Scary ghost stories and stuff (1)

The infinate sences

Four years of biochemistry. Four additional years of specialization in anatomy. Fifty-four years of work in a cramped laboratory. This, dear friend, is the culmination of my life's work. Gaze upon it in awe.
Gaze upon the simple human brain in a simple man-made jar. A solution of my creation keeps it alive and functioning; the core of the machine must remain productive.

Look beyond the jar. Peer deeper into the machine and be amazed. A simple human tongue embedded in the toxic vomit of a family of four. A simple human nose, compelled to inhale the sickening scent of their feces. A pair of hands, dragged by pulley across their shredded corpses. A pair of ears taking in the cacophony of their terrified shrieks and pleas for mercy on repeat, and a pair of eyes locked onto a projector screen. The family's untimely, elongated demises dance across the screen ad nauseam for their viewing pleasure. The pieces of the machine are all functioning at optimum levels; my solution ensures this.

Pins prick each of the components of the wonderfully macabre machine in the cellar before us at irregular intervals, generating agony and anxiety in the subject like none ever experienced by another being on this sorrowful Earth. Perpetually chained to life, experiencing every bit of the downfall of a band of blood- his blood- for every waking second of every minute of every hour of every day, forever regretting the choices that resulted in his arrival in this very dungeon.

For this machine to truly achieve greatness, however, five senses will never be enough. Soon, the various stimuli will combine in the machine's central mind, and a plethora of newly atrocious experiences will be produced. The tongue will taste the sounds of human suffering. The eyes will smell the brutal sights they intake and the ears will hear the sensation of flesh on ruined flesh. There will be no end to the pitiful subject's torment. He will be pathetic; the shallow, outermost limit of what can be considered a man. He will beg for death with silence and rejection as his only replies.

Don't you see the point by now, dear friend? There is no Hell. No retribution. No karma and no comeuppance inherent to the universe. We are each responsible for producing our own, so that those who would make others suffer will in turn suffer themselves. Allow me to illuminate the pathway to vengeance so that you, too, may be fulfilled.