In the hills of Nikle, (I won’t tell you the country to keep you safe) there is a legend of the old man with the glowing, plastered face. The legend goes like this: A man who was living in the hills, just outside of a town that never even knew they existed, owned a house and had a wife of 45 years of age and child of 10. The man was obsessed with plaster creations. Spending most of his time in the barn nearby, small, muffled screams escaped there, but neither the mother nor child dared go near. For they were scared of what they might find. The screams continued through nights and often left the family sleep deprived. While the mother and child were contempt on staying away, they grew tired of the constant screaming and loud noises. The man only came inside for food and to use the bathroom. He never talked since his obsession started. The mother and child noticed the man was coming inside less and less. They both came to an agreement to see him that night. When night finally fell they finally grabbed their kerosine lantern and set foot outside, giving a small sigh at the fear they felt as soon as they left. It was dark and thundering, but lightning nor rain were anywhere to be found. They made it to the barn and opened the door with a crack. The inside was lit up with candles spread all around the barn, but just out of reach of the wood and hay. They found the man, dressed in casual farmer overalls, sitting in the middle of a circle, holding his hands over his face, slowly sobbing. The mother and child noticed the star inside the circle. It was made of what looked like mud and blood. The man heard them enter and stood up instantly, his hands still on his face. He turned slowly towards them until he was almost face to face, but concealing himself still. Slowly he removed his hand from his face to reveal a plaster face, glowing white. The face was wrinkled in spots to resemble real-life age, but they were exaggerated. The plaster man had an exaggerated grin along his face, reaching to both ends with a set of sharp, blood-soaked teeth showing as if it were a prize. The eyes were sunk so far in, that it seemed to the mother that all was there was darkness with almost floating lights in the very middle of the sockets. When he noticed them staring at his face with fright and disgust, they lights glowed red as if it were mad, but did not show it in any other way. The man started to blur and the mother and child started to hear a ringing in their ears, at first soft, but growing in volume until they covered their ears and passed out. The man was staring at them the entire time, not blinking or moving, other than his head. Just as they were about to pass out completely, the ringing stopped. The mother and child, still having their ears clenched as hard they could with their eyes squeezed shut to keep out the sound. They soon realized that the sound stopped and they both rose with blood slowly pouring out of their noses. The man was gone and the candles were gone as well, but they could moaning in the distance. It was silent, almost a buzzing. The mother and child, still horrified, sprinted back towards the house, never looking behind them, not even for a second. The both made it into the house and locked it down as soon as they got in. They both went to bed, but the mother insisted that the child slept with her, but he declined responding with “I’m not afraid, I’m a man!” At this, the mother sighed because she was already exhausted from the day and just fell in bed and blacked out as soon as she hit the bed. On the way up to the bed, scratches were heard against a door, but she blocked them out. In the morning, the mother walked to her child’s room. The child was not there, but she could hear moaning coming from outside, but it was closer than normal. The child’s door had scratches on outside of his room along with the front door. She ventured out to the barn and opened it, expecting to find her child inside. He wasn’t there, but the one thing that was there was animals. They were all the animals they had taken care of for so many years. They were not alive, though. They were all plastered into statues, their heads, legs and torsos replacing parts in mass amounts of plaster people. The mother was horrified at this and the stench was almost equally putrefying. Holding her mouth, trying not to gag, she turned towards the door. The door was locked and she heard a familiar moaning behind her. She turned and the husband stood there, with a plastered face. She turned back towards the door and gave it another try. It opened this time and she looked back once more to see that her husband wasn't there anymore, but neither were any of the statues. She ran outside and jumped into her truck. The engine trying to sputter to life, but falling short each time. The woman looked up and saw the edge of the forest was lined with something. It the farmer in the front. All the plastered animals and people to his sides and one small child, holding hands with the farmer. They both stood there, staring blankly at the woman and one let out a grunt. After the grunt, several of them started sprinting towards the truck. The woman desperately turned the key, hoping the truck to come to life. It did on the third try, but as soon as she reached for the gas pedal, a window shattered. She screamed and was pulled from the car.

Okay, I don't care what the others have told you. I swear I am being stalked. The guy is always following me on the way home from college. It started not too long ago, about three weeks when he started following me home. He was always wearing a hoodie. All of his hoodies varied in size, color and design. His face became visible when he wore only the short ones, being too small. I saw stubble on his chin, but no light from his eyes. I looked over at him often, only for him to look down at the sidewalk for a few seconds and glance back over to see if I stopped looking at him. He always stopped following me about a block away from my apartment. I was a Kentucky girl, being from a poor family, college was unlikely for my family, but I made it work. I was smarter than most people, but I was also very open minded to my friends. They always said I was paranoid of people, so I didn't call the police, but I made a routine of pushing my couch in front of my door. I kept my window locked and my alarms on.

Tonight marks the third week straight he's done this and this time, I didn't see him leave at the one block from my apartment, he left four blocks this time. He cut down an alley and took another turn. I got a little worried and started jogging a bit. I made it home without a sign of him anywhere near my humble abode. I ran in the house and pushed the couch in front of the door and threw almost everything in my apartment in the same manner. I slept on the floor, keeping a kitchen knife nearby.

I awoke on a carpeted floor. The room was lit up with a single bulb dangling from a wire going to the ceiling. The walls were equip with soundproof barriers, which made for a deafening silence. I was tied at my hands and bound at my feet, which made it hard to turn around. Behind me laid a table, caked with brown liquid and topped with several metal tools in which I had never seen. Above the table was a line of plaques. Each plaque holding the head of a woman, each looking like they were from Kentucky, save for the first two. There were seventeen in total, fifteen were perfectly in tact. I saw the first one, being completely decayed, except some hair and what was left of teeth and an almost liquefied eyeball held by a single vain. The smell was horrible, stench raised in the air all around with slight scents of air freshener. I'm going to guess it was my stalker that kidnapped me. The second face was still in tact, lashes and what looked like razor cuts all around and it looked like a blunt object had been hit on her pretty hard. Her skull was caved in, but the original head had been cremated saving it for ages to come. My heart raced, thoughts entering all around my head and then, my heart-dropped.

The door from upstairs opened, breaking the silence. The sounds of a person stumbling down was easy to hear, because of my adjusted hearing. It sounded like he almost fell a few times on the way down. I saw a head rear around the corner followed by a shell of a body. As I guessed, it was the stalker, clearly drunk with a half empty bottle in one hand and a knife in another.

"Hey, you're awake." He said lazily, eyes drooping from lack of sleep. His face was disturbingly contorted, showing scars from what I guessed were from the past people he had killed. "You're not the first, as I can guess you've seen." He motioned drunkenly with the knife over to the wall. "You Kentucky girls are so darn cute, I wanted to start keeping the beauty alive by mounting you on my wall. It's become a hobby of mine ever since my wife left with the kids." He hadn't showered in weeks, his hood being down this time, showed dark hair, severely greased and clearly had an "aroma" about him.

I struggled to my feet. Only to be helped by the man. He then shoved me over to the table and my head slammed against it. There were maggots on the table and the stench was overwhelming. I vomited on the table, mixing in with the decayed blood and random tools in which I guess were torture materials. "I love your pretty face..." He said struggling over the words. He picked up the one closest to my face, wiping it off revealing a saw. He didn't want to waste any time it seamed. He place the saw on my hand and paused a second. The man picked me up and the me into a chair next to the table. He then tied my right arm on the chair and placed my left on the table securing it with a metal wrist strap. He smiled as he picked the saw up once more and put it at the edge of my hand. "Please, don't do this!" I yelled. "Stop! No!" He didn't hesitate. With one fell motion, he moved the saw forward, the rust and blade, pierced my skin. Blood trickled out of my wrist and onto the table and the man had a smile stretched across his face. I screamed and squirmed all about as he made quick work of my left hand. As soon as he got half way, my vision went blurry and he stopped. He walked upstairs for a minute and came back down with a syringe full of a mysterious liquid. He pushed it into my neck and I felt energy shoot through my body. Adrenaline, keeping me awake so he could continue. He walked back over to his station, still with the saw in his hand. I noticed he had it in place of his bottle in which he placed on the table. He kept going with my hand. Blood squirting everywhere and my screams were suddenly mixed with laughter as he began shaking the more he chuckled. After what seemed like hours, my hand came loose. He cut it at the stub and I leaned downwards. He did a sloppy job at my hand restraints and had my arm in a place that I couldn't move from the seat.

I reached my mouth over to my right hand as he went upstairs once more to retrieve more adrenaline shots. The knot on my right came undone fairly easily and I reached my legs which were even more sloppily wrapped. I guess this is the first time he's done this drunk. I reached for the latch and unlocked it easily. I reached for one of the tools, but all the tools were rusted beyond use. The saw, which he took with him, was his last tool. I grabbed the bottle and walked towards the stairs as the door opened. I made a sobbing sound to make it seem I still in the chair. As the man turned the corner, I smashed the bottle over his head and stabbed his leg with the top of it. He fell to the ground with a thud. He wasn't knocked out, but wasn't capable of getting up yet. The combination of alcohol and the bottle on his head was almost too much for him to stay for. I sprinted up the stairs. I got halfway before I felt a sharp pain in my lower leg. He had reached up and stabbed me, holding the knife with the best of his ability. He stabbed himself with the syringe and lunged upward with newfound strength. I tripped on the stairs, four from the top and landed on my stump hand. Blood curled out and my sight grew dim again as the blood loss is getting to me. I won't give up. I kicked back and landed a blow straight to his skull. He fell backwards and fell down the stairs, knife still in hand. I limped up the last set of stairs. I reached the top and saw the door. I looked behind me and I saw the man sitting at the bottom of the stairs. He was just laying there. I looked at his chest and saw he had accidentally stabbed himself. I paid little attention as I grabbed a table cloth off of what I guessed was the dinning room and wrapped my hand and leg. I limped to the phone and dialed the police. When they arrived, they said the guy had bled out. I sighed with relief and felt a buzz in my pocket. My phone was still there! Maybe it was my friend. I looked at it. It was a text from a restricted number. I opened it up and it read, "John was a corrupt guy, but a friend of mine. Prepare yourself, because there's a whole lot of 'Secret Admirers' much worse than him. I'm going to be waiting for you. They can't help. They can't help. They can't help. I'm on the inside."

The date is October 22nd, 1943.

The war is over, but it wasn't by the choices of those made by man. A strange orange-tinted snow began to fall on Germany's first day of invasion of Russia. The snow wasn't a snow of any kind we had seen before. The soldiers were mystified by such a sight as to bend down and pick up the snow. The snow wasn't of terrestrial origin. I think it was from the moon, the place we haven't been yet. I've heard about space exploration being a topic researched, but I never would've thought it'd be done this soon! I haven't been home for about seventeen months. I don't know what the USA has done in my absence, but whatever they brought back lead itself into our water. The snow itself wasn't cold. I fell from the sky under the cover of fog. My squadron couldn't see more than ten feet and then just orange all around. The snow, after in contact with people, slowly crept up their sides and jumped into their mouths or nostrils, choking them to death. I was inside a Humvee as I watched in horror as all the men around me were strangled by the snow. I was driving back to camp as fast as possible, when I hit a couple of people and my tires came off. I got out of the Humvee and the snow was moving towards me. I kept the snow off my by brushing it off as it fell. I turned around often only to see black figures in the orange and a mound of snow racing towards me, growing in size. I made it to our bunker. I locked the door tight and write in the barracks. We have a radio in there and have heard reports of people being attacked, killed and turned by the snow and it's new inhabitants. That was three months ago. Our supplies are almost gone. I don't want to go out, but the snow continues to fall and smash itself against my bunker. It's inside now. I pushed all the beds in front of the door. I am very hungry. The beds have made me so tired. I can see some of the powder reaching under the door. I don't think it sees me yet. I'll get some rest and try to get out in the morning.

The text was recovered in Fort Tutancaw, Russia. The journal was found next to a bloody mattress with a mysterious powder of unknown origin on the sheets. The door was caved in from the outside. Suspect was most likely sleeping when attack was commenced. Squad 34 report- November 23rd, 1944

Oh boy, I can't wait to get my next patient! The anticipation is killing me! Peyton really should hurry as I am not to be kept waiting. My patients before me all seem to be happy, but you can never really tell what their eyes are really saying. I'm holding one of my tools, shakily waiting over my desk, studying it intently. I write down the name of my next subject. Brendon, I think his name was. Peyton should have him here by tonight and no objections, I'm sure. My office is white with a little window, showing the main lobby, enticing others to watch. Although the entrance is free, the website costs 2 bitcoins to get onto. It's live feed, best quality around. I get hundreds of viewers each night, ready to view my works and I never disappoint. Peyton is my main and only co-worker. He comes in only to watch with the others in the main lobby after delivering a guest.

There's a knock at the door. I go to answer it, but it's opened by itself. Peyton strolls in with a grin stretched across his face. "I got 'em." he said. "Oh good, even if you're five minutes late, I'm sure the viewers won't mind." Peyton rolls the patient in, the cotton floor wadding under the wheels as he's pushed into the room. He's thrown onto a chair, which latches tightly around his wrists and ankles. He struggles to get free, but he's still woozy from the ride over. You see, I work in the mental ward and double as the official "executioner". With the official title and all, I'm not pressured by the police or neighbors. They are way to far to hear any of it. I've lost most feelings of humanity I guess. I don't plan on giving mercy and after the first few showings, the government figured that out. They don't visit anymore, they just give patients to Peyton and I make sure they're dealt with. Their vomit stains are still present in the lobby. Not my fault they couldn't take it. I've planned for seven lobby guests.

Peyton picks the bag off of Brendon's head and the chat boxes explode. "Get him! Use the saw again! I hope I can record all the sound this time." and so forth. As soon as the bag is lifted, Brendon's eyes dart to all corners of the room. The room is soundproof as to the actual patients don't hear anything. "Listen, Brendon, I'm not going to sugar coat this at all. You have been sentenced to death by the government for a triple homicide that led to the death of your wife by knife, death of firstborn child by gunshot and death of younger twin by throwing him off of an apartment building. We both know you don't deserve redemption. I plan to keep it that way." Brendon's eyes dilate as he realizes what's about to happen to him. "The government doesn't care what I do or how I do it, as long as you're in a body bag, or most of you is, I still get paid. So, here's what I'm going to start off with." I hold up the a small clamp in my left hand. I hear small cheers from the other side of the glass, knowing what the clamp means. I move the clamp over to his arm, now tensing with fear and wanting to escape. I wrap it around his arm, just touching the elbow. The clamp is metal with coils all around to force it into place along with a metal bar to tighten. As I twist it into place, Brendon gives me a confused look. It's soon put to waste as the grip gets as tight as it can, locking his arm in place. I don't stop there, oh no. I continue to tighten it, watching the camera as I go. His hand starts going blue from the lack of bloodflow and I continue. "Stop! STOP! PLEASE!" he screams as his elbow starts to grind under the metal. He yells as the metal shatters the lower part of his arm, still tightening, a small ripple is seen around his wrist. Blood pours out slowly at first, but then goes to a rush as some muscles, tendon and even bone shards are forced out of it. His screams have reached their max and he struggles against his restraints. I smile as the blood spurts to the floor, staining his clothes and mine. I slowly remove the clamp, seeing the deep bruise I left along with a contorted hand still twitching. I set the clamp to the side. Brendon still trying to struggle free as small mumbles leave his mouth. I move over and pick up needle from my desk. The syringe is clean and ready for anything. I know what I'm going to do. He thinks he knows. I walk over to the other side of my desk and retrieve a glow stick from the drawer. Taking some scissors, I cut the end off. Then, taking the syringe, pick up some of it from the tube, careful not to spill any on me. I maneuver over to a microscope and place some of the liquid on a tray. I then proceed to extract another liquid of my own design. It consists a modified form of the flu. Although not airborne, it is able to be transferred by blood and direct contact. I walk over to the camera and say my usual line. "Zombie virus, test number 221. Changes from previous; glow stick juice instead of small pox." I walk over to Brendon, who is now crying and begging for his mother. I set the syringe off to the side and prepare a baseball bat. "In order for the plague to be not dangerous to me or anyone else, I must break your appendages. He freezes as I ready the bat aimed for his left leg. He screams even before I hit him. His leg snaps and I can see the indent through the pants. I move to the next one. Crack! To his arm. Crack! I stop. He vomits on the floor and woozily looks up to me. I walk over with the syringe and jab it in the side of his neck. After about two minutes, his veins start to glow as the liquid travels to his brain. He screams one last time and his head drops. I look towards the camera and smile. "Come back for part two to see the result of my experiment. No charge to anyone!" I shut the camera off and wait.

Three hours pass and his body twitches.

Two more pass and his hand starts clenching and the bones start moving in place as to test themselves. I turn the camera on after seven hours. "Welcome back my friends! It seems like this time, this time out of all the others, it is a success!" "Now my friends, it's time for me to get down to business. Bring in subject number 201!" Peyton leaves the room and comes back with a scrawny man, clearly starved. He throws the man in the room and I exit, leaving my desk and camera on, but keeping my formula close. The creature in the chair looks up to the small man. He groans loudly as he strains against his metal chair. One arm lifts and rips out of socket, leaving only a small nub left. The same goes for all of the appendages, until he is fully free and falls to the ground. The scrawny man tries to get up, but is too weak and cannot make it more than a few feet. "Brendon" is now moving towards him, mouth agape and the scrawny man slowly accepts his fate, just as Brendon sinks his teeth into the man. The man lets out small, raspy gasps as he tries to move, but is dead within seconds. "I'll continue tomorrow." I said, closing the curtains. A couple say aww and the others seem too excited to leave their seat and come back tomorrow.

Overnight, I threw Peyton in there with them. He wasn't too strong anyway, so he was taken down pretty easily after I broke his ankles. The computer was still on, letting all who wanted, watch. I let open the stall in the morning. They slowly moved out, limping and struggling to move along the floors and I opened one of the cells to the ward. A man walked out, confused, but soon grasped what was going on and was quickly overtaken. One by one, I let the patients out, only to be attacked by the last one. The last door opened and the patient sprinted out, but tripped and snapped his neck on the rail.

Now for everyone else.

I ran out the door of my asylum, propping it open with a chair and table. I listen with glee as my patients are tearing through the halls, their yells getting louder as they find the exit. I get in my jeep and speed down the road, smiling. I make it onto the street and see the sign I'm looking for.

Water Treatment Center.

It's both a blessing and a curse, being able to manipulate my masterpieces in such a way that makes them seem to come alive. The truth it, they control me. I don't want to alarm you, but my soul is not controlled by me, rather by the demons that reside within Bilbin and Barris, the puppets. One is dressed as a clown and the other like a lawyer. They do skits on the streets and in clubs, but they do not give my body rest. My legs are twisted yet I still walk, my fingers cramp and yet I still act, my voice is gone and yet I still speak. My will isn't my own anymore. I've tried to take control, but they are too powerful for me to even stand on my own. Their spirits combined, make my body last forever, with the exception of needing food and water. I tried to starve myself, but they force me to eat. With all the gigs and shows they put on, money is never an issue, so they buy anything they want. The true horror is that I can't die. I want to die. Just put me out of this endless suffering. I don't deserve this. I wanted to entertain people. They weren't on me before. I don't want them on me anymore. I never pushed towards this. I might just go insane soon though. My family is dead, those puppets did all the work. I'm not getting arrested, because nobody else knows I exist, other than the people I entertain. I changed my name, not by my own choice of course. I'm sure I'm sick because I keep coughing over and over, sometimes in the middle of my shows. Blood comes out, but I try not to show it. It isn't easy, but I can grow into it, right? Either I go insane or I let them win. I can't see any other option. I am in my house now, giving shows to myself in my bathroom mirror. Suddenly the door opens. I peer out to the living room to see what looks like SWAT teams rush in. They don't have SWAT vests, though. I see one of the tags on the left of their uniforms. SCP