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Welcome to a Round Two Battle Thread for the BoG Tournament! Be mindful now, as your votes are the determining factor to who takes the win!

For a few reminders though:



Now without further ado here are the works of our would-be Masters of Genre!

Tsar Bomba - All That Goes Bump In The Night
trend that’s present in the minds of our youth: to fear any blackness that light fails to destroy. Though usually dismissed as childish, the inherent fear of the unknown is deeply-rooted within our psyches. In theory, it’d be useful. Caution coincides with our instinctive drive for survival. It’s our emotional response to dangerous circumstances, to things that threaten our existence. Fear can encourage a man to act with caution in situations where recklessness would result in injury, it can motivate us, and it can save our lives. The unknown has equal potential to be harmful or helpful, being wary of it can prepare you to go into “survival mode” if need be. But I’m not scared of the dark.

Fear can also immobilize you. It can take away all rational thought and leave you helpless, at the mercy of your mind and whatever it is that you’re frightened of. This is horror in its most genuine form. A fear that I’ve experienced and am relieved to say has never been equalled.

I was 9 years old when my family moved. From what I remember, it was work-related. My father had received some exciting job opportunity. Even at my young age, I realized this meant I would be relocated against my will. I locked myself in my room for a few days, asserting that my parents couldn’t “make me go”. In the back of my mind, I was well aware that I was only delaying the inevitable.

My new room wasn’t large, but provided ample room for my bed and television. A closet door and a solitary window adorned the walls. My only qualms with this new living space was that my room was on the bottom floor, and my parents’ was on the top. In my previous house, our rooms were separated only by a wall. However, I didn’t complain. I was trying very hard not to talk to them.

The first day, I had settled into my bed before the sun went down. I put on a movie and let my eyes wander around the well-lit room. It wasn’t so bad. The only blemish was what appeared to be scratch marks around the bottom of my door. I deduced that the previous family must’ve had a dog or cat.

The darkness of night finally started to pervade my room as the sun descended. I shut the door and did what I always did before falling asleep: I opened my closet and set the sleep timer on my TV to 160 minutes. Looking back, I don’t really know why I did these things. Perhaps the open closet provided assurance that no beast was hiding there. The soft noise and warm glow from the television soothed me, but the reasoning behind this comfort mystifies me. Still, the combination of these actions eased me into sleep.

When I woke up the TV was off, leaving my room in a state of dense blackness. Everything was dark, almost pitch black. This told me that at least 160 minutes had passed, but I had no guess as to how long I had actually been out. The fog of sleep had dulled my perception of the world around me, even while conscious.

But I still noticed the scratching.

As the vapors of sleep diminished, it allowed my mind to try and dismiss the noise. It was a slow, gentle scraping. Every few seconds it would cease, then start up once more. A feeling of unease washed over me, intensifying each time the scratching repeated. It was at times like these where I embraced the dark. Anytime such sounds unsettled me, the darkness would comfort me. It’d tell me that there was nothing there, that all I had heard was my imagination. All that goes bump in the night can be explained by something as simple as the wind.

In this instance, the darkness told me that the scratching was nothing more than the house playing tricks on me. The new home must’ve been a creaky one. Yes, that must have been it. Just the sounds of an old building. Perhaps a tree scraping against my wall. Perhaps it wasn’t scraping at all, just creaks I mistook for scratches. With this in mind, I closed my eyes and rolled onto my side with the hope that I could fall back asleep.

The sedate scraping grew louder. Not tremendously, but noticeably greater in volume. My eyes opened again and wandered to the source. It was my door. Something was scratching at my door. As if some intruder were attempting to enter my room.

I gripped the edge of my covers and stared into the almost impenetrable shadows. The darkness assuaged me once more. How could I possibly know it was my door? The entrance to my room wasn’t even visible in such lighting. I could hardly see the edge of my bed. I reminded myself that it was only the creaks of an old house, and closed my eyes again. I didn’t try to go back to sleep; I didn’t want to.

The scratching stopped abruptly, allowing for a long silence to pass. My eyelids parted and I looked into the blackness that hid my door. The stillness of the room was suffocating. In those moments, the darkness betrayed me. It no longer planted reassuring notions, only the kind that dread inspires. It was almost as though I wanted the scratching to resume, so the shadows would be my ally once more. But as the scraping returned, the darkness provided no consolation.

As if the intruder were suddenly frustrated with, or disgruntled by, the barrier that kept it from my room, it began to scratch violently at my door. Fear gripped me once more, no longer a simple sense of unease, but now potent and terrifying. The scrapes were erratic, frenzied as if some creature were attempting to burrow through the wood itself. I felt my heart tighten as it pounded uncontrollably against my chest.

I screamed.

Instinctively, I shouted for my mother. As my parents made their way to the top floor, the scratching ceased. They rushed into my room to console me. I cried as my mother wrapped her arms around me. Sitting there, tears soaking my face, I let out a sigh of relief. Even as she asked, I did not tell her what it was that upset me. It was as though whatever had been outside my door would be furious if I even so much as spoke of it. Was this true? I do not know. But as a child, I believed that this lurking menace remained close, listening.

My mother promised to stay in the bed with me for the remainder of the night. At my request, she turned the television back on and set the sleep timer. Lying in her presence, I finally fell back asleep. Throughout the night, I’d occasionally wake up and let my eyes scan the thick darkness.

The next day, I remember catching sight of the scratches that marked my door. They were mostly visible around the bottom edge of the wood. Though it may sound strange, I didn’t have any notable reaction to this discovery. I just stayed out of my room for the entire day. It was a Sunday, but I had no friends to play with and due to my poor night’s sleep, I had no energy to make new ones. However, I did go outside for a bit and I distinctly remember laying eyes on my window. I remember how much I didn’t want to go back inside. I suddenly hated that room.

Despite my wishes, the day slowly diminished into night. It was bedtime. For fear of sparking the ire of the intruder, I said nothing when my parents ushered me into my room. I just opened my closet door, set the TV timer, and climbed into bed. I sat there, unmoving for what seemed like an eternity. My eyes were wide open.

I had expected it. I was anticipating it. Why else would I be unable to sleep? But upon hearing the scratching, I felt the first anxious increase of my heartbeat. The scraping was slow once more, pausing every few seconds. It was torturing me, it had to be. A crushing force started to make my insides twist ferociously. The feeling forced its way onto me, inching around my being and into my heart, causing it to sink. Helplessness. It was helplessness.

I yanked the blanket over my head and contorted my body into a ball. What did it want? Surely it had intentions more sinister than terrorizing a young boy. Somewhere within my fear-induced speculation, I noticed the scratching had stopped, but had been replaced by something much more hideous. A strained, rasping breath escaped from the thing beyond my door. A sordid wheezing that I could only identify as ravenous. I pictured the beast crouched at my door, its shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of each rasping breath. The darkness had abandoned me, this was not the product of an old building’s creaks.

A single, protracted scrape transpired. I shuddered, gripping my sheets with white knuckles. I just wanted everything to stop, I wanted everything to go away.

The next sound didn’t process. Not at first. It soon proved to be the most alarming of them all. A sharp chill ran down the length of my torso. I was motionless under the covers, my eyes filling with tears. I had heard the unmistakable creak of my door opening.

A distinguished shuffling was heard as whatever had entered my room now moved across the floor. Its movements were unrestrained, animalistic. I kept myself from screaming, I didn’t want to alert the intruder to my consciousness if it wasn’t already aware. When I say hours passed, I do not exaggerate. For hours it straggled aimlessly in the confines of my room. For hours I remained still, under the thin layer of fabric, terrified.

An abrupt silence pervaded the space. The intruder made no noise, as if while wandering it suddenly froze or disappeared from existence. No breathing. No scratching. Just quiet… but it was still there. I was sure of that. It had not left my room.

My suspicions were quickly confirmed as the rasping resumed. It was slower, deliberate. Each garbled wheeze malicious and emphatic. I wished I had screamed. I should have screamed when I had the chance to. But it was too late, as it climbed onto my bed I opened my mouth to cry, but no sound came out. Utter terror had robbed me of my voice. I was truly, genuinely paralyzed by fear. Completely immobilized.

The labored breathing was above me. I felt the creature caress the bed with what I imagined to be clawed-hands, feeling for its prey no doubt. I did everything in my power to keep it from discovering me. Even when it gripped my arm. Although blankets divided our flesh, I could feel how gaunt and twisted the hands were. I could feel its grasp strengthen and I could feel its lengthy, jagged fingernails. Talons.

It pulled at the sheets that concealed me, viciously grabbing at them, violently rasping as it tried to reveal me. With all my strength, I fought against the intruder. I writhed fiercely underneath the blanket. My eyes clouded with tears, I couldn’t make out its features, but as the creature yanked the covers from me I cried out. Coughing, wheezing, it clawed at me. I screamed through my involuntary sobs, desperately trying to pull the blanket over my head once more.

I could hear my parents running down the hall to save me, and the creature did as well. It wrapped its elongated fingers around my torso and tried to abduct me from the bed, as if desperate to have me for its own. I thrashed and kicked, but my struggles were futile. The intruder effortlessly dragged me from my bed and toward my only window. I looked back over my shoulder and drove my heel into the beast’s face. I felt it release me as my parents entered my room. Upon seeing their child covered in blood and gashes, they rushed to my aid, horrified.

I told them everything.

My memory has spared me the details of the exchange, but I imagine my parents were convinced that I had fallen victim to the paranoia that youth brings. I recall two things were decided: I’d sleep with my mother each night and my father would use my old room. He volunteered himself, claiming he didn’t mind nor did he need much space to himself. The next day I shared a bed with my mother, a few days later my father decided we should move.

I no longer sleep with the television on, and I keep my closet door firmly shut. I’ve found myself jolting awake to imaginary scrapes, or a wheeze brought on by illness. I understand that it’s because I’m frightened. I could credit my experience to conventional explanations such as hallucination or an overactive imagination. However, I am and always will be terrified of whatever attacked me all those years ago. Irrational or not, I fear that the creature might return to torment me. I’m scared that it might find me.

But I’m not scared of the dark.[/SPOILER]

RichardLongflop - Parasite
lmost comical, really. I mean, a beard? But the thing is disgusting, it’s vile and putrid. Sure, it sounds odd, a big furry white thing that sticks to your mouth and turns you into a zombies, like that one kind of ant fungus, but seeing it in person is a horrible thing. God, I hate those bastards.

It started when me and the team were sent down to the British village of Hedgeford, a place full of rocky houses and farmers, markets and fields. Nature for miles to see, it’s humbling to see humanity at its roots, tending to cattle and being ankle-deep in dirt. Only a few hundred people lived in Hedgeford. Luckily it had wifi and cellphone connection, so it was up with the times in that regard.

I ought to start with our guide, a farmer by the name of Peter. He found a dead bug, but it was weird and large, said it came from a hole in his field. Too deep for him to enter, so he figured he’d call for help with it, and to see if anyone knew what the giant bug was. Turns out it was an undiscovered species, so we got called down to check it out.

When we got there- oh, right. I should say who the team was. I’m Samantha, and my teammates are Jonathan and Paul. Anyway, when we got there we went to Peter’s house first.

Humble place. He had a loving wife- forgot her name- and an aged sheepdog that lazed about. He brought us there first for a cup of tea and to, well, show us the dead bug.

The thing was pretty big. About 20 cm long, 10 wide at its head and tapering to a point at its tail. The back of it was covered in white fur, making it look like a clump of hair at first. Though, flip it to its underside and you’d see that it had eight legs and an exoskeletal underbelly. Its mouth was large- like a lamprey’s- and was pointed straight downwards. Its teeth were like hooks, and Peter managed to get some pliers to pull some weird tentacles out of its mouth, rubbery tentacles with barbed ends. The thing seemed alien, as alien as the things that lay at the deepest parts of Earth’s oceans. Of course, the surface had weird things too, but we just got used to them. Until something like this came along and made us remind how batshit weird life on this planet can get.

After that, and some discussion, we decided that we’d send the creature’s body back to base to be fully examined, and we asked Peter to bring us to where he found it. It was get

I'm going with Tsar Bomba for this one, but I enjoyed both stories (I love horror)

I wanted to keep it to a realistic first person. If I were to reach to the mug next to me for a drink, I wouldn't look at it and think "it's white and green, has a large handle and holds more than the average mug", I don't even think about it as I grab it for a drink. I didn't want this story to sound like this person was telling it to us, I wanted this story to sound like we were just hearing her thoughts.

I totally loved both stories. It was really hard to decide, but in the end I went with Tsar's because it actually gave me the spooks.

Just explaining my vote. I sadly don't have enough time to C&C right now ;_;