revelation, I was given certainty that I wasn’t going mad or hallucinating him. He was real.

MIST MAN

The slow sound of clapping from behind almost made me shout. I swallowed and could barely breathe. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to confirm my thoughts. But the pace of the clapping grew. I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. Inch by inch, I pivoted my head over my shoulder. He was here.

He sat at the dining table, clapping away at my great mistake. And he wasn’t just some blue-ish white hue any longer. Now, he had colour. His trench coat was a dark brown, his pants and shirt black, with a red and orange blouse beneath it. It was hard to get a clear image of him though. Just as Arthur had said, he looked like a smudged oil painting, with the movement of fire. The only crisp parts of his appearance were those cruel eyes and malevolent smile. Then, without warning, he stood up, tipped his hat, and finally opened his lips to say three haunting words, before walking towards the door and fading away.

“Thank you, Mallory.”

Whether my family had been lying to me about Arthur Mallory, whether they actually knew about the letter or not, I had no idea. For all I knew, the mist man had persisted in existing because of the letter itself, and only now decided to reveal himself. Waiting for an age where information spreads like wildfire, and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Perhaps he would have just continued as a strange ghostly form that killed had I not read the letter. But now… I have no idea what he’s capable of, now that someone has confirmed that he is absolutely real.

I don’t remember anything after seeing him leave. The next memory I have is sitting on the dirty carpet of the cabin, the letter laying out before me. I just followed routine, but in the library, I had nothing to search for. My quest was done. So I apologized. I begged God for forgiveness. And I wept.

Today, I was able to bring myself together enough to decide on a solution. I went back to my hometown on the bike, and typed this up in an internet cafe. I’ve sent my login information via email to someone I knew in high school, Mary Oswell, and told her to delete this blog tomorrow morning. She'll probably be more than willing to oblige, might even get rid of it the moment she reads the email.

I have no idea how far this blog has spread. I know it has a following, but I don’t know if it’s international yet or not. But I can’t let it get worse. So I’m getting rid of it. Again, I only posted because I feel that I owed the active followers the truth.

As for me, I’m only a few blocks from the waterfront. I think I’ll go watch the waves some more, before I try to use Grandpa’s old rifle on myself. Maybe now that he’s been realized, he’ll let me die. And once more, for posterity’s sake, I am deeply sorry. To Jake, Morgan, Lily, Mom, all of the people who died by my hand, and to all of you.

Sincerely, Daniel Mallory


View all comments (3,974) >

marco_p0l0: serves him right

kid-serious1408: thank fucking god he took my advice burn in hell

creeplordX: OH NO HE’S CURSED US ALL AOSNFAFOD

FBI Agent 69: damn daniel, pretty good ARG, ngl 7/10

popcornLad: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE DANIEL

ikea fan boi: thank god, now we don’t have to listen to a murderer’s lies any longer

horror-reader9000: he probably just wrote this to pretend he didn't do it

Somnium: You should just turn yourself in, and face your crimes. Suicide is not the answer. Please reconsider.

yahts-n-thots: well glad to hear ur ded. insulted the death of friends + family for what, popularity? scum

Juniper_69: Another evil vanquished from the world

Frederick Swan: Guys… what if he’s telling the truth? Aren’t we kinda fucked?

qwertymnbv: fake af

lucid-gamer995: i really hope this isn’t real…

(Read more)


(All the above has been reuploaded from archive.org)


Narrations



Written by RedNovaTyrant
Content is available under CC BY-SA

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