Beatles Horror Stories

Things in the Dark

I don't have much time to write this down.

I can hear him banging against the basement door, and I know that it's going to break down at any moment.

My name is James Paul McCartney, and I fear that I'm the last Beatle alive now.

This whole thing started about a week ago.

At first, people just started disappearing here and there, with no trace or warning. John George, and Ringo were fine, until the night came were they all came back.

Even the image of those things makes me feel sick, and knowing that I'm about to become one myself makes me feel like my mind's about to cave in onto itself so that I become just as crazy as them.

For all I know, I could have already gone insane.

I don't know. 

Those tings have no mouths, no facial features, nothing but black.

They're able to talk though. They talk in the voices of the person they took, and they can change into a demonic one in an instant.

I remember people running around the streets, either trying to get away from them or find something to attack them with.

Bullets can't hurt them.

Ringo had to learn that the hard way. I'll never forget his scream as the black figure dig its hand through his chest.

John and I ran while George stayed behind, behind cornered by the thing that Ringo had become.

John and I have been taking refuge in this house for about four days now, and they got him this morning.

He knows that I'm here, and now, there's nothing I can do.

We had no idea that it had broken through the window until it burst into the bedroom. I was able to make my way downstairs, and knowing that many more of those things were outside, I decided to lock myself in the basement.

I can hear John's voice calling for me now, and it's switching to that demonic voice.

The door's almost off its hinges. I'm about to die.

I don't even know why I'm writing this down.

A warning?

Maybe. I don't know.

The door just ca