Uncle Marcus is Alone

 We disregard and alienate the people who reared us and gave their best to improve our lot in life in this so-called modern society. The real horror is that they are now a burden to us. We are so preoccupied with our own lives, our jobs, and the flimsy appeal of social media sites like Instagram that we hardly ever give them attention.

In this blog I try to delve into the thoughts and perspectives of their minds.

 

 

Uncle Marcus is Alone

It was a quiet afternoon, with thick fog blocking the sun's light. Marcus sat in a dim room on the edge of town. The room had only a chair and a table with old books. Outside, he could hear the distant sound of cars on the freeway.

Marcus was reading an old book. Its pages were yellow and it talked about death. It said everyone dies alone. It said good people rest peacefully, but others face uncertain ends.

Closing the book, Marcus felt the weight of his own life. Memories flooded his mind — things he regretted, things he cherished, and mistakes he made. He remembered a house from long ago, a place where he once felt safe.

"I wish I could be in your house," Marcus whispered to himself. He imagined waiting patiently in each room, like a stone enduring through time.

As the day turned to night, Marcus stayed still, lost in his thoughts. Shadows moved across the room, making it feel haunted by memories. He remembered the sky changing colors at sunset and moments shared over wine with someone he now barely remembered.

He felt a presence around him, as if the room held memories and untold stories. "Alone," he repeated softly, feeling the loneliness in his heart.

Marcus kept reading until daylight disappeared completely. He thought about death and prayed to whoever might listen. He hoped for a place he once knew, a place that felt like home.

"In your house," Marcus thought hopefully, "I wish I could be there."

Outside, life went on as usual, but Marcus sat alone in that quiet room. He waited patiently, like a stone that had weathered many years.

Old Painting of Sannyasi

 

In the darkness of a stormy night, the rain battered against the windows with relentless fury, while the wind wailed like a banshee outside. Satya sat in his favorite armchair, clutching a book in his lap, but his eyes kept drifting to the old painting that hung ominously on the wall. It was a portrait of a man in It showed a Sannyasi in saffron-colored garments, holding an umbrella. The man's eyes seemed to shine in the dim light.

This painting was a legacy from his late grandfather, and from the moment it entered Satya's possession, an eerie unease had settled in his soul. It was as though the man in the painting was more than just an image—he was a presence, watching, and waiting.

Suddenly, a thunderous crash shattered the silence, emanating from the kitchen downstairs. Satya's heart leaped into his throat as he grasped a fireplace poker for protection. Step by cautious step, he descended the staircase, each creak of the wood echoing in the tense air.

Reaching the kitchen, Satya found it empty, except for the sight of the back door swinging open, rain pelting through the threshold. Fear gripped him—how could the door be open? He was certain he had locked it securely against the storm.

Steeling himself against the chill of the rain, Satya stepped outside into the darkened backyard, scanning for any sign of intrusion. The gusts of wind carried whispers that seemed almost like voices, and the trees swayed ominously as if concealing secrets within their shadows.

Just as he turned to retreat back inside, a sensation crawled up his spine—a presence behind him. Whirling around, his eyes widened in horror. There, at the edge of the woods, stood the figure from the painting. The man's eyes burned with an otherworldly light, fixed on Satya with a chilling intensity.

A scream tore from Satya's throat as he sprinted back into the safety of his house, slamming the door shut and bolting it with trembling hands. He knew instinctively that locking the doors would not keep out whatever malevolent force had breached his sanctuary.

As the night pressed on, Satya found himself drawn inexorably back to the painting. The eyes of the man in the portrait seemed to follow him, their intensity growing with each passing moment. Cold sweat trickled down Satya's back as he realized the truth—the painting was a gateway, a conduit through which something sinister had entered his world.

The doorknob rattled a slow, deliberate sound that filled the room with dread. With every inch it turned, Satya's fear deepened, knowing that the barrier between him and the unknown was about to be breached. In that terrifying moment, he understood that he was not merely facing a painting or a spectral visitor—he was facing an ancient evil that had chosen him as its next victim.

And as the door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond, Satya's final scream echoed into the night, lost amidst the howling wind and driving rain—a chilling testament to the horrors that lurk within the paintings of the past, waiting to ensnare the unwary in their sinister embrace.

 

The Pathology Lab

 

The pathology lab was quiet and still, save for the occasional hum of a machine or the clink of glass. The technicians worked diligently, examining tissue samples and slides, searching for any signs of disease.

One night, a young technician named Sarah was working late. She was the only one in the lab, and she was starting to feel uneasy. The shadows seemed to dance on the walls, and the sterile air felt oppressive.

Sarah tried to focus on her work, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She turned around and saw that the door to the cold storage room was slightly ajar. Sarah hadn't opened it, and she was sure she had closed it properly before she started working.

Sarah's heart began to race. She slowly approached the door and peered inside. The cold storage room was dark and eerie. Sarah could see rows of metal cabinets, each one filled with drawers containing tissue samples and body parts.

Sarah hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click. Sarah fumbled for the light switch, but it was nowhere to be found. She was plunged into darkness.

Sarah stood there for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. She could hear her own breathing, loud in the silence. Then, she heard something else. A faint scratching sound.

Sarah froze. The scratching sound came again, closer this time. Sarah could hear it coming from one of the cabinets. She slowly backed away, her eyes wide with fear.

The scratching sound got louder and louder. Sarah could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She turned and ran, her footsteps echoing in the darkness.

Sarah reached the door and fumbled for the handle. She couldn't get it open. She tried again, harder this time. The handle wouldn't budge.

Sarah was trapped. She pounded on the door, screaming for help. But there was no one to hear her.

The scratching sound was getting closer and closer. Sarah could feel it on her leg now. She looked down and saw a pale, bony hand emerging from the darkness.

Sarah screamed again, but it was too late. The hand grabbed her leg and pulled her towards the cabinet. Sarah struggled to break free, but the hand was too strong.

Sarah was dragged into the cabinet, her screams muffled by the darkness. The door slammed shut behind her.

The next morning, Sarah's colleagues arrived to find the lab empty. The door to the cold storage room was still slightly ajar, but Sarah was nowhere to be found.

The police searched the lab and the surrounding area, but they couldn't find any trace of Sarah. She had simply disappeared.

Some say that Sarah's ghost still haunts the pathology lab. On dark nights, you can hear her screams echoing through the empty corridors. And if you're unlucky enough to be trapped in the cold storage room, you might feel a cold, bony hand grab your leg and pull you into the darkness.

Star behind the dark clouds

 

James, a diligent young man, dedicated himself to his studies with fervor. He aspired to embark on a career in an advertising agency, the prospect of crafting adverts that would captivate the world's imagination a beacon of hope on his horizon. His heart belonged to his art, the canvas his sanctuary, and the palette his voice.

 

In the intricate tapestry of his life, he encountered a pivotal character—Sarah, a woman whose charm ensnared his affections. Their love bloomed over the span of six idyllic months, a season marked by shared dreams and whispered promises. However, with the inexorable passage of time, Sarah's ardor waned. She found James, once captivating, had become somewhat banal, and in search of a new audience, she ventured into another's embrace.

 

For James, the loss was a crushing blow. In the silent darkness of his anguish, he withdrew from the world. He seldom ventured beyond the confines of his solitude, immersing himself wholly in his art. He continued his studies diligently, earning high marks, but the shadow of his isolation was unnoticed by the oblivious eyes that passed him by.

 

As weeks turned to months, a sinister metamorphosis unfurled within his fragile psyche. Whispers, eerie and sibilant, invaded the sanctum of his thoughts. These voices, like malevolent specters, urged him to channel his anguish onto the canvas, compelling him to give life to grotesque depictions of demons and devils. The murmurings grew more insistent, commanding him to inflict harm upon himself, like a self-inflicted penance for his inner torment.

 

Fearing for their son's deteriorating mental state, James's parents intervened, leading him into the austere office of a psychiatrist. The diagnosis was bleak, and the prescription was a sojourn within the walls of a mental ward, a place where he might receive the care he so desperately required. James, bewildered and frightened, found it difficult to grasp the gravity of his situation. Meanwhile, the voices continued to torment him, a chorus of torment urging him toward self-destruction. In a moment of chilling resolve, he slashed a knife across his own throat.

 

Transported to the Intensive Care Unit, James lay on the precipice between life and death. While the physical wounds gradually healed, the scars on his fragile psyche ran deeper than any blade could reach. Even in the sterile environment of the hospital, his fingers clutched a brush, and his paintings continued to emerge, distorted visions that manifested his tormented soul.

 

Eventually, he was relocated to a long-term care facility nestled in the countryside, where he found solace in the unending strokes of his artistry. He clung to the dream of a career in advertising, even as the world raced ahead without him, indifferent to his aspirations.

 

In this detached existence, his parents remained a constant, visiting their son every few months, their hearts heavy with the burden of witnessing his tormented journey. James's connection with reality had grown tenuous, like a fragile thread ready to snap.

 

The life of James serves as a somber reminder of the fragility of the human mind, a stark cautionary tale. As you mark the milestones in your own life, cherish your loved ones, and celebrate the bonds that keep you tethered to the world of the sane, remember the tragic narrative of James. In the labyrinthine chambers of the mind, there exist shadows capable of eclipsing even the most brilliant of dreams, leaving behind only a hollow echo of what once was.

Surgical theater

My apprehension gnawed at me like a ravenous beast as I prepared to undergo my first surgery. What intensified the dread was the stark absence of my beloved grandmother, who was relegated to a lonesome vigil on the frigid hospital's edge. As I awaited my fate, cloaked in a sterile gown, I strained to quell my anxieties.

The kind nurse had soothingly assured me that a tonsillectomy was a trifling matter, a routine procedure performed countless times with an air of simplicity. The words were a frail lifeline in the storm of my trepidation. Guided by the nurse's words, I embarked on the journey that would soon plunge me into an abyss of terror.

They wheeled me into the surgical theater, the lights above casting a cold, unfeeling glow. The anesthesiologist loomed over me, his demeanor reassuring, but his presence added to the disquiet that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. He placed the gas mask over my nose and mouth, instructing me to count backwards from ten and to inhale deeply, with a warning that the gas might conjure odd visions and thoughts.

I obliged, the world around me dissolving into a disorienting haze. The masked figures in the room wore eerie, unsettling smiles, their expressions meant to provide solace but instead resembling sinister grins. Their surgical masks dangled beneath their chins, revealing the ominous, leering countenances beneath.

And then, in the throes of my stupor, my gaze landed upon a surreal, nightmarish vision. The surgical instruments, once objects of sterile precision, had transmuted into grotesque cutlery. Scalpels resembled gleaming butcher knives, and forceps took on the semblance of cruel, serrated forks.

As my consciousness waned, the grotesque transformation of the operating tools left an indelible mark on my psyche. The world dissolved into a turbulent abyss of confusion, and my mind became a realm of bizarre hallucinations. The last vestiges of my awareness succumbed to a dark, inescapable descent.

My ordeal began in a surgical theater, but the path that unfolded took me into realms of horror and madness, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred. The smiling faces of those who were meant to reassure became macabre masks concealing a dreadful truth—the ordeal had only just begun.

Secrets of the Underground

I awoke in a pitch-black room, disoriented and groggy. The floor beneath me was damp, and I lay there, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the complete absence of light. There were no windows, no sources of illumination to guide me. As I tried to sit up, I was abruptly stopped by a solid barrier above, causing me to smack my head against the confining surface. A feeling of panic welled up as I moved my arms, encountering nothing but the same dampness.

 

Desperation led me to attempt moving my feet, wiggling my toes, and bending my knees until they met the unyielding ceiling. I reached up, searching for any opening, but my hands met only empty air.

 

Struggling, I attempted to shift my position, trying to scoot backward, but the space was so constricted that my efforts quickly proved futile. My mind raced with questions, one of which was how much precious oxygen I had left in this cramped enclosure.

 

Finally, I managed to roll onto my stomach, though the darkness persisted, and there was still no sound to be heard. I cautiously explored my surroundings. On my left, I encountered a smooth, damp wall, while on my right, my hand brushed against an object. It felt like a bone – smooth and cold to the touch, with tiny, irregular bumps in some places. It was roughly the length of my hand.

 

In the oppressive darkness, something suddenly stirred. I strained to listen, and my heart pounded as I heard a faint scraping sound – slow and soft. My breath caught, as I was unsure if my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I heard it again, confirming that there was indeed something in the confined space with me. The sound was not like a slithering creature but more akin to a soft object being dragged across the floor.

 

Determined to escape, I inched forward, my hands outstretched above my head to guide me. The texture of the ground beneath me began to change, no longer flat but sloping upwards. I pressed onward, the strange noises growing closer. There had to be a way out, I told myself, as I dared to hope.

 

With a concerted effort, I managed to lift myself into a crouching position. I reached my arms above my head, anticipating more space or an exit, but my hands met only empty air again. Panic and frustration gnawed at me as I realized there was nowhere left to go. A breeze wafted down from above, and I looked up to discover a small hole emitting a feeble, grayish light.

 

I cried out for help, my voice raspy and hoarse, but my pleas were met with silence. My calls persisted, growing more desperate, and the thing behind me began to quicken its approach. No longer moving slowly and softly, it now scampered toward me with an unsettling intensity. Its breath grew louder and more erratic, and I could smell its putrid stench.

 

In my frantic state, I pounded on the walls, screaming for assistance. Dust rained down over me, and the sounds outside remained elusive. There was nothing but the wind, and no sign of any human presence. As I continued to shout for help, I felt a presence at my feet, and sheer terror gripped me as I felt it begin to climb.

 

It had claws, sharp as a cat's, and its touch sent shivers down my spine. The creature was freezing cold, and I could hardly bring myself to look at it. Stringy hair dangled from its grotesque head, and its eyes were large, black orbs, seemingly even darker than the surrounding darkness. It was about the size of a medium teddy bear, its breath hot and fetid, carrying the stench of death and the unnatural.

 

The creature fixed its gaze upon me, and I let out a scream of pure horror. In a terrifying instant, it lunged for my throat, and my world once again descended into an inky black abyss.

Don’t let me die

 

In the dimly lit hospital room, the nurse stood, her heart heavy with a truth she had yet to reveal. The patient, a man whose fragile existence was tethered to an array of life-support machines, suffered from a myriad of ailments that danced on the precipice of death. Each breath he took seemed like a fragile thread of existence, one that could snap at any moment. His pale skin clung to his frail frame, and his eyes, haunted by the specter of death, darted about the room.

 

But the man was no ordinary patient, for he harbored a visceral, unrelenting terror of death. He'd demand his life be preserved at any cost, raging at the nurses as if they held the keys to his very soul. "Don't let me die! Don't let me die!" he'd scream, his voice a desperate wail that filled the sterile hospital corridors.

 

As the nights turned into weeks, the nursing staff grew increasingly curious about the origins of this dread that consumed him. What was it that kept him clinging so fervently to life? The answer came with a chilling clarity, as one fateful night, the man's condition took a sudden, ominous turn for the worse.

 

The nurse, alerted by the frantic beeping of the heart monitor, rushed to his bedside, clutching emergency supplies and a racing heart. What she saw next, however, was something she couldn't have prepared for.

 

The man was no longer lying on the hospital bed; he was hovering about two inches above it, an eerie grin etched across his face. His eyes, once tormented, now gleamed with an unsettling malevolence. He laughed, a sound so haunting it sent shivers down the spines of the medical team. "You stupid bitches aren't going to let me die, are you?" he sneered.

 

Before anyone could respond, the man's body contorted in agony, and he went into cardiac arrest. Twenty harrowing minutes later, his life finally ebbed away.

 

Yet, the true terror had only just begun. A doctor pronounced the man dead, and the room seemed to sink into an unsettling silence. Suddenly, as if spurred by an unseen force, the newly-deceased man sat upright in his bed and started to laugh, an unholy mirth dancing in his eyes. "You let him die. Too bad," he taunted.

 

What occurred next defied all reason and science. A spine-chilling scream pierced the room, an agonized wail that seemed to emanate from the depths of despair. Then, in a hushed whisper, the words "don't let me die" echoed throughout the unit, a spectral chant that sent a shiver down the spine of every nurse present.

 

The hospital's staff was paralyzed with fear, their faces drained of color. No one dared to venture anywhere alone, as the hospital's corridors seemed to hide malevolent secrets. But by morning, the chilling whispers of "don't let me die" had vanished, leaving behind an eerie, unexplainable silence.

 

The tale of the man who laughed in the face of death and his haunting presence would forever linger in the minds of those who had witnessed it, a macabre reminder that there are realms of existence beyond our comprehension, where the line between life and death blurs into something profoundly unsettling.

Reflection

 

Throughout the annals of history, a plethora of myths and superstitions have sprouted from the enigmatic world of mirrors and reflections. One of the most ubiquitous superstitions we've all encountered pertains to the ominous consequences of breaking a mirror – a seemingly innocent act believed to bestow seven years of ill fortune upon the careless transgressor. Yet, perhaps even more disconcerting is the profound connection ascribed to mirrors in relation to the human soul.

 

The prevailing notion is that mirrors, by virtue of their ability to capture one's reflection, also possess a fragment of one's essence. In certain cultures, it is believed that mirrors can even reflect the presence of an individual's very soul.

 

Undoubtedly, these deeply entrenched beliefs have given rise to an assortment of superstitions and customs. Some of these convictions likely originated in a time when mirrors were scarce and of subpar quality, particularly in the pre-industrial era of Kurseong, West Bengal, where they often produced grossly distorted images. In fact, numerous cultures hold that the reflection in a mirror mirrors an alternate world or dimension, serving as a portal to the spirit realm. In this realm, the natural order is inverted; darkness becomes light, good is transmuted into evil, and day morphs into night, creating a topsy-turvy reflection of our reality.

 

Not surprisingly, it is posited that souls residing in this alternate realm seek to return to our dimension, exploiting the reflection in a mirror as a gateway.

 

Traditionally in Kurseong, it is customary to turn mirrors to face the wall upon the passing of a household member. The belief is that if the departing spirit catches sight of its own reflection, it may choose to reanimate the body. In certain regions of Kurseong, this practice extends to the act of emptying all water containers, as the liquid's reflective property is thought to provide a medium through which the disembodied soul can find its way back. Romania takes this notion a step further, where all water containers are covered at night, under the belief that spirits roam during those hours and could inadvertently drown in water. In alignment with the philosophy of wandering spirits, Romanians also hold the belief that opening doors and windows at the moment of a loved one's demise facilitates the spirit's passage from this world to the next.

 

In stark contrast, the inhabitants of Macedonia deliberately place containers of water at gravesides, aiming to ensnare any malevolent spirits that may lurk within, thereby averting nocturnal torments.

 

All these myths collectively contribute to the idea that water and malevolence are an incompatible mix, which may partially explain the water-defeating fate of the wicked witch in "The Wizard of Oz."

 

Yet, apprehensions surrounding reflections were not confined to water and mirrors alone. Eyes were also regarded as vessels capable of trapping souls through their reflective qualities, leading to the practice of averting one's gaze from the deceased. It was believed that the visage of death reflected in the eyes of a corpse could be transmitted to onlookers, sealing their fate with an inexorable and imminent demise.

  

The Consequences of Midnight

                                         


  It all started when I met my first husband, I was only 18 years old and strange things began to happen as soon as he entered my life. I always had a feeling of someone watching over me, but it wasn't until we became engaged when I was 19 where I first saw what I can only describe as a ghost.

It was a Monday morning, very early about 1 in the morning and I heard a whisper of "don't trust him, please don't trust him", I put this down to being in a sleepy state and ignored it. At exactly 3:00 that same night I woke to a man at the end of my bed just watching me, he had no face and I couldn't make out anything apart from that the figure was that of a man, it was just a black figure.

Needless to say I ran out the room terrified into my parent's bedroom who both described me as being "incredibly pale and looking fearful". After this I refused point blank to move back into my bedroom, I moved into my little sisters bedroom who I shared with, and then roughly 2 months later, again at 3:00 on a Monday morning I was awoken to the same figure walking around my little sisters bed while she slept just watching her, as I darted up he just vanished.

After discovering that no matter where I slept it appeared this would still happen I moved back into my bedroom, again on a Monday morning at 3:00 I was awoken with the man whispering "watch him, be careful just watch him". During that month a smell of what I can only describe as drainage and death appeared in my bedroom, literally just in my bedroom, as soon as you went past the doorway when leaving the room the smell would vanish, we called out the plumbers who cleared all the pipes running through my room but insisted that all pipes were clear, the smell lasted a week and then just faded away.

I then married my partner and moved into a house a street away from my parents, turns out my husband wasn't such a nice man, he cheated on me constantly and after a year we got into a fight which resulted in me being strangled and getting a broken finger. I left my husband and remained in our house on my own for 6 months, during my time in the house I found a young girl in a long white night dress playing hide and seek with my living room door.

She appeared every time I had a low day and thought about trying again with my husband. I never did, I moved back in with my parents. During my time in the bad marriage my mum hired a medium who described our family so well; my father’s job, my brothers personality everything, so my mum questioned here about someone being un the house but she said there was no man, just a naughty young boy who was harmless.

Little did I know but my Nan in the Dover Lane had also been to see a Medium. It was a group session and my Nan was picked out from the crowd with the lady stating "you have a grandchild who can see things, she has a gift but doesn't know how to use it yet" my Nan has over 40 grand children but she insists it’s me that she was told about.

I am now married again to a wonderful man, but as most people he has a history and comes with an ex wife and a daughter, I get on incredibly well with my step daughter but sadly my husband and myself have problems with his ex wife. I let things bother me and upset me, and when things get too much for me I wake in the night with what feels like a reassuring hand on my head.

Sadly I also have feelings of being attacked in my sleep, once it was a brutal attack, I myself wasn't moving, I woke in the same spot as I fell asleep, but I really felt like I had been attacked I was covered in sweat and was very scared. I have also had the feeling if someone pulling at my feet while I sleep... This always occurs when my husband is away working.

I also had a dream about 6 months ago of 3 people arguing saying "she's not ready yet" over and over again.

Basically I would like to know... What on earth is happening to me? Has someone been warning me? Or is someone tormenting me?

14th Feb

                                                         

 A doctor rushed into the hospital after receiving an urgent call for surgery. Swiftly changing into his scrubs, he headed straight to the surgery block, where he encountered the anxious father of the boy awaiting treatment. The father, visibly distraught and agitated, confronted the doctor as soon as he appeared.

"Why did you take so long to come?" the father demanded, his voice edged with frustration. "My son's life is in danger! Don't you have any sense of responsibility? Were you too busy with Valentine's Day plans to care?"

The doctor maintained his composure, offering a reassuring smile despite the father's accusations. "I apologize for any delay, sir. I rushed here as soon as I received the call. Please try to remain calm so I can focus on my work."

"Calm down? If your own son were in this room, would you be calm?" the father shot back angrily. "What if he dies waiting for you?"

The doctor's smile softened his voice gentle yet firm. "We will do our best, and let us pray for your son's recovery."

"Giving advice is easy when you're not the one in pain," the father muttered under his breath.

The surgery commenced, consuming several tense hours. When the doctor emerged, his face lit up with relief. "Thank goodness! Your son has pulled through," he announced. Without lingering for the father's response, he hurried off, instructing him to consult the nurse for any further details.

"Why is he so arrogant? Couldn't he spare a few minutes to update me on my son's condition?" the father remarked to the nurse who appeared shortly after the doctor had left.

Tears welled in the nurse's eyes as she responded quietly, "His own son passed away yesterday in a tragic accident. He was on his way to the burial when we urgently called him in for your son's surgery. He saved your son's life and immediately rushed back to complete his son's burial."

The father stood in stunned silence, suddenly comprehending the doctor's demeanor and the weight of the burden he carried. In that moment, the doctor's actions spoke louder than any words could convey—of dedication, compassion, and a heart that continued to heal despite personal tragedy.

As the truth sank in, the father's anger melted into gratitude and empathy. He realized that beyond the doctor's professional responsibilities, there was a human being grappling with his own profound loss, yet still striving to save lives with unwavering dedication.