Though his Focke-Wulfe had been riddled with bullets from an American bomberâs turrets, the bullets could not have hit in better places unless they hadnât hit at all.  A few rounds had severed his fuel lines and a few had left holes in his wings, but otherwise, the craft was still in working order.
           To add to his luck, Klausâ engine had been disabled around seven kilometers up, giving him plenty of altitude to work with.  He fancied that he would be able to glide all the way back to an airstrip well within his home country.
           This was not the case.
           Klausâ distance from the battle had sapped the adrenaline from his system, and he began to settle down.  Unfortunately, this caused him to have a momentary lapse of judgment as he adjusted the attitude of his craft, and he neglected to account for the additional holes in each wing created by the bomberâs rounds.
           These holes caused the craft to lose lift and begin to fall rapidly.  The adrenaline returned, and Klaus eventually wrestled control of the aircraft back, but not before losing two or three kilometers of altitude.  With this loss came a massive loss of options on where he could land.
           Realizing he would not be able to make the soft, controlled landing he had been hoping for, Klaus frantically began to look for another option.
           As his eyes searched the ground beneath him, his heart sank.
           All that lay beneath him was forest.
           Even in the waning light he knew where he was.
           The Black Forest.
           Klaus had heard hushed stories and tall tales about this region since his childhood.  Though he would never admit to it, he had always put stock in these stories.  He was terrified of the region and avoided it at all costs, but in this situation he had no choice.  He was too low now to do anything but pick somewhere that wouldnât kill him on landing.  Angling his plane towards a quickly approaching lake, he murmured a prayer and did everything he could to slow his aircraft.
           The fuselage of the Focke-Wulfe skidded violently across the smooth surface of the lake and Klaus began to lose control.  With a terrible crunch, a wing tore from the plane, jerking Klaus around violently.  Unable to handle the forces of the rapid deceleration, Klaus blacked out.
           When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the water lapping at his hair.  In the landing, it would appear that the canopy had shattered, and the plane had come to rest upside down on some form of raised ground under the surface of the water.  Unnerved by the possibility that a shift in weight might send the hunk of metal to the bottom of the lake with him in it, Klaus scrambled to free himself from his restraints.
           Succeeding in climbing out of the broken canopy, Klaus righted himself and stood in the clear water.  Surveying his position, he noted that he was a good distance from any shore.  Looking upwards to the sun which was sinking towards the horizon, Klaus was thankful that he wasnât nearer shore.  Though the water likely posed a more immediate threat, it felt safer to Klaus.
           As he inspected what remained of his plane, Klaus realized that the landing had wedged the wreckage firmly in the lakebed and that the shallow area didnât seem to drop off for at least a meter in any direction.  Deciding that this was secure enough, he climbed atop the wreckage and tried to dry himself so that he could sleep.
           Sleep did not come easily.
           Though he felt secure on his accidental island, Klaus could not shake his unease about his surroundings.  Laying on the smoothest section of metal skin, he stared towards the shore.  In the dark, he couldnât discern anything, but he imagined that he could make out shapes moving in the black depths of the trees.  Shivering, he turned over.
           He woke with a start.
           He wasnât sure when he had managed to get to sleep, but it couldnât have been too long ago as it was still dark.  Turning back over, he stared towards the shore.  The moon had risen and he could see the trees slightly better.  Catching movement, he sat upright.  Eyes fixed on the shore, he watched for the most miniscule movements.
In his mind, each brush of the wind on the leaves was the footfall of a ghostly figure. Â In his mind, each cry of an owl was the shriek of a banshee. Â In his mind, each ripple from the shore was a figure coming towards him.
Coming⊠towards himâŠ
Breath quickening, Klaus clutched at the torn metal under him.
He had seen something enter the water from the trees.
Slowly snaking towards him, Klaus swore he could see the wake of some creature sliding towards him.
Scrambling for his pistol, he realized that he had not retrieved it from the cockpit. Â Retrieving it now would mean moving closer to whatever was approaching him, and Klaus could not bring himself to do it. Â Besides, bullets could not kill ghosts.
A sudden shimmer of moonlight on the water caused Klaus to shriek. Â Moving as quickly as he could, he leapt into the water in the opposite direction of the figure and swam.
He swam as hard and as fast as he could, but the shore never came up to meet him.
Water began to fill his flight suit and tug him downwards.
When the locals stumbled upon the crashed plane, they were puzzled by the lack of a pilot. Â Stories began to circulate of water nymphs dragging another man to his death and were met by nervous laughter.
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It was just before 1 oâclock when Mrs. Susan Beatrice Smith walked into her bedroom after a day of planning for the Montgomery Community Gala. She was the chair of the decorations committee. Mrs. Smith had always loved shopping for matching table clothes and drapes for her home. The table clothes were changed every other day. The drapes, every week. She took pride in aesthetics of her home.
Mrs. Smith sat her small purse at the foot of her bed and sat done to remove her shoes. They were the newest pair of pumps at Macyâs. She then reapplied her matching Revlon Fire and Ice lipstick and nail polish which she had ordered from their magazine just three weeks earlier when the products were debuted.
           Mrs. Smith walked to her desk and was just about to read the latest Macyâs catalogue when she noticed a small wooden jewelry box on her desk. She opened it. Inside was a folded up sheet of paper. She opened it. It was a letter from her son, Johnathan. It read
April 24, 1952
Dear Momma,
I hope you like your birthday present. I spent a long time putting it together during woodshop at school. I was hoping to paint it but I wonât have time, though I think it still looks nice without the paint.
Mrs. Smithâs birthday was still a week away. She wondered why he decided to give it her now. She appreciated the thought but she wished heâd painted it first because she did not care for the light colored wood from which it was made.
 I just wanted to tell you something that I donât have the courage to tell you about in person. I donât really know how to say this but Iâll just start at the beginning.  Last year Pop started taking me to his meetings with the Ku Klux Klan. I didnât want to go. I never had a problem with a nigger. Addy May worked here for a very long time and she was quite nice. After we came back from the first meeting I told Pop this and slapped me across the cheek. He asked me if I knew why she stopped working for us. I told him no. He said it was because was drinking from a Whites Only water fountain at the park and continued to drink from it even after she was told to stop. So Pop along with some other Ku Klux Klan members figured out where she lived and broke into her house to kill her. They hung her from the tree in her front yard. Thatâs why Addy May doesnât work for us anymore. Did you know that Pop did that?
 She knew that her husband had gone with some of the other men to her house but she did not know what they planned to do, although she had her suspicions. She did not really care what they did either way.
 Why did you let him do it! I loved her. She practically raised Marcia and me because Pop was always working and you were playing bridge or at a book club Mrs. Jacobs.
 âThatâs not true!â she thought to herself. She was always home when her children were younger.
 I have never hated niggers even though Pop keeps trying to force me to hate them. He always says that they are the source of this cityâs problems and that nothing can really be fixed until they are gotten rid of. He wants to kill all the niggers in Montgomery! What did they ever do to him? Addy May took good care of us. Iâm sure all of them are just like her. Pop says they arenât. He calls them all kinds of horrible names. All the men at the meetings do. I donât like to listen to them so I always try to find an excuse not to go. Sometimes my excuses work. Most of the time they donât. Pop brought me to a meeting last night. During the meeting, they were planning to bomb two houses on Penworthy Street, which is home to many black families. They said they were just going to pick to two nicest looking houses and destroy them because niggers donât deserve nice things.
 Mrs. Smith agreed with that. Niggers cannot take care of anything of value and therefore do not need to have it. She was glad that they were taking these expensive items from them.
 I think that whoever can pay for nice things should be able to have them but I didnât tell this to Pop. I knew that he would probably beat me again just like the last time I said something he didnât agree with. Pop hits me all the time. He hits me when he disagrees with what I say. He hits me when I donât say anything at the meetings. He says he wants me to become an active member of the Klan. I want to tell him that I donât want anything to do with the Klan but I know he will punish me severely if I do. Iâm scared of Pop. I didnât want to be around him anymore.
 âSo thatâs where he got all the bruises,â Mrs. Smith thought to herself. She thought that he was being picked on by the other students at this school but decided not to say anything because was 14 and needed to learn how to take care of himself.
 When we were walking home from the meeting last night, we saw a nigger walking home alone. It was a girl about my age. She was just walking with her hands in her jacket pocket and she watched the ground when she walked. Pop called out to her and asked where she was going. She didnât answer and started walking a little faster. âHey nigga!â he called again and she still didnât stop. Pop mumbled that niggers should always listen to Whites because we are the superior race. âGirl! You better stop or Iâll make you!â She started to run. âOh now you are running?â Pop darted after the girl, caught her and grabbed her. âYou will listen to us you nigga!â âI will never listen to you people.â The girl said back. âThatâs it.â Pop said. âJames lift up my jacket and get my gun. â  The girls eyes grew wide. So did mine. I didnât know that Pop carried a gun with him.
 Mrs. Smith knew. Mr. Smith told her that one could never be too safe. He thought that every White man should carry a gun.
 Tears were forming in the girlâs eyes. I pulled the gun out and tried to hand it to him. âNo! You are going to do this. You will teach this nigga a lesson!â I told him I didnât want to do it, that I couldnât do it. I could see the rage growing in his eyes. He took his arms from around the girlâs middle and took both of her hands into one of his and used his other to try and punch me. He was fast and hit my nose. It started bleeding. âI am going to hold this girl down and you are going to shoot her,â he said to me. âYou will not defy me or your nose will not be the only broken body part you go home with. Do you understand?â I nodded. The girl and I were both sobbing. âNow do it.â He wrestled the girl so that she was lying with her face to the ground and pointed to the middle of her back. âShoot her right there,â I told him no and he took one arm off the girl and punched me again this time in the groin. I sank to the ground. âDo it or I will make sure you will never have children.â I shook my head and he hit me again, this time even harder. The pain was almost unbearable. âJames!â He punched my head. âYou! Will! Do! This! Now!â I shook my head again and Pop landed 5 more punches. I couldnât take the pain anymore. I picked up the gun and told the girl I was sorry. He hit me again for that. âNow James!â The girl screamed and I pulled the trigger. The girl didnât move after that. Blood was starting to flow from the wound. Pop let go of the girl and put his arm around me. âThatâs my boy. Now letâs get you cleaned up.â He took me to a gas station and I went into the bathroom to wipe off my face. I could tell me nose was broken even though my vision was blurry from tears. I couldnât believe I just killed someone. She hadnât even done anything to me. She was just walking home minding her own business. I tried to sleep when I got home but I couldnât. I couldnât forget her face. I couldnât forget the look in her eyes. I knew I would never forget and I knew I could never live with the guilt.
 Mrs. Smith began to worry. Could this letter be what she thought it was?
 Iâll miss you and Marci. Tell her that I love her and that I never wanted to leave her. This morning was the last time you will ever see me.
 âOh God,â she thought to herself. It was. She could feel the tears coming.
 But if you really want to see me one last time, come to the basement of the school, room 029. Iâll be the one with the noose around my neck hanging from the ceiling. At least one thing the Ku Klux Klan taught me was useful.
    If you ever took the time to notice, you would realize that Caroline not only did not own any carpets in her house, but refused to step in a room with carpeting no matter where it was.
    Somehow she had managed to keep it a secret for as long as she had. Scoping out the the places she needed to go ahead of time, casually changing the topic whenever someone started getting too close for comfort, and faking a headache to get out of a bad situation were all solid strategies. At least until today at one of the most crucial moments of her life.
    She was invited to present her research in front a panel of some of the most distinguished persons in her field. She had been working her whole life towards this opportunity and it would never come around again. But now sheâs stuck outside the door, holding her notes, paralyzed with fear staring at the ground just a few inches in front of her.
    âMs. Attison?â a gruff voice questions her from inside the room, âAre you ready to present?â
    âJust give me a couple of moments,â she somehow manages to reply. She takes a couple of deep breaths. Turning back now is not an option. She will have to conquer her fear today. A couple more slow and deep breaths are necessary to prevent herself from hyperventilating.
    âAlright Iâm ready now,â she announces and takes her first step into the room. Nothing happens. She breaths easier and takes another step. Maybe her fear was all for nothing?
    Itâs not long into her presentation though, when a chill runs down her spine. She feels the little strands of carpet creeping up and grabbing at her feet. She stutters at a weird moment and sees some of the panels give her a weird look. She tries to subtly move her foot, but panics once she realizes that her foot canât move.
    She stops talking at once and pulls her foot off the carpet with a yelp. The panel give her a long stare.
    âIs there a problem, Ms. Attison?â one of them asks. She gives them an embarrassed look.
    âOf course not,â she responds, âmy shoe merely snagged on the carpet and it surprised me is all.â They donât look impressed at all and Caroline quickly tries to smooth things over by continuing along with her presentation. When she next feels the strands of carpeting making its way up her shoe and then her pants, she someone manages to do nothing. Itâs really only her imagination fooling her when she thinks one of the panelists is staring in shock around her feet.
    When the carpet suddenly rises up and swallows her whole, Caroline doesnât even scream. The panelists just stare at the spot where the woman disappeared with varying expressions.
    âShall we invite our next speaker up to talk?â one says with a questioning tone. The rest all mutter degrees of approval and they continue on.
       Robert suppressed a shudder as he saw his family shoveling large quantities of unspeakable filth into their mouths. He picked at his own food, his appetite now largely gone. Even though he usually loved mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken, watching his dining companions eating so much spinach, even drowned in cream and garlic, was enough to sicken him. His family made no attempt to even be decent about their spinach consumption either, despite knowing full well of Robertâs hatred of â no, revulsion toward â spinach.
       Robert crossed his arms and leaned back, musing on the origins of his spinach aversion (he had now largely resigned himself to not finishing his meal). He supposed that it had started when he was a child and had caught a stomach virus from school. His mother had insisted that he needed to eat his greens, and after choking down several forkfuls of the bitter vegetable, Robert promptly vomited all over his pajamas, his bed and his favorite book. He had never looked at spinach the same way again.
       Robert sighed and picked up his fork as his family finished eating. He poked at his food a bit and then started to slowly finish his meal.
       Late at night, Robert was lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, pondering the meaning of life, when he was suddenly struck with the urge to go listen to some music in the basement. He wrapped himself in a robe and blanket then quietly crept down the stairs, careful not to wake his family.
       As he walked through the kitchen, Robert heard a... well, a squelching sound. He looked down to see if he had anything on his slippers, and to his horror he found a small piece of spinach. His heart beating loudly now, Robert tore of his slipper and rapidly scraped it against the edge of the garbage pail until the spinach was gone. Even with only a damp spot on his slipper, he was reluctant to re-don the footwear, but he did and continued on his way.
       The basement door creaked open, revealing stairs that led down into darkness. Robert pulled a chain near the ceiling and a helical FCL blinked on, its modernity in contrast with the old wooden stairs.
       Robert turned right as he reached the bottom, entering a small room with a computer next to an exercise machine and a turntable on the other side. Walking over to the turntable, he pulled a milk crate from next to it and flicked through the records inside, stopping at Schubertâs String Quintet in C Major. He pulled the disc out and blew it off.
       As Robert lifted the cover off the turntable, he heard a low grumble, and a wet noise. It seemed to be coming from the cellar. Robert slowly grabbed a slat of wood from the exercise machine and, arming himself with an extremely conveniently placed flashlight, went to investigate.
       Stopping at the door to the cellar, Robert gulped, turned on the flashlight, and firmly grasped the wood. He flung open the door of the cellar, wood lifted behind his shoulder, and a horrible sight met his eyes.
       There was a large, gooey blob in the cellar. Multiple red eyes and tooth-filled mouths covered the monstrosity in all the wrong places.
       The beast didnât seem to have noticed him. Robert lifted his flashlight to investigate it further. Oddly enough, he didnât feel scared. In fact, the whole encounter had a surreal, dreamlike quality to it. Robert knew he wasnât dreaming, but that didnât change the feeling.
       As the monster became illumined, Robert saw that it was glistening, and slightly green. Robert began to grapple with rising terror. He noticed a smell in the air. A bitter, nauseating smell.
       There was a spinach monster in Robertâs basement. And in its writhing tentacles, it shook about Robertâs unconscious family members.
       Robert doubled over, retching. Bile poured out of his mouth, splattering on the floor. Not questioning the existence of sentient and apparently malicious spinach in his basement, rather he questioned why it had to be spinach, of all things.
       Looking up at the monster, he saw that the monster was looking at him as well. Robert was shaking wildly. He dropped his flashlight and plank. Even though the flashlight broke upon hitting the floor, some of the light from the other part of the basement still filtered through the door, making the eyes glow and the teeth glitter, menacingly.
       Robert collapsed sideways onto the ground, his insides still churning. A liquid seeping out from the spinach wet his cheek. It was salty and metallic. Robert felt a wet tentacle wrapping itself around him.
       His vision was fading. Robert took smaller and smaller breaths, and then blacked out.
       âLieutenant,â said the major. âLieutenant Harlan.â
       âYes sir,â said Harlan.
       The major held some papers up to his face. âIâd like to commend you on what looks like respectable service.â
       âThank you, sir,â said Harlan. This wasnât what he was expecting.
       âSome very nice numbers, indeed. However, there is one point of contention.â
       âContention?â
       âDo you know what âmilquetoastâ means?â
       âNo sir,â Harlan lied.
       âItâs in here, written by a Captain Strong, a literary fellow.â
       âI guess so, sir.â
       âYou guess you are⊠âmilquetoastâ?â
       âNo, I mean, I guess Captain Strong is literary.â
       The major took out a book and put on his glasses. He looked like the head Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
       âNoun. A very timid, unassertive, spineless person. Do any of these words describe you?â
       âUhhâŠI wouldnât know, sir.â
       âCheck, then.â The major drew a check in the air.
       Harlan tried to think of a comeback, but couldnât find one.
       âOK,â the major smirked. âIt could be worse. Well, congratulations on your promotion, Harlan.â
       âWhat?â Harlan wasnât ready for this. He knew it was coming, but at the same time he didnât.
       The major pushed some little bars across the table. â2,000 men getting sent across the ocean every month. We need people to command them,â he said. âEven if theyâreâŠcandy-ass nerds.â
       âSoâŠI get a company?â
       âThatâs right.â Harlan felt his blood pressure go up. There was one thing that terrified him, more than locals with guns, more than improvised explosive devices, more even than his commanding officers. That thing was making decisions. Harlan was so afraid of making decisions, he had joined the army to escape it.
       âUhh, one more thing sir?â
       âYeah?â
       âWill I be taking orders from you?â
       âI guess so,â sighed the major.
       The wind blew in Captain J. P. Harlanâs face, and dust got in his eyes. He tried to swagger.
       âUhh major,â he whispered into his walkie-talkie.
       âHarlan?â
       âYes sir.â
       âIf you were going to talk to a company of recruits, would you ââ
       âAre you talking right now?â
       âTheyâre right in front of me, sir.â
       âThen fucking talk to them!â
       âMajor?â
       Whenever Harlan had to make up his mind, his face would get pale, his breath would quicken, and heâd feel a tingling in his chest. He would grow light headed. Oddly enough, his balls would also start to itch.
       He cleared his throat. âHello everybody, welcome to Company 937. I hope youâre not too jet-lagged. And if you are jet-lagged, uhh, get over it.â The men were silent. He didnât know what he expected.
       âOkay! Letâs get to the game planâŠâ
       âQuestion, sir,â said Pvt. Wolkov.
       âYeah,â said Harlan.
       âWhere are we going?â
       âSomewhere where youâll need these,â said Harlan, holding up a bottle of quinine pills and trying to smirk like the Gestapo-esque major.
       âThanks, that narrows it down,â said Wolkov.
       âCaptain,â called the pilot. Harlan went to the cockpit.
       âLooks like there are two landing spots over here â we have one here, and here.â
       âOne minute,â said Harlan. He took out his walkie-talkie.
       âMajor.â
       âYeah Harlan?â
       âSo we have these two landing sites, right ââ
       âWhat would I know, I donât have the map.â
       âWell, itâs on that mountain we talked about earlier, and oneâs kind of near the top and oneâs more to the lower left ââ
       âHarlan.â
       âYes?â
       âIf you ask me another one of these goddamn stupid questions, Iâm kicking your milquetoast ass back down to O-2, got it?â
       âGot it.â
       The pilot raised his eyebrows and blew out through pursed lips.
       âOkay,â said Harlan. âLet me do some calculations.â He took out his phone and clicked the magic 8-ball. Should I take the higher site? he thought.
       âREPLY HAZY. TRY AGAIN,â It said.
       âDammit!â He wished that he didnât actually have to shake the phone to get it to work.
       âYOU MAY RELY ON IT.â
       âOkay, looks like weâre going with the top one.â
       Landing near the top of the mountain had been a bad decision. Luckily for Harlan, it wasnât his. For two days, they hiked down through mud and parasites, in the rain.
       Cpl. Shimano held up a leech. âWhat the hell is this?â
       âItâs a leech,â said Harlan.
       Shimano put the leech close to his face and tried to stare it down.
       âWhere are we?â
       âI canât tell you that,â said Harlan.
       âWell Toto, weâre not in fucking Afghanistan anymore!â said Pvt. Wolkov, throwing up his hands.
       Harlan was angry, too. He was mostly tired, and angry because he was tired. They had been forced to hike through this creepy jungle, only by night, towards some hazy objective he wasnât allowed to tell anybody about. He thought it would be satisfying to see that goddamn majorâs face melt off.
       They had gone another three days.
       âUhh, sir,â someone whispered. âLook at this.â
       Harlan took out his flashlight. It was a piece of metal, barely sticking out of the ground. âShit,â he said. He looked at his map. âThatâs not supposed to be there.â
       âFront Toward Enemyâ was written on it. Harlan tried to call the major, but there was no response. âShit.â
       Harlan felt an itch in his nether regions.
       âI think we should get behind trees,â said Cpl. Shimano.
       âGood idea.â They waited.
       âWhere the fuck are we, sir,â said Wolkov.
       âShh,â said Harlan.
       âNo, you donât understand. I canât do my job if I donât know where I am.â
       âWait.â Continue straight? He thought. He shook the phone.
       âIT IS CERTAIN.â Shit.
       âWeâre going straight.â
       âSir, sorry, WHAT?â
       âOrders are orders. We have metal detectors, after all.â
       Day broke, and they had to camp. Harlan still wasnât sure if they were out of the minefield yet. But the men looked OK. At least, he thought so.
       He was nervous when he entered his tent. At least he was alone now. It felt good to be in here, away from the stress of giving commands. He inserted his earbuds and put on some Kelly Clarkson.
       He vaguely heard a tearing noise from behind him. Suddenly, someone was on top of him, holding a gun to his head.
       âShit, WOLKOV?â
       âPermission to speak freely, sir?â whispered Wolkov in his ear.
       Harlan felt like telling him that no one actually said that, but Wolkov had the advantage. âGranted.â
       âIf you donât tell me where the fuck we are,â said Wolkov.
       âYouâre going to kill me? Then youâll never know.â
       âI donât have to kill you. I can hurt you, bitch.â
       Harlan thought about this.  âLet me just, uh, check my phone?â
âCheck your phone?â
       âMatter of life and death.â Wolkov handed the phone over, still pointing the gun at him.
He shook the phone up and down.
âWhat the fuck?â said Wolkov. Should I tell him, he thought as the blue triangle rose up.
âMY SOURCES SAY NO.â
âIâm waiting,â said Wolkov.
He looked at Wolkov, and at Wolkovâs gun, and back at his phone. He wondered what would happen if he followed its orders. He breathed in. He shivered. He made a decision.
       âOkay,â he said. âIâll tell you.â
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You glance at the clock at the corner of your screen. Itâs two minutes to three. Your roommate is home for the weekend. Youâre browsing an image board, sifting through neverending flow of macros and shitposts, put up by a legion of insomniacs. There are half a dozen pages open to threads of various topics.
You unscrew the cap of your Mountain Dew and take a swig. You donât plan on sleeping anytime soon. You blink your bagged eyes and click back the first page of the board, where new threads pop up. You scan them for something interesting, and are about to go back to another thread to check for updates when one of the threads catches your attention. It reads:
âAsk the devil anything.â
It is accompanied by a screencap from a music video you know, âThe Devil Went Down to Georgiaâ. No one has posted a reply yet.
You open the thread in a new tab and post:
âprove it fagotâ
You jump back to another thread, scrutinizing Japanese porn, then to another, commenting on the cringe-worthy antics of betas across the internet. Youâve seen most of images before, but this is your nightly routine, judging QTs who youâd never have a chance with laughing at people who are bigger losers than you are.
After a few minutes you go back to the devil thread. There are around a dozen new responses.
âProve it.â
âwhen and how am I going to dieâ
âAugust 16, 2027, at 4:33 AM. A sudden heart attack. Youâll be asleep, and wonât feel a thing.â With a picture of an alarm clock.
âFagâ, with a picture of Neil Patrick Harris
âdubs. Check emâ, with a image of Christian Bale from American Psycho. He doesnât have dubs.
âam i going to hell or heaven?â
âHeaven. Even though you put on a facade of apathy on this image board, you donât truly enjoy being here. Youâre just lonely, and you think this is the only place people will accept you. Julie from your science class has a crush on you. Sheâs free this weekend, ask her to a movie or something, and donât come back to this site.â With a picture of Eeyore.
â/threadâ
âI am asking you to prove your the devilâ
âYou have a dog named Sasha. Sheâs a german shepherd. Your mother died giving birth to you. Your father subconsciously blames you, and youâve suspected it for years.â With a picture of a dog.
âShut upâ
âYou asked me to prove it. Do you believe me now?â
You notice that each of the responses from âthe devilâ come seconds after the questions are asked. The timestamps donât lie. You wonder if this is an elaborate prank, maybe several people in on it with pre-prepared responses posting at once. You screencap the thread as it is now and save it to the appropriate folder.
You switch back to the thread, now thoroughly intrigued.
âis pergatory realâ
âNo. It was made up to make people feel better about their crimes, make them feel like they have a chance of eternal happiness. Heaven is harder to get into than youâd think. Not just mortal sins can get you in, but a build-up of smaller sins will do the same. Most people go to hell, butâs itâs worse for some than for others. Almost all of the people who visit this board will be going to hell. Of course,people feel true remorse for their sins can get in to heaven. But very few do. Most people just regret the punishment.â With a picture of Charles Manson.
âShut up faggotâ
âfske and gayâ
âIs god real?â
âLast time I checked. Heâs not in a very good mood right now.â
âyou seem very helpful for the self-proclaimed devil. why?â
âThe human interpretation of the devil is wrong. I am not evil. Humans are capable of evil, and I punish the ones who deserve it. I enjoy punishing those who deserve it. Good people do not need to see this ugly side of me.â
âfake real devil is ebilâ
âwhatâs hell like?â
âHell is different for everyone. You, for example, raped an intoxicated and drugged girl after a frat party, then when she got scared, you choked her out and accidentally killed her. You drove two hours to the beach and dumped her body in the ocean, then drove all the way back, stopping to buy a pack of cigarettes on the way home. Your hell, because as much as you try to deny it to yourself, you are going, will be to have will be to have barbed wire strung through your body, from mouth to penis, be suspended in the air by it, and have it moved through your body like a conveyor belt. You will never be able to get used to it, and I will watch, and l will laugh.â With a picture of a barbed wire fence.
You wince as you read the post. Everything about this thread is rubbing you the wrong way. It feels too⊠real. Too real. You move your cursor over the next tab, but something stops you from clicking. Curiosity? Or something else? Guilt?
You return your focus to the thread, trying to push the thoughts away.
âholy shitâ
âSHUT THE FUCK UPâ
âI answered your question. Iâd say I was sorry you didnât like the answer, but Iâd be lying. You could stop this fate for yourself. Repent, feel bad for what youâve done. But we both know you donât regret it. All you regret is the repercussions, and that isnât enough.â A picture of a guilty looking dog, with a stain on the carpet behind it.
You donât know what to think. You numbly watch the screen, your fingers slack on the keyboard, as the thread updates. Should you write something else? Ask a question?
âWhats heaven like?â
âNot my jurisdiction. Youâll just have to be good and find out.â An image of the Pearly Gates.
âthis is fucked upâ
You screencap again.
âcan you post a picture of hell?â
âCameras donât work down here. In fact, most recording technology doesnât work around me, or God. Someone in here has been screencapping, and when he checks them, theyâll be blank.â A picture of an eraser.
You practically jump out of your seat, and scroll back to your screencaps, sweating. Theyâre all white, wiped out. Youâre panting, terrified. Â The devil knows youâre here. Hand trembling, you switch back to the thread.
âis president going to hell?â
âI can count the number to politicians who went to heaven on one hand.â A picture of Nixon.
You stay up watching the thread continue for hours. By six in the morning, the number of responses is waning. People are getting back to their everyday lives. Many might even forget what theyâve seen. But you wonât. You canât.
The thread will 404 soon. Itâs now or never.
You type out a question, fearing, and deep down, already knowing the response.
