STOPHERE📍

  reddit.com He plunged the knife deep into the man’s stomach. The stabbed man screamed a sound like he had never heard before, something like speakers tied to his ears. The scream made him take a step back involuntarily; he was astonished that a human body could scream in such a manner, and the vocal cords could scream so loudly without tearing themselves. It was unbelievable. He pulled the knife out, having to exert himself, as the seven-inch blade resisted the pull, the sinews and muscles and the body fat resisting the pull, trying to hold back the blade. It was a tug of war between his hand and the stabbed man’s stomach. However, he was an expert in the art of stabbing; he twisted the knife a little and, with more force, he wrenched it free. The man screamed again as the knife left his body, blood gushed out of the gaping wound, and air seemed to rush in and out. Holding his stomach, the man lurched backwards and screamed again. The sound seemed to explode in the air, reverbera...

  giphy.com Iztak Salal knew that he must do his work very quietly, very patiently; he must not draw any attention to himself or to what he was seeking. The book, which he carried in a bag, was slung across his chest, and he could get himself killed if seen by the right eyes. It was a book of medicine, an ancient book, but written for Ayurveda, written for Hinduism, for the knowledge of Hindus only, and he was aware of how Hinduism functioned. The Hindus were a tight-lipped people, hardly sharing anything with others around them, and the world at large; sharing knowledge was the last thing they would ever dream of. For them, Islam was not only a strange religion but an aberration. Somehow, in many ways, in things big and small of daily life, they tolerated Islam; for one thing, Hindus were known for their infinite and world-weary patience. Iztak Salal knew that if not for the book he had found, their paths would never have crossed. But now he must cross that wide chasm between ...

  emito.net Like a restless soul So it’s time for me to go And do Suicide 🔚 CREAK

  https://tenor.com Bukkum raised his arms high, his fingers turning into claws, and swiftly lashed out at Heeralal’s chest, tearing it open. Then, his claws tore at its prey’s face, and then he put his claw deep inside its prey’s chest cavity and pulled out the heart from its cage.  Heeralal felt his eyes bulge; he coughed blood and died! Bukkum threw the heart against the wall.  The heart made a loud splashing sound as it was stuck against the wall for a second, and then it slid down the wall to the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind. ☠️ Summer 1981:ChilkaVillage: An old man was murdered, and his death released the beast Bukkum, and then life tried to run away from death but failed miserably. SHOOTING MR SUMMER & 7 STORIES- Author GAUTAM K MIRCHANDANI is a book of such exciting and thrilling tales. Click on the link below the cover.   SHOOTING MR SUMMER  

  gifdb.com She is all alone  She is all alone Four walls can’t make a home She is all alone  She is all alone 🍷 CREAK

  giphy.com Vasayama glanced at his watch again—12:15 PM. ‘Where is this new trainee.’ he thought, scanning the crowd streaming out of the coach station. Every being was in motion, hurrying to destinations in every direction. He leans against the pillar, resisting the urge to look at his watch again. ‘We will be late for the staff meeting.’ he reminded himself. He was also feeling hungry. Suddenly, he straightened up and noticed a female figure walking briskly in his direction, literally zeroing in on him. ‘She must be the one.’ he told himself, straightening his shoulders. The figure stopped in front of him, and he could hear her hard breathing from three feet away. ‘Riyika?’ he offered. ‘Vasayama?’ Riyika countered. He nodded in reply. Riyika smiled in relief. He noticed that she had a beautiful smile. A kind of smile that lit up her immediate surroundings. 👽 Riyika's first day at work turned out to be just another day at work, or was it more than she thought it woul...

  giphy.com My name is Alfred Harold Hill. I am a cartographer for the British Army, Highland Rangers, and XXV Company. And I am dying. I am writing this journal to preserve my identity and to let others know what happened and what we went through. I have no idea how long I can write, as only a few candles are left and the inkwell is half empty. It is November 12th of 1891, the year of our lord. Outside the log cabin, a snowstorm has roared for the past three days. There are four to five feet of snow all around, the passes and routes erased beneath the relentless snowfall. I have tried to escape the log cabin only three times, only to turn back, defeated by the snow. I am 24 years old, my rank is first Lieutenant and it seems like yesterday when we journeyed from the army camp at Dehradun, three months to this day, a Platoon of thirty-five men and with me, and I am the last one remaining, the others dead, or as the Bitak would say, ‘Lo sall Jo kumi haar Jeenu.’ disappeared into...