Season 2, Episode 4.
Chilling Creepypasta (Ep. 8) "The Photos on the Bulletin Board" by a-lot-like-violence
After years of searching, we finally caught the culprit. The man responsible for a string of serial murders spread all across the state. And in the last place I'd ever have expected to find a cold-blooded killer settled down in. In the middle of the heathy suburbs in a small Christian town, Kurt Henry Fischer, age 47, committed over 35 murders from inside the confined space of the tool shed in his back yard.
Just earlier today police broke down his door to make their arrest, charging him with his barbaric crimes. Which leads to me and the rest of my forensics team to his empty home to gather all the evidence we can to put this monster away for good. And I plan to turn over every piece of filth in this dump to get what I need.
As soon as I step onto the property, I'm overcome with a feeling of discomfort. I do this sort of thing every day but there's a much darker energy here than I'm used to. The dead grass on the lawn crunches under my feet as I'm putting on a pair of purple rubber gloves. I pass through the open threshold into the house, with the split door tossed aside in pieces.
The house was gloomy and practically filled to ceiling with dirty newspapers that looked to be decades old. The carpet was torn in large lacerations that spanned clear across the floor. So much so that it was unavoidable not to trip over its wrinkled surface, concealed underneath layers of newspapers. I trip several times as I tip-toe my way to the basement steps, where I'm told a slew of incriminating evidence is stockpiled, just waiting to be seized.
My colleagues are all stood off to the side, assumingely waiting for my to venture downstairs into the pit of the killer's lair first.
Each step I take further down the creaking staircase brings me closer to the cold basement, introducing a rancid stench I'm hopeful not to have to identify. The single light hanging above is overly bright, but only illuminating a small circular area around the uncovered bulb, which is buzzing in and out.
I take the last step, my foot touching concrete ground as I'm met with a discouraging feeling of dread. The basement is quiet but filled with the sounds of torment. I feel it's painful vibrations on my bones as my eyes scan the room for anything that stands out from the darkness shrouded over everything. All I can really focus on is a narrow window on the upper wall, only partially covered with town cardboard and then painted black in a splashes pattern. Minimal light is leaking in through what I assume to be scratch marks etched across the paint on the glass.
Only a short distance away from the window sits an old barber's chair, tilted all the way back, with a tall wooden stool behind the head rest. Then staged next to it is a bedside table with an arrangement of metal dentistry tools that barely still held a shine to reflect a glare off of.
I wish I were ignorant to the gruesome acts that took place in this basement, but the news reports were more than willing to share the details of the condition of the victim's bodies they discovered. Then on top of that, the confidential debriefing I'd been given only reassured me. All of which made that barber's chair very difficult to look at.
I'm rubbing the chills off my arms when I call for my team to join me. I soon hear the sound of crowded footsteps working their way to the basement floor, brightening the room with the large lanterns they carry down with them.
I can now see much more of the previously shaded areas outside of the black window's range, revealing a more sinister surrounding. My feelings of discomfort exponentially swells. I see wet trash bags, spread out on the concrete around me, plastic sheets hanging from the walls so dirty you can barely see through them, and several wide bedroom dressers I can assume are filled with tools from seeing the open drawers practically pouring out wrenches, drills, hacksaws, and pliers.
I begin putting together an inventory of items that will need to be bagged and then later tested, starting with samples from the cushions of the barber's chair. My colleges begin scooping up and bottling the dark liquids pooled over the trash bags. Once I move over to search the contents of the dressers, I see something hung up on the wall behind the plastic sheets. I carefully lift up the plastic, making sure it only touches my gloves, and uncover a large bulletin board, with neatly arranged photographs pinned throughout.
To no surprise, the first few rows of photos resemble those of known victims, though several of the faces are difficult to identify. Then looking further down the line brings me a small bit of satisfaction since entering this monster's home, as I scan the photos of what I assume would have been his next targets. Aside from my involvement in many of these cases, the separation is made easy to distinguish by sadistic smiley faces drawn over many of the photos. I fee I can safely assume what they meant.
But my curiosity is short-lived once I notice the very last photo pinned at the bottom right corner of the bulletin board. I cup my mouth with my wrist, being careful not to touch my gloves to my mouth and stare at it in shock...
The last photo is of me...
Spectral HORROR is a series on YouTube which narrates true and fictional scary stories.
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