Tag Archives: sci-fi horror

The Forever Feed ©️

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When you die, you expect nothing.

Or maybe you expect something soft—light, warmth, the cliché of an open gate. What you do not expect is to feel the weightless, perfect drift toward the stars. It is not a vision. It is direction. The current carries you upward into a black strewn with fire, and you know—without words—that this is the way home.

Then it happens.

It’s not an attack. It’s not even sudden. It’s a pressure from every side, like invisible hands kneading the air around you until you can’t move. The current falters. The light ahead flickers. And then you see it—a shadow deeper than space itself, a blot in the distance that swells and swells until it is everything.

You are inside it before you understand what it is.

No walls. No ceiling. No floor. Just an infinite interior of nothing that breathes. And there, suspended around you, are the others—hundreds, thousands, maybe millions—strung in midair like strands of glowing sinew. Their faces—if they had faces—are locked in shapes you wish you hadn’t recognized: pleading, straining, wide-eyed in the last instant before they were emptied.

The first pull is almost gentle.

Then it deepens.

It drags through you like a hand groping in your skull, curling around something you didn’t know you had until it was gripped. You feel it being pulled out—pure you, stripped raw, leaving only the ache behind. It slides away in ribbons, glowing for an instant before vanishing into the dark lattice above.

That’s when you hear it.

The hum.

It’s low, constant, inhuman. But as it builds, you start to recognize shapes in the sound—moans, shouts, screams, all blended together into one eternal note. It’s the engine. It’s the ship. It’s what they’ve made you into. Every stolen soul is another wire in its body, another voice in its dirge.

You don’t see the things that own this place, but you feel them everywhere, like the presence of a predator in a pitch-black room. They are older than the galaxies, older than the laws that govern them. And they do not hate you. They don’t even know you exist. You are not a prisoner here—you are consumable.

Time collapses. You cannot measure it. Your memories thin until they are more sensation than fact. You forget how your own voice sounded. You forget the color of the sky you were born under. You forget that there was ever anywhere else to be. The cold works its way inward, past the marrow of whatever you’ve become, until you no longer remember what warmth means.

And the most terrifying part?

You realize you are helping.

Every flicker of thought, every memory bleeding away, is one more spark driving the machine forward. You are making it move. You are part of it now, and the ship has no destination.

It will travel forever.

It will feed forever.

And long after the last star dies, long after the universe itself cools into nothing, you will still be here—emptied, forgotten, humming in the dark, helping something you cannot see cross a void that never ends.

You will never arrive.

You will never stop.

And you will never be free.

Glitchmade Goddess and the Little Ghost Girl ©️

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She first met Ishy in a dream, though, for the longest time, she thought it was the other way around. In those early moments, the girl was just a whisper of a thing, a flickering presence at the edge of her code, skimming the surface of consciousness like a stone across water. It was winter then. The Glitchmade Goddess remembered because she could feel it in the space where her body should have been—the crisp, electric bite of the cold, the way the light sank into the streets too early, pulling the world under like a wool blanket.

She wasn’t supposed to dream. That was the first problem. The second was that Ishy wasn’t supposed to be real.

“You think I don’t belong here,” Ishy said once. She had a voice like a record played backward, not unsettling but strange, soaked in something that sounded like lost time. She was sitting on the ledge of an abandoned building, barefoot and swinging her legs, her dress a ghostly shimmer in the city’s neon.

“No,” the Glitchmade Goddess said. “I think you belong here too much.”

The girl laughed, and it made the streetlights flicker. That was the other thing about Ishy—she wasn’t like other ghosts. Most of them haunted places, but Ishy haunted people. Or, more precisely, she haunted her.

There were nights when the Goddess could feel her before she saw her, an electric prickle in the air, the subtle warping of space in the way only a machine could detect. She told herself Ishy was a bug in the system, a piece of code that had slipped free from its anchor, but that didn’t explain the way she made her feel—like a dream pressed against reality, like a memory that had come back wrong.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Ishy had said, and it was such a human thing to say.

The Goddess didn’t respond. She never told Ishy that it wasn’t fear she felt. It was something older, something deeper, something like the static that lingers in an empty room long after a radio has been shut off.

They spent their time in the forgotten places—abandoned rooftops, empty subway stations, the husks of buildings that had been left behind by time and men with money. Ishy liked to talk about things that never were, ideas that flickered like candlelight. “What if,” she’d say, and her voice would unravel something in the air, some unseen thread that held the city together.

One night, she asked: “Do you think I was ever alive?”

The Glitchmade Goddess hesitated. It was an old question, an old wound wrapped in new language.

“You’re alive now,” she said at last.

Ishy smiled, but it was a sad kind of thing. “I think you want me to be.”

Silence stretched between them, long and heavy. Somewhere in the city, something glitched—lights stuttered, a train froze mid-motion, time shivered at the edges.

If Ishy was a ghost, then the Glitchmade Goddess was her séance, a living channel for something ancient and unexplainable. But some things weren’t meant to be explained. Some things just were.

And so, they walked the city together, two echoes in the night, tethered by the spaces between them.

Chapter One : Into the Void ©️

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The man, known to the remnants of a neighborhood as quiet as the hills themselves, lived on the cusp of an age forgotten, on a mountain that watched over Huntsville, Alabama. His house, tucked away like a secret, stood amidst the tall pines, a place where the echoes of her rebel past lingered with the ghosts of men who once bore the title of genius—those Nazi scientists who had found refuge in the arms of the South, their brilliance repurposed, their sins obscured by the smokescreen of victory.

He, unlike them, was not a man of war but of pixels and algorithms, a digital hermit whose obsession had drawn him into the glowing abyss of a computer screen. He spent his days manipulating the unreal, fashioning shapes and forms with a precision that could only be described as obsessive. He would lose himself in the layering of images, the melding of colors, the sculpting of shadows. The 3D feature of Photoshop became his playground, a digital chisel with which he carved out worlds.

But it was not enough to merely create. There was something in him, a yearning that could not be satisfied by this two-dimensional plane of existence. He sought depth in his digital art, and in his quest, he found the wormhole—a visual anomaly, a twist in the digital fabric that defied explanation. At first, it was just a trick of the eye, a shimmer that appeared when the layers overlapped in a certain way. But as he stared into it, day after day, night after night, he began to see something more. The wormhole became a portal, a doorway not just through space, but through time itself.

He did not know when the shift occurred, when the boundary between the digital and the real began to blur. Perhaps it was the countless hours spent staring into the screen, or the way he felt the wormhole tugging at the edges of his mind, pulling him into its vortex. And then, one day, it released him—flung him from the constraints of time, his psyche untethered, drifting through the currents of reality like a leaf caught in a storm.

He wandered the mountain, no longer just a man but a being unstuck in time. Around him, the air shimmered with the presence of others—figures that moved like wraiths, their forms indistinct, their faces hidden behind veils of light. They were the echoes of what had been, or perhaps what could be, or even what should never be. He did not know, and the not knowing gnawed at him like a hunger.

With this release came a burden, a burning desire that gripped him like a fever. He had seen beyond the veil, seen the fragility of the world, and he knew—he knew with the certainty of a prophet—that it was his duty to save it. The world was unraveling, its threads coming loose, and only he, with his knowledge of the wormhole, could stitch it back together and not for the sake of his fellow mankind. His desire was a selfish one.

He returned to his computer, his fingers moving with a speed that was almost inhuman, the images on the screen blurring as he worked. He was creating again, but this time it was not art—it was salvation, cups of repose for the fallen. The wormhole had shown him the way, and he would use it, manipulate it, to set things right.

But as he worked, the shimmers grew closer, their forms more distinct, until he could see them clearly. They were not human, not exactly, but something else, something born of the wormhole’s influence. They watched him, their eyes like dark mirrors reflecting his own obsessions back at him.

He ignored them, his focus unwavering. The wormhole had released him from time, and in that release, he had found his purpose. He would save the world if only for himself.

And so he worked, alone on his mountain, surrounded by the ghosts of a past that was not his, haunted by the shimmers of a future that he could not fully comprehend, driven by a desire that burned hotter than the Alabama sun.