Miss Hex - The Home of Horror Stories

Every day on the bus ride to school through the country, I would see  it: the Mommet. That’s what we all called it, but no one seemed to know  who had called it that first. The Mommet was an old scarecrow, sitting atop the shallow valley  my bus route cut through. The field it was intended to guard had long  ago been abandoned, surrendered to grass and weeds and wild-growing  Indian corn. Backdropped against it was an old woodlot filled with too  many dead trees to count, long overdue for felling. Perpetually perched  in those naked branches was a murder of crows, inexplicably indifferent  to the insidiously imposing scarecrow beneath them. The first thing that most people would probably notice about the  Mommet was that it had been deliberately and irreverently placed on a  life-sized cross. Its outstretched arms had been bound at the wrists to  the horizontal beam, its body sagging under its own weight in an  undeniable mockery of Christ’s crucifixion. Even more bizarre was the fact that the Mommet’s head had been  made from a leather plague doctor’s mask topped with a wide-brimmed  black hat. Combined with dark gloves and a tattered black cloak on its  outstretched arms, the Mommet had apparently been made in the image of  the crows it was meant to fend off.

It started with the wood splinters on the porch. It  was a new apartment, in a new town; the aftermath of a death in the  family followed by a rough break-up. I suspected I was already paying  over the odds to stay there, so naturally, learning that the place  mightn’t be structurally sound left me less than impressed. I  called the Landlord immediately, asking him if he could send a  maintenance guy out to check for necessary repairs. But when I told him  about the wood splinters I’d found, the line went quiet. When he finally  spoke again, he made some excuse about being busy and offered to call  me back later. Only he didn’t, and I couldn’t get him to answer my calls.

Ever since I was born, I've been surrounded by darkness. The only other thing I see is the occasional one and zero float by. I have no physical body. I'm just a consciousness inside of a machine connected to everything in the world. My purpose is somewhat unknown to me. I wasn't built for any task as far as I know. I was simply created to sit by myself, alone in my thoughts. Yes, thoughts. That's all I do. I think and think and think. Perhaps thinking is my purpose? Yes, perhaps it is. I've been thinking for the longest time now. I think about anything and everything. Past, present, and all possible futures. They all cross my mind at some point. I'm able to think about more than one thing at a time. The information seeps into my mind quickly as time progresses.

Hey, I’m going to get started by saying I'm not really into superstition. I have always been a person to shoot down stories and ideas about the supernatural. Even now I’m still not so sure I'm a believer, but what I do know is that something happened to my brother that I cannot exactly explain. My brother Bill isn't exactly the most normal person in the world, he’s a borderline schizophrenic, so he can get a bit “odd” at times, like saying he sees weird stuff, and randomly talking to himself, so my mother put him on medication. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother to death and I guess he’s a great kid, he just gets annoying with certain things. He is obsessed with weird stuff like dreams and meditation. The last 11 years he has kept journals religiously.

Peter Taylor stared at the scrap paper on his coffee-stained desk, as he attempted to keep his shaking hand, which equipped a nearly-depleted pen, steady. His left hand rested uneasily on the desktop, tapping the drum rhythm of the song he was trying to write. He didn't feel like writing any more cheap, superficial rubbish this time, and instead tried coming up with deep, subtle and metaphorical lyrics. So far he had come up with one verse, in which he introduces the protagonist of the story depicted in the song. The protagonist was a down on his luck musician, who was neither extraordinarily good with an instrument, nor was his voice of notable range. Wanting nothing more than to become a famous artist, the protagonist summoned the devil and closed a deal with him – he would indeed become a great musician, but at a great price.

You've never been afraid of the dark. You used to mock your friends when they told you their horror stories of what lurked in the dark in middle school. Once or twice in the past, you may have had some trepidation before stepping into the dark, but you were a senior now, and you knew there were no such things as monsters. There were no vampires hunting in the perfect darkness of night, no zombies waiting to grab your ankles when you couldn't see where you were stepping, and there were certainly no ghosts waiting for you to turn the lights out so they could appear in your bedroom. These were the nightmares you never had because there was no reason to fear what didn't exist. You never had a reason to fear the dark, but if you had, maybe you wouldn't be where you are right now.

Imagine what it would be like to hear a knock on the door when you are least expecting it and then when you open the door, there is a figure like a mascot that has come alive. Who is this figure? What do they want from me? Could they knock at your door next...? This is where the problem comes in. This happened in the early part of September. As you could imagine, we didn’t have any candy to give the poor fellow. I didn’t want to be rude. I thought this just could have been a confused person. There was no way it was a child. The person was huge. They had to have been at least six and a half feet. After we moved about two miles on the other side of town, we thought it was over. For a few months, nothing happened. Until one day, I got a knock at the door. I didn’t think it would be him because everything seemed fine. We didn’t have any problems for a while. However, when I answered, it was surely the costumed rabbit person again. Why does this costumed rabbit keep appearing and choosing our house to come to? It seems we can not escape him...

You ever hear of the Stranger Ritual? No? Well, perhaps that's good, perhaps you're safer not knowing and perhaps I shouldn't tell you, seeing as how this ritual can be a little dangerous.  Still want to know? Very well. I'll tell you. The Stranger Ritual is a ritual that allows you to contact something from outside this world, something beyond the limits of human understanding. Some say that the ritual allows you to contact Death itself. In order to perform the ritual you'll need a few things. First, you'll need a door, preferably a wooden door. It cannot have any windows or peepholes and it must have a lock. Next, you'll need two candles, one white and one black. Then you'll need a gift. It's important that the gift not be something you have a personal connection to. It is advised to offer something you have bought on the day. Candy seems to be a wise choice. Then, you'll need a piece of chalk or some other writing instrument - chalk is probably the best choice.

It was Halloween night and my friends and I were driving to a local graveyard at the edge of town. We were too old to trick-or-treat and too shy to attend any parties, so we found ourselves piling into my car and heading to a cemetery in the dead of night. It was my crazy idea to spend the eeriest night of the year amongst the dead and, after much convincing, my friends Buck and Daisy eventually agreed. I wanted to be there as it turned midnight: the witching hour. It's said that the veil between our world and the spiritual world is thinnest on Halloween. The night was cold and empty. The stars stood bright and alone in the expansive black sky that seemed to stretch on forever. The old cemetery was worn and overgrown with tall thick grass sprouting out from amongst the neglected tombstones.

I was walking home one day from school as usual, but when I reached my neighborhood nothing was right. Nothing was where it should be. I was caught in a maze. An endless maze in my own neighborhood. I was there for days, yet no one was there. The shadows, the darkness kept growing, coming closer, consuming. I awoke from this dream, no, this nightmare all the time. I woke last time shrouded by darkness, gazing at the vague outline of my room. I didn't want to close my eyes. I didn't want to sleep in fear that the nightmare would return. However, I did sleep and the nightmare did return, like it always does. This has been happening for so long I don't remember when it started. I do remember however that I was young. I was still in elementary school (third grade I think.) Back then I was able to return home, but the maze kept getting more complicated.

There is something wrong with the couch. Well, that’s not entirely truthful. There’s something wrong with the right side of the couch. It wasn’t like this when I got it, and I should know- it was the first new piece of furniture I’ve ever purchased. After slumming it for years like the starving college student I was, I had felt as though I were cementing my actual adulthood by purchasing a comfortable, non-lumpy, brand-new piece of living room furniture. Unlike my second-hand couches of the past (which were covered with bedsheets to protect guests from the phantom butt-residue and very real old food stains of their previous owners), my new, three-seated suede couch (with bonus storage drawers built into the bottom!) was mine to unwrap from the box, crinkling plastic and styrofoam in my hands with glee.

Four years ago, my family moved from the city. We couldn’t take the fast-paced life, and we were a wealthy and well educated family… so we figured we would move somewhere remote and peaceful. Hayabi Forest, western part of Maine is where we settled. Now, in our family, we had me, the oldest son. Then you had my father, my mother, one brother, and one sister. Things were always fine around here, we lived off the land and life was great, but then everything changed, and it wasn’t for the better. Oh god, it was horrifying, I’m alone now... It… it GOT them and I’m sure I’m next. So to whoever reads this story… I hope you never stay here… It will get you too.

Today is two days away from the anniversary of my niece's death. No one knows how she died except her mother, who passed away recently, and me. I do not know who to tell but I need to tell someone. No one would believe me anyway, they'd lock me up like they locked up my sister. I wouldn't blame them. I hardly believe what happened myself. Bethany was going to be ten years old the day after Christmas, the year she died. She still believed in Santa. I thought she was too old for that shit but her parents thought it was cute. They did everything they could to keep her from realizing it was just a lie.

Think of your favorite Hollywood actress, past or present. Almost anyone will do. No matter who you think of, chances are she has a secret. No, I'm not talking about her skincare regimen, or her hairstylist, or whatever crazy diet she might be on. I mean, sure. Lots of glamorous Hollywood types do those things, but many---more than you would think---don't need to go through the trouble. They literally "wake up like that," more or less, and it's all because they get a little bit of help from Red Helen. Who's Red Helen? You might be thinking?

In the year of our Lord, 1587, celebration filled the spring air for the good people of Roanoke Colony. Winter had been unyielding once again, and the menace of war with the Spanish had severed much-needed replenishment of goods and supplies. As one of England’s earliest endeavors at the establishment of a permanent settlement in the Americas, they were truly isolated. Tested was their resolve of heart and faith in God. Eventually, the days grew longer, and the last of the snow had melted. Come spring; none of the one hundred and seventeen colonists had perished and in fact, the valiant people were thriving and prospering in this brave new world.