I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anyone there. But there's always a drop of blood on my doormat.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anyone there.
My heart is stuck in my chest, pumping.
And the air seems stale, and I can't breathe.
But this time, there's the carcass of a chicken.
It's sort of mangled up.
Both of its feet are broken -- snapped.
The feather on its wings are kind of sticking up crudely.
There's a gaping hole in its side. It's huge, maybe the size of my fist, and its entrails are spilling out like stuffing in a turkey.
And the blood -- the blood. It's staining my doormat.
I rush outside to get rid of the carcass. The redstone lamp comes on, illuminating the doorstep.
I pick it up hastily with the tips of my fingers before freezing.
The chicken's head has been snapped. And its eyes are white -- pure white -- and one of them has been popped out of its eye sockets.
I glance over and notice a blood-red pentagram drawn on my doorstep.
The chicken was lying in the middle of it.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anything there, other than the chicken from yesterday.
This time, it's a pig.
It's lying a bit away from where the chicken was standing.
The pentagram -- it's bright red again. I've been scrubbing it all day, but to no avail.
I step outside to the pig.
The pig is lying on the stone slabs this time.
And it's lying on a larger pentagram.
Written next to the pentagram, in blood, it says,
"Please don't mess up my artwork."
I glance at the mangled pig's body.
My heart is pumping now. Who would do this?
The pig has white eyes, like the chicken. Bright white -- almost glowing.
This pig has a dagger impaled in its chest, along with several whip marks along its back.
And its neck is twisted crudely, almost seeming to hang upside-down.
That expression on the pig -- I know pigs don't have expressions -- but it was almost a look of serious determination. A look that said, 'I'm not going to die. Not today.'
I admire that pig for having such high aspirations.
It's a shame he didn't live to see the next sunlight.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anything there, other than the chicken and pig from the other day.
But this time it's... a spider.
It's lying a ways from where the pig was.
It's smashed down the middle.
And its eyes are pure white.
The green-yellow guts -- spilled everywhere.
Its legs are broken, and the thin, furry membrane exoskeleton has been pulled apart from the original, fleshy, inner parts.
And it's lying in a blood-red pentagram.
Next to it is written,
"Please don't discard my carcasses."
Despite the warning, I toss it away.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and--
I liked the style of this story. How in many of the parts, it started with Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door. which gives it that original look. I have a question, if it was on the doormat, did you mean to call your story Doorstep? I forgot what else I was gonna say.
I liked the style of this story. How in many of the parts, it started with Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door. which gives it that original look. I have a question, if it was on the doormat, did you mean to call your story Doorstep? I forgot what else I was gonna say.
blargh i forgot to mention i moved the doormat
fffuuuuu
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I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anyone there. But there's always a drop of blood on my doormat.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anyone there.
My heart is stuck in my chest, pumping.
And the air seems stale, and I can't breathe.
But this time, there's the carcass of a chicken.
It's sort of mangled up.
Both of its feet are broken -- snapped.
The feather on its wings are kind of sticking up crudely.
There's a gaping hole in its side. It's huge, maybe the size of my fist, and its entrails are spilling out like stuffing in a turkey.
And the blood -- the blood. It's staining my doormat.
I rush outside to get rid of the carcass. The redstone lamp comes on, illuminating the doorstep.
I pick it up hastily with the tips of my fingers before freezing.
The chicken's head has been snapped. And its eyes are white -- pure white -- and one of them has been popped out of its eye sockets.
I glance over and notice a blood-red pentagram drawn on my doorstep.
The chicken was lying in the middle of it.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anything there, other than the chicken from yesterday.
This time, it's a pig.
It's lying a bit away from where the chicken was standing.
The pentagram -- it's bright red again. I've been scrubbing it all day, but to no avail.
I step outside to the pig.
The pig is lying on the stone slabs this time.
And it's lying on a larger pentagram.
Written next to the pentagram, in blood, it says,
"Please don't mess up my artwork."
I glance at the mangled pig's body.
My heart is pumping now. Who would do this?
The pig has white eyes, like the chicken. Bright white -- almost glowing.
This pig has a dagger impaled in its chest, along with several whip marks along its back.
And its neck is twisted crudely, almost seeming to hang upside-down.
That expression on the pig -- I know pigs don't have expressions -- but it was almost a look of serious determination. A look that said, 'I'm not going to die. Not today.'
I admire that pig for having such high aspirations.
It's a shame he didn't live to see the next sunlight.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and look outside.
There's never anything there, other than the chicken and pig from the other day.
But this time it's... a spider.
It's lying a ways from where the pig was.
It's smashed down the middle.
And its eyes are pure white.
The green-yellow guts -- spilled everywhere.
Its legs are broken, and the thin, furry membrane exoskeleton has been pulled apart from the original, fleshy, inner parts.
And it's lying in a blood-red pentagram.
Next to it is written,
"Please don't discard my carcasses."
Despite the warning, I toss it away.
I don't know who's doing this.
Every night, while I'm sleeping, I'll hear a thump on my door.
And every night, I'll wake up and--
But are you okay with writing a lot of stuff in a short time?
Everyone needs breaks. Have a break dude. :3
True, story binges aren't good, because if you do them wrong then you lose the ability to write for a while.
actually these arent even hard for me
ill listen to some music
make myself hallucinate for a while
then just wake up and be like CREATIVITY BAM
blargh i forgot to mention i moved the doormat
fffuuuuu