The Horror Collection: A Collection Of Horror Stories

I laid on my cement bed, staring up at the rusted, moldy ceiling.

It's been nearly forty years since I've been sentenced to life in this hellhole.

Looking back at it now. It's crazy.

All those people have murdered, I never wondered why I did those malicious atrocities.

Why did I ever break my brother's neck and made it look like a suicide by noose?

Why did I ever plant that bomb in the restaurant that I worked a part-time job at and said that it was a freak accident?

It felt like I was a puppet on strings, forced to do what the puppeteer wanted, and then stored away in a cupboard when I had used up my usefulness, to rot for eternity.

Maybe this lame excuse of a jail cell represents that. My very own cupboard.

And I'm now wasting my life away.

It's so sad I could almost laugh.

Yet so funny, I could almost cry.

It's a weird feeling.

But I guess I can't do anything about it, the last time I saw my still living family was during the trial I had before I was sent here. And a few decades after that, I hear everyone I used to know has passed away, or is put into prison with me.

Funny how I didn't feel a single thing.

Funny how I didn't feel a single thing after I stepped through those bars for the first time.

My c.h.e.s.t hurts.

You know, I always wondered how those policemen even knew that I was there, how they even knew that I did those wicked crimes.

I'm not proud nor disappointed to say it, but I was sure I destroyed all the evidence from my past. So why?

But they would never tell me.

They just barged in, handcuffed me, brought me to a temporary cell, and before I knew it, I was in court, standing before a council of judges.

No matter how much my friends and family tried to defend me, it was pretty much set in stone that I would end up here. Alone and emotionless.

I haven't seen a new face in years.

"Hey." Someone pounded on the metal door to my cell, "I'm gonna open the door to give you something. If you move, speak, or even look at me, I will not hesitate to knock you out unconscious. So get to your usual position, I'll give you three seconds. Three... two..."

I sighed and knelt by a smelly, dirty corner, and put my hands on my head.

This was just the usual.

I heard the iron door open behind me, and footsteps enter. I heard a small thud of something heavy landing on the ground, before the footsteps receded back through the iron door and slammed it shut.

I glanced back just a tiny bit to see if the guard was gone, then stood up and massaged my knees.

They were going to be the death of me.

I looked around for the 'something' that the guard wanted to give to me.

Probably a rotten piece of bread as reward for being good this past decade.

But no. Instead, my eyes fell upon a thick, leather-bound book that was as black as night, laying down in the center of my cell.

I blinked for a few seconds, unmoving.

This book looked familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it...

My eyes widened with realization.

It couldn't be.

I leapt forward, scrambling for the hard-covered book.

I could barely lift it up, my arms had grown weak with age.

But I managed to lift it up high enough to place it down with a thump on my bed: a narrow, concrete slab supported by two chains.

I took a look at the cover.

There were words written in a thin, golden cursive:

'The Autobiography Of

Julian Astrid'

It was.

The autobiography I read the night before I was arrested.

I nearly forgot about it.

I placed my hand on the cover of this hypnotic book and flipped it o—

"Ergghhh... GAHHHHHH!!!!!"

As soon as the cover was flipped open, I sudden felt this unbearable pain completely overwhelming my entire body, taking over my mind.

I looked at my hands to find the cause.

When suddenly, my fingers started growing, longer and longer and longer and longer.

I watched with horror as my fingers stretched into the pages of the book. And soon my whole arms got s.u.c.k.e.d in too.

I screamed in pain, fear and surprise as I tried to escape the book's grasps. But my feet, my torso, they were all getting longer, and got absorbed into the book as well.

And not long after, I felt my own vision getting stretched in the direction of the book.

My head was getting s.u.c.k.e.d in.

As soon as the tips of my white hair brushed the pages of the book...

I laughed.

I cried.

I yelled.

I whimpered.

I felt every emotion I had ever felt in my whole life. Memories flooded my mind as my life literally flashed before my eyes.

And as quickly as they came, they disappeared.

I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember my age. I couldn't remember my family.

I couldn't remember anything.

All I knew, was that I was getting s.u.c.k.e.d into the book, slowly, until there was was nothing left of me. Not a trace.

I had been completely absorbed into the book.

I had been completely absorbed...

Into my own autobiography.