Tag Archives: techno-horror

They’re Inside of All of You ©️

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Mushin

It begins as a whisper in the dark, a presence felt rather than seen. The air carries a strange stillness, a chill that settles deep in the bones, a pressure just beyond perception. It is the kind of cold that doesn’t sting or bite but lingers, seeping inward, pressing against the ribs with invisible weight. At first, there is no reason to question it. The world is full of silences, full of moments where the mind wanders and the body tightens without explanation.

Then comes the hesitation. A pause where there was once certainty. A second thought where there should have been action. A feeling, quiet and nagging, that something isn’t quite right. The cold deepens, not in temperature, but in its presence—it is not simply felt but known. The pulse slows. The air thickens. The moment stretches.

A small pressure builds in the chest. A shallow breath that wasn’t there before. The thought takes root: something is wrong. The mind circles it, first as a passing worry, then as an undeniable fixation. The body reacts before the mind can rationalize it—shoulders tense, the hands grow clammy, the throat tightens just slightly.

It is a slow creep, a trick of sensation, a delicate pull on unseen strings. The pulse flutters, then accelerates, like a drumbeat just slightly out of rhythm. There is no clear danger, no tangible force at play, but the world itself begins to shift. Shadows stretch a little too long. Sounds linger a moment past their source. The ordinary loses its shape.

Then the grip tightens.

The moment that was once hesitation becomes something else—a rush of heat, a prickle along the spine, a pounding in the ears. The body prepares for something it cannot name, for something it does not understand. What was a whisper is now a murmur, a sound beneath the threshold of hearing that somehow speaks in meaning rather than words.

It sees you.

That thought arrives unbidden. The world shudders at the edge of awareness. The pulse is no longer uncertain—it is hammering now, each beat slamming against the ribs, demanding movement, demanding release. The breath catches, the muscles coil, the skin tingles with static. There is nowhere to run, and yet the urge is there, primal, insistent.

Then, the break.

The heart surges. The body ignites. The hesitation is gone, replaced by something sharper, something faster. The air no longer carries weight—it crackles, charged with urgency. The cold is obliterated in a rush of heat, of movement, of sheer velocity. The mind doesn’t think anymore—it reacts.

What was once a whisper has become a roar.

The fire spreads, consuming hesitation, devouring every weakness in its path. The world bends to it, twists under its force. Fear is no longer a whispering force in the dark—it is a tidal wave, an inferno, a storm tearing through the void. And just when it feels as if the mind cannot take another second, just when it reaches the precipice of losing itself entirely—

It stops.

The silence returns, but it is no longer the stillness of hesitation. It is something else entirely.

The world is bright. The body, still tense from the surge, now holds something different—something solid, something unshakable. There is no fear anymore, no lingering cold, no whispering doubts. The fire has burned away everything but what is real. What is left is not something hunted, not something chased.

What is left is something that walks forward.

And the sun rises.

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.