A woman’s bloodcurdling scream echoed across the store attracting everyone’s attention to a newscast playing on the wall of televisions.

Thousands of people rioted in Times Square, demolishing everything in sight including other people. An employee turned on a surround sound system and the audio filled the store.

“…-major cities. Authorities demand the public stays in-doors. Find a weapon and do not hesitate to use it. Protect yourselves at all costs,” the newscaster advised.

The camera zoomed in on a bloodied woman stampeding toward a couple pushing a stroller through the insanity. Her clothes were torn to shreds and soaked with wet blood. There was no trace of humanity in her crazed, wide eyes. The couple didn’t even see her coming. She crashed into them sending the couple and the stroller tumbling to the ground in a heap of twisted limbs.

Unable to react, the parents and the audience watched the crazed woman snatch the wailing infant by the leg and toss it through the air. The camera turned away to avoid exposing the audience to the infant’s fate. Instead, they mistakenly caught the baby’s father curb-stomping the crazed woman’s head into paste.

“Holy shit! Did you see what those monsters did to that woman?” called out one of the men in the store. His comment with met with nods and others with expressions of disbelief.

“What are you talking about? That woman was clearly out of her fucking gourd! She smashed that baby into the concrete!” a store employee countered. He was met with the same reaction.

A cacophony of argument erupted over the horror they’d witnessed. No one agreed on what happened. Some argued the couple attacked the woman with the stroller. Others complained about not being able to see anything besides fire and smoke. Even the newscaster argued with the person on the other end of his earpiece.

The newscast switched to other major cities where similar conflicting reports were coming from.

“Oh my god! My uncle lives in Miami!” cried out a cashier.

“So? Nothing is happening there,” a customer replied mystified.

“What are you talking about? The city was on fire!” a store manager jumped into the conversation. He curled his hands into fists.

“On fire? There was a riot!” the cashier screamed at the manager with tears in her eyes.

The three quarreled and the rest followed. Arguments became shouting matches. Their voices rose, bellowing over the other as if the loudest person would win the fight. Allies turned to enemies in an instant as the disagreements continued. The tension came to a boil and spilled over into violence. One man punched another and amidst the tussle, other fights broke out. It cascaded into an all-out battle.

Standing away from the crowd, a lone customer watched the situation unfolding until it turned violent. He trembled, unable to grasp what happened, and stealthily left the building wondering...

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Mr. Barlowe, the history teacher, was passionate about two things: ancient myths and telling his students how worthless they were.

“Hercules was a hero!”, he would say, “He completed the twelve labors! He slew the Hydra! And the Hydra was no pushover! Each time its head was cut off, three new heads would emerge in its place! But Hercules did kill it! Because he was exceptional! One of a kind! Special! Unique!”

“...unlike YOU!”, he would then add. “NONE of you are unique! NONE of you are exceptional! You’re generic, bland, regular – as you should be! Know your place! Toe the line! None of you are special, none of you are snowflakes!”

Charlie remembered the teacher’s rant on the way home, and it made him sad, because he always wanted to feel unique. Wouldn’t it be nice to be special, like Hercules? To actually be a snowflake? To prove Mr. Barlowe wrong?

He wondered if the story about the Hydra was real. Was it true that if you cut something off, three new things would emerge in its place? If you cut off your finger, would you grow three new fingers afterwards? There was only one way to find out.

As soon as he got home, he took his mom’s cleaver from the kitchen, and – BAM! – he chopped off his left thumb. As soon as the pain subsided, three new thumbs grew out in the same spot – just like the history teacher had said! Delighted, Charlie went on to slice off the rest of his fingers one by one, watching three new fingers sprout in different directions at the base each time. But why stop there? The next logical step was to cut off his entire hand, and – lo and behold – three new hands emerged in its place, and each hand had wisely remembered to show up with fifteen fingers.

The implications were clear. Charlie knew how to impress his teacher. He thought of all the necessary cuts and realized the cleaver would not do. He went into his father’s tool shed to find a hacksaw.

On the next day, Charlie was late for class. Seeing him absent, the history teacher immediately began one of his little rants.

“What’s the meaning of this? Does Charlie think the rules don’t apply to him? Who does he think he is? Does he think he’s special? Does he think he’s a snowflake?”

“Damn straight,” proclaimed Charlie, wobbling into the classroom. He had three arms growing out of each shoulder, and at the elbow, each arm branched into three forearms. Each forearm, in turn, ended in three hands, and each hand in fifteen fingers. His legs were no different – he had six of them in total, each thigh branching into three shins at the knee, and each shin into three feet with fifteen toes each. “I am a snowflake.”

"I dare you," Chelsea said.

It would have been easy for Alice to decline except that other children were gathering around and she didn't want to be made fun of for refusing.

It was simple enough. Chelsea had dared her to swing on the haunted swing at the end of the set. It was the last one. The one farthest from the school building. As with all childhood superstition and lore, no one knew how or why or even when the swing had become haunted. Or by whom or what. The teachers knew of the children’s belief and since it caused no harm they simply smiled and allowed them to continue in the make-believe. Kids will be kids, they said to themselves.

Chelsea stood smirking in front of Alice, her hands on her hips.

“Well?” she said, and Alice looked around the group of kids.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’m not afraid of a stupid swing.”

But she was. Sometimes it moved by itself, swinging back and forth on its dry, squeaky chains. She’d seen it happen from the windows of the school. Kids told stories about what had happened to others who had dared to sit in it. But Alice herself had never seen anyone swing in it. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she’d seen anyone swing in the one next to it, either. Yes, she was scared.

But a dare was a dare. Especially when everyone had heard it.

She walked slowly towards the swing, stalling, while a playground full of eyes watched her. She got to the end and slowly lowered herself into it. She kicked her legs out and as all of her classmates watched she went higher and higher, enjoying the feeling of flying through the air in spite of her fear.

This isn’t that scary at all, she thought to herself. She stayed swinging for almost a full minute before she jumped out. But a strange thing happened when she jumped. She split in two. One of her, the real her, continued to rise into the air, quickly gaining height. The other Alice, the one on the ground, looked up at her and waved, a crooked little smile on her slightly different face.

The Alice floating away twisted and contorted her body to get a better view of the playground. It grew smaller and smaller as she rose alone into the sky. She screamed but no one heard. And still she rose up and away, faster and faster until she was just a quickly receding speck in the sky.

Back on the ground the children had gathered around the brave new Alice.

“Your turn, Chelsea. It wasn’t scary at all,” she said with a disturbing little laugh.

“I dare you.”

If you want to watch mutahar tell it go here.

This isn't one of those "Haunted Game" stories. At no point are you going to hear me claim something within the game spoke to me, reacted to my words, or forced me to punch myself repeatedly in the face.

No, this isn't about a haunted game or a game doing something impossible or even something it shouldn't have.

This isn't about a glitch or a hidden Satanic message and at no time did I phone Nintendo Headquarters only to have my questions answered with hushed whispers or anguished screams.

This story is about a game feature I don't think anyone else has unlocked.

That's it.

No ghosts. No conspiracies. Just a secret we were all supposed to find, but never did. Something that changes an entire generation's childhood and the very essence of a multi-million (billion?) dollar franchise.

This is about what I assume to be a previously undiscovered alternate ending of Super Mario World for the Super Nintendo.

In 1996, I received my first computer as a birthday gift. I'd been on the internet before, had used computers before, but it had always been in school or at a friend's house.

This one was mine. All mine. I explored the crude, pre-historic web of the time with great interest - I downloaded all sorts of pornography and even printed it out, which made absolutely no sense.

I also pirated media like a madman. Music, games, anything.

This was where I first discovered Mario World. I'd never had a Super Nintendo as a little kid, so it was all new to me. I'd downloaded tons of games along with the SNES Emulator, but Mario World was my favorite.

For over a decade, the same Mario World ROM was my time-wasting hobby. I played it over and over again, beating the game faster and faster until I began to lazily explore the worlds with no particular purpose.

Game Genie codes helped immensely. I could turn off the timer and re-live a particularly entertaining map for an hour as I waited for a download or any number of boring events.

It was in this manner that I must've beaten and re-beaten the game thousands upon thousands of times.

There was comfort in the obsessive-compulsive behavior of this routine... but all of that was shattered when I saw the Blind Boo.

The Blind Boo, as I referred to it, was hovering over the exit from the haunted "Sunken Ship" level later on in the game.

I call it blind because it actually had no visible eyes. It was like someone had made a lazy ROM hack... but I knew from years upon years of experience that this was a normal game.

The Blind Boo just hung there over the exit pipe... blocking it. I turned my back on it, but it didn't chase me.

How could it? It didn't even SEE me.

Then, I noticed something else out of sorts......

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The lake was beautiful at night, and so was the girl.

Others could have disagreed, but Peter knew better.

He would never forget the thin lines of her gentle body, the luminous whiteness of her skin that shone in the moonlight, so white and clean and innocent that you could almost see her through. Her black silky hair, darker than the void beyond the stars, streaming down into the water and concealing her slender figure.

The girl didn’t seem to mind the presence of drunken campers nearby, nor did she seem to care that she was naked in the woods during the night. There weren’t any telltale signs of other campers nearby – no bonfires, no drunken songs, no loud music – only her, weaving and dancing in the black waters, making signs for men to come closer.

Steve was the first one to enter the lake and approach the girl: the beer without a doubt clouded his mind, leaving only purple haze. Others cheered him on, seeing as their homeboy was about to score in the most exotic manner possible for a camper, but not Peter: he was only observing the girl, wishing that it was him who had the courage to go there and touch the marble of her white skin. To lay himself bare before her, bare and open to her down to the very bottom of his soul.

Still under the enchantment of the stranger, he watched as Steve put his hands around her and their lips touched. He did say anything as others were cheering for their friend, and he did not look away when the girl suddenly split into numerous malformations that wrapped themselves around Steve and pulled him into the black sky’s reflection. And he was the only one who hesitated to run when then out of the gushing fountain of blood the girl reappeared, with both lust and satiety burning in her beautiful dark eyes.

Peter was the only one brave enough to return to the lake on the next day with the search party: nobody else dared. As they were approaching the lake, Peter could only think about how much he wanted to see her again, to witness her midnight dance under the distant stars once more, and, above all else, to see that look of satisfaction.

As his grandma used to say: “If you want to win over the girl’s heart – feed her”.

Click.

A sound, coming from your door.

Click.

A twist of the knob, a little louder.

Click.

Your fear is beginning to grow.

Click.

A monster outside trying to get in, you know.

Click.

The knob turns, and the door opens.

Click.

And a chill down your spine, it sends.

Click.

As you feel two claws grab your hands.

Click.

And teeth cut short your future plans.

There’s a monster down below me. It’s almost funny – like something a kid would say. But it’s true now, and even if I had enough air in my lungs to laugh, even if I could make a sound without telling her where I am, I wouldn’t because if I started I think I couldn’t stop. I am upside down here and as helpless as a half-born baby. The rock walls squeezing me are almost like an embrace. If I think about it like that, I can keep the panic down a little. But it always comes – the choking, cloying panic where I push and push and try to wriggle my way down or up, and then my legs flail, almost out of my control, in the utter blackness. I should save my strength, but maybe moving the only free parts of me is what’s kept me alive inside.

It’s almost funny – I’ve been caving for five years with my wife, and never once got anything but a bump or scrape or cut. All it takes is one wrong turn. She was thinner than me – just barely made it through the passage that I’m stuck in. Lucky her.

And down below, the monster. She paces and screams, babbles and squeaks. It’s an inhuman sound, like an machine that needs oiling or a voice on the radio distorted by a storm. And I know she’s in pain, I know she’s hungry, but she already has my wife. Why can’t she wait to die?

I decided days ago (I think) that I wouldn’t wait. The thirst and hunger aren’t the worst – not the helplessness or the fear. It’s the knowing that there’s one way out – and it’s down below, and that I’m going to take it. And finally I work up the courage to speak, and it’s choking out like bile, but out it comes:

“Honey, I still love you.”

She’s coming now. I can’t see the soft spot on my wife’s head where her skull must have fractured. Where her brain must be bleeding and damaged. What’s in her mind now? Does the remember me, or does she only know the same hunger I feel, trapped her for so long? I will find out. She should have died, and maybe in a way she did. But her body’s still moving. And I can feel her broken teeth touch my throat. We should have dropped something down that passage, seen how long the fall was.

At least now we know how deep it is – not deep enough.

I have a monster that lives with me. He's not invisible line some monsters. Everything else about him is like monsters people know about, like the bad smell, the dirty claws, and what he does at night. He shows up and stares at me. Sometimes I wake up and he's there. Just staring. Sometimes he does more than that. He sometimes crawls in bed with me and scratches me with his claws. I can smell him and he smells really bad. I try telling mommy, but she doesn't believe me. She tells me it's a bad dream.

But he's real, and mommy sees him too. She doesn't believe me when I point him out. He laughs at me and says I'm playing pretend. He ruffles my hair and says, "Get step-daddy another beer, will ya?"

Growing up, we had a small house on the outskirts of town right against the border to the woods. Yes, border to the woods. A thirteen-foot tall fence topped with barbed wire. No one was allowed to enter the woods for fear of the ghouls. We all understood and accepted the Mayors decision. Hell, we were named the safest town in Northern Virginia year after year after year. Zero crime, zero incidents.

Living that close to the border, I used to hear strange noises almost nightly while I laid in bed.

There was the howling, of course. I mean, come on, they are ghouls after all. Sometimes I heard the screams of the fools that wanted to show off to their girlfriends and sneak past the border. Then there were the sounds of nature. Creaking, blowing, scratching. All normal life for me and my family.

Until I heard the other noises last night.

I was laying in bed casually browsing Facebook when I heard the faint sound of scratching. Ever so light at first, but slowly gaining volume. It became closer to the sound of sandpaper rubbing on a wall. I panicked. I turned on the lights and I searched all over my room.

Nothing.

It kept getting louder and louder, like it was inside of my own head. I wanted to rip my ears off and stuff the holes with them. I ran to my dad's room in tears, beating at my head.

Dad, being the strong, intelligent man he was, gave me some medicine and explained what I was hearing: the bugs.

It was the Mayors plan:

Border the woods to keep the ghouls out.

Offer them sacrifice to keep them from revolting.

Plant the bugs in the head of the citizens so when they have bad thoughts, they would turn into ghouls. No bad people, no crime.

It's my turn. The bugs are awake and converting me.

I shouldn't have been touching myself to the pictures of the Mayors daughter.

Something strange just happened in my new place; this makes the second strange occurrence since moving in to my new place.

This is the message I just sent a friend...

It's currently 3:16 AM.

I was tired and slept around 11:30 PM-Midnight

Then I woke up, as I often do (when I go to sleep "that early,) and was just laying here on my bed (it's in couch-mode)...

When the doorbell rang.

Puzzled, I looked for my glasses in the dark, and by the time I was opening my room door I heard the house's entrance door open: Jake had beat me to it. (Being the night owl he is-- like me-- he was already up I'm guessing.)

So I just stood around the corner at my room's doorway and heard.... a woman's voice telling him "I'm looking for my boyfriend Peyaso."

He just said he doesn't know anyone by that name and she left.

The heck?

I would have asked her a question or two myself- why was she checking here? Did he live at this address? If so, when? Etc...

Now I'm sitting in the dark listening to all the sounds around. The yard's sliding door has been closed and locked from earlier in the day- convenient coincidence. The movie "The Strangers" is coming to mind.