Top review for "Halloween Haunted House Sound Effects Cassette/CD Vol. 8"
★☆☆☆☆ (1/5)

audio design ok. starts off pretty spooky, lots of screams and ghoulish sounds that effectively set the tone for a holiday party. that's the only reason this review is not ZERO out of five stars.

about 10 minutes in it gets VERY specific. i do not know who "brian jeffrey hopper at 2042 west ernest lane columbus ohio" is and i do NOT care for all the blah-blah-blah of his father begging me to contact him to help free him from where "they're" keeping him. i hoped he'd at least describe where he was, maybe give some spooky details... but instead he says they've "taken his eyes" so he can't see anything, and he just keeps pleading for us to "find brian, find brian, he can save me"!

no!

ten minutes of ok sound effects. fifty minutes of begging and crying and (admittedly gross, but not very frightening) throwing up from the pain. this is NOT what i paid for. disappointed. ruined my party. will not be buying from this company ever again.

I have a spare hour before work so I do a fifteen minute sublet of my cerebral cortex to the cloud computing company with the nicest looking ads. I try not to do this too often; my roommate Rebecca sublet her brain for three, four hours a day for a couple weeks and ended up absolutely fucking nuking her higher brain function, her grey matter now perpetually rented out, she’s making absolute bank but she’s a baked potato. I tried to pull her back a couple times, but ultimately it’s really nice having a steady source of income in the household.

During the sublet, I dream, a little, mostly primary shapes and colors, the name INGSOLL IV, a lot of numbers, and when the lease is up I have the taste of watermelon and iron dancing around the back of my throat. I cry, because I always cry, but things are pretty good, actually, I’ll be able to afford those boots with the lights on them.

I shake myself off, put on my shoes (no lights… yet!), step around Rebecca’s body, trembling lightly on the rug, and go to work.

a lazy short film called like 'the visitant' where it's just somebody going around their boring apartment while their phone glitches out with bad after effects plugins and the big scare at the end is somebody wearing white makeup jumps at the camera and makes a face like >8o

actually, the bride of frankenstein is the doctor. the monster is called frankenstein

Oh, so it's GHOULISH what I'm doing with the corpses, is it? Sure YOU'RE not the ghoulish one? Attacking a man for simply following his heart? Let me tell you, you need to do a lot of self reflection before you're in a place to judge anybody!

i've become one of those guys who says 'know what i'm sayin?' at the end of every phrase. everyone says, 'yea,' or, 'i know what you're sayin ha ha!' but when i ask them about it they'll never tell me. i don't know what i'm sayin. i don't. i don't. help me i don't know what i'm sayin i don't know what i'm sayin please help me know what i'm sayin?

Life of a gravedigger ain't easy. I keep buryin' em, they keep diggin' their way out. Company only pays me once, no matter how many times I gotta put em down. Ain't that just the way.

The man strains against his chains, naked, his eyes bloodshot and bulging, blind with it: "...The hunger... the HUNGER... the INSATIABLE HUNGER... I mustn't, no, I, dare not indulge, for if I give in to these URGES I shall truly be LOST... forever... lost in MIND and lost in SOUL... and yet the hunger GNAWS at me... it EATS at me from the inside, a greedy demanding BEAST named HUNGER... I must FEED... I must FEED, I've never felt a HUNGER such as this... please, Father, you must KILL ME to SPARE ME from this INTENSE HUNGER... I BEG OF YOU...!"

"Haha," responds Father Whitcombe. "Me in line at the Taco Bell, lmao."

"lmao," admits the chained, naked man.

She spends all day listening to comedy true-crime podcasts about her daughter's abduction, torture, and murder. Whenever there's a particularly witty joke she pushes another sewing needle into her stomach.

"Welcome," says the mat, but it's not very welcoming at all. The mat makes you feel very unwelcome, in fact, because it's woven of what is clearly your mother's beautiful blonde hair.

I'm not getting anywhere with the lady on the phone and she's so fakey-fake nice that I know that they've gotten to her already and she's just stringing me along until they can trace the phone booth I'm calling from which is 14 blocks away south from my apartment and another 8 blocks east, which i chose because their product is 112 and the number 112 is important and maybe it's how far they can search but i don't know yet

so I hang up and wipe off my fingerprints and burn a match to erase my pheromonal dna signature, take the bus back to my apartment and sweep it again for bugs and then it's only noon so I take another two buses and a taxi that I can't afford so the taxi driver pulls a gun on me and I get away only just but I don't think he was going to use it, to get to the big gray stone building that I've seen in the newspaper where I know they have to be.

i touch the door four times before i go in, just to be doubly sure that i am grounded and won't be riding any telluric currents, and i walk in and i ask the front desk guy if this is where they are broadcasting the messages into my brain from

"yes," he says. "lots of them."

"oh," i respond, slightly taken aback. "uh. why?"

"oh, you know how the cabal-" he gestures upstairs, rolling his eyes; solidarity between the working class. "-can be. they think you might be the reincarnation of so-and-so the redeemer or ba-ba-ba the avenging messiah or whatever, and are beaming these messages into your skull just to mix you up a little, so you won't redeem or avenging messiah anybody."

he excuses himself to take a quick phone call, returns, smiles politely.

i say: "is there any way to make them stop? if i promise not to redeem anybody, i mean?"

"i don't think so. you could fill out a form, but i don't think it would do any good, they're rather busy with their eschatological scheming and don't really bother with much paperwork. how about i let you go up and talk to their front desk man?"

i squint, and ask, suspicious: "will they kidnap and murder me or anything?"

"probably not, they're very busy, as i said. the fellow working the cabal's front desk today is jeschia, that's j-e-s-c-h-i-a, and he likes it when you pronounce it right: je-shy-uh. he's very susceptible to flattery, so i recommend you compliment his tie before asking any big questions like 'please stop beaming messages into my brain,' ok?"

"ok," i say, nodding, trying to remember: je-shy-uh. je-shy-uh.

"elevators to your left. floor 112."

"this building isn't that tall!"

he winks. "that's what they want you to think. good luck, and if i don't see you again, have a beautiful day."

"you too," i tell him, and mean it.

bug with a face

well they said they wanted a magical wedding

they should have specified what type of magic

i thought they'd want grandma here

peeled off all my flesh to seek the truth beneath

but just found a real freaky lookin weirdo in there

my uncle warned me about all this he said

"jon, if you're walking down the road mind your feet, even if you're real real excited to get to the convention hall where they're holding the pickle convention," he told me,

"and i know you've got your pickle juice and your hot hot pickles so hot they burn your mouth clean off and make you sick when you take a bite and that's a lot of fun, but if you don't mind your feet you're liable to step on a big fat toad just sittin there licking slime and toad snot all over itself all day," he told me,

"and then if you step on a big fat wet slimy toad you'll fall down a big old hole and drop your juice and your hot hot pickles so hot they make you puke whenever you eat them so hot they make you absolutely sick out of every hole you've got," he said,

and i nodded but i wasn't really listening because i was thinking about kicking away and walking down the road eating my hot hot pickles so hot they made me shit and puke and piss and also snot all over, like the toad that i stepped on which had snotted all over itself so snotty it made itself real wet and slimy and so i stepped on it my foot slipped right off its snot,

and now i fall down a big old dirty hole and i spilled my pickle juice and my hot hot pickles so hot they make me get really really sick and now i'm trapped at the bottom of the hole, and i'll never get to that pickle convention and i'm liable to about die down here because i've already licked up as much pickle juice as i can that spilled down the bottom of the hole but it's not very much and the sun has set and can't anybody hear me down here,

and that just about does it for me, anyway, i guess.

SPOOKTOBER STORY: Guest Submission by Jon Elliott

“GADZOOKS! My stupendously dumb son guessed my password and now it’s Spocktober!”

SPOOKTOBER STORY #2.

'who are you?' shouts the priest, the possessed boy's body twisting terribly and impossibly against the restraints. 'who are you!'

'i am abaddon, i the lawless one, i am lucifer the fallen star, i am the devil, lord of hell, and all your souls belong to me!'

suddenly calm, the priest stands, takes off his collar, and hands the shit-and-blood covered little boy divorce papers. 'mr. the devil... you've been served.'

the boy stares at the divorce papers, then back at the process server, then back at the papers. 'sheila... wants a divorce?'

'that's between you and her. goodbye,' says the process server, shrugs at the weeping parents, hands them a crucifix. 'good luck.'

'oh my god,' whispers the little boy, 'oh my god.'