These were written to be in-game pick up notes in the horror game Here They Lie.
The thing crawled shivering into his bed. “I love you,” it said. “You are mine, and I am yours.” But its mouth was a dark hole, and its skin hung loose on its bones.
“Look what I made for you,” the maker said. It was a thing of spit and filth and ash, and it turned its pretty head and smiled with teeth that were not its own.
You’re dragging a thing in a bag and it’s a heavy thing and the bag is red and wet, and when you try to remember how long it’s been you realize that all you can remember is the bag, and dragging it behind you, forever, and ever and ever.
Behind the dresser was a little red door, and behind the red door was a narrow hallway. The little girl opened the door and crawled all the way down where it was narrow and tight and stuck and never and oh god help please oh I’m sorry please ….
I don’t want to do this anymore. You said we would have fun but then you ran off, and I don’t know where, and something is coming, and oh god please not my fingers. Not my fingers, please.
Something huge is moving outside of reality – something black and dead and hungry. It doesn’t believe in time. It’s gnawing its way in, gnawing its way through the wall of eternity, gnawing its way through your skull.
So yeah, she’s the one who did it to you. Or let him do it, same difference. But she kept the photos. A whole shoebox of them, up on the top shelf. Gets them down on those long, lonely nights. Who needs the real thing anyway?
The ragman keeps his pockets full. All the shiny bits he finds on the street, all the scraps and bones and filth, bulging out, hanging down, dragging behind. Down on his knees, dirty fingers still stuffing his pockets as he coughs out his lungs.