Doctor Bleed's Misery Pit
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Doctor Bleed's Misery Pit - Anderson Steel
Doctor Bleed’s Misery Pit
Introduction
Greetings, dear reader! My name is Anderson Steele. Of course, friends know me as Doctor Bleed.
I began my medical career short after dropping out of Liberal Arts. I mostly practiced medicine on homeless people, drifters, inner city hoodlums, and in one unusual case a sassy hooker with a heart of gold. Well, it was actually a heart of juicy hooker meat, and it was not a successful surgery. In fact, none of them were.
When I realized I had no talent for surgery, I decided to try my hand at writing. The stories you are about to read here are all 100% true! ...At least, as far as I know. I collected them all from various sources around my humble little West Akron tenement building. I can't exactly vouch for the authenticity of some of these tales, but why would a drunken old man who lives in the boiler room and pees in his empty beer cans lie? What, for money? What the hell is that bum gonna do with money?
Regardless, I absolutely adored these stories when they were regaled to me. That’s why I chose to ignore whatever those freaks told me and rewrite them completely! But I'm rambling right now, aren't I? Regardless, the stories in this collection are sure to make you uncomfortable and withdrawn - so let's enjoy them together, shall we?
Enjoy, and remember - some stories are meant to be read alone, with the lights off.
Table of Contents
1 - The Shadow Man
2 - Jacko the Very Bad clown
3 - Bug Bites
4 - Mother
5 - It Opened
6 - She Had To Be Perfect
7 - That Awful Dripping Sound
8 - Shadows
9 - Cold Storage
10 - The Wandering Husk
The Shadow Man
I hate the dark.
I can't help myself, I just hate it. I can't stand to be in it, around it or even anywhere near it. It panics me, it terrifies me. I sweat, I shake, I scream. I'm a grown man, I have my own apartment, my own job, my own car, but being in the dark still makes me violently frightened.
Things had been this way my entire life, ever since infancy. Few would argue that it's abnormal for a child to be afraid of the dark, certainly. But the intense and dramatic reactions I'd have to being in a lightless room were anything but normal. I was petrified of darkness before I learned to read, walk or even speak. Some of the earliest memories of my life are of me as a baby, laying in my crib, crying frantically and screaming my lungs out, kicking at the bars of my bed. At that age I was barely sapient. I didn't have the words or the cognitive ability to describe it at the time, but I felt like I wasn't alone. I felt like someone was there, watching me, invading my personal space.
My parents would rush in, try and figure out what was wrong. It didn't take them long to figure out what was causing my tantrums. They bought me a nightlight to try and placate me, and for a few years it worked. There would be blackouts and power failures and I would go berserk, but they were always quick to rush in with a candle.
As I got older, my fear didn't begin to fade away. It only grew worse and worse. It's common for an infant to cry and scream when they're left alone in the dark, but a nine year old? My parents tried their best to fix
me. They tried coddling me, they tried tough love. Nothing worked. I would only scream louder. Become even more belligerent. I'd shout and I'd kick and I'd shake and eventually they just couldn't take it anymore. By the time I was eleven, I had two flashlights by my bed, a candle on my desk and two lamps hooked up to one of those clapping devices so I could light up the whole room without getting out of my bed.
By the time I was twelve, my parents realized the problem wasn't going away on its own. Therapy didn't help me very much. I was introduced to a long line of psychologists and experts who ultimately couldn't help me. I was never given a definitive diagnosis, though the different therapists I saw suspected I suffered from any number of illnesses ranging from schizophrenia to post-traumatic stress.
The older I became the more vivid and real my fears felt. As early as I was five, my mind would play tricks on me. In the dark, I would think I saw some kind of strange pair of glowing red lights. Almost like eyes, piercing through me, starring in no particular direction. They weren't wide and round, they were squinted and glaring. When I saw them, I could feel them on me. It was a burning, painful sensation. I felt like I was feeling hate itself. I would blink, and they would fade away.
Eventually, I began to imagine that these eyes were a part of a great figure. It was some kind of shapeless, formless creature. One that did not dwell within the darkness, but was a living part of it. Like some kind of mold or growth, it festered inside of it. Never breathing, never feeding, but alive.
Every culture and society has their own myths and urban legends. And nearly all of them have some form of Boogeyman. Some kind of horrible, demonic monster that hides under beds and in closets and eats bad children who don't listen to their parents. In our neighborhood, we had something called The Shadow Man.
Kids, teenagers and even some adults would all talk about him, spread his legend. The story