This Is The Gruesome Story Of What Happened To The Creepy Cult Who Insisted I Was Their ‘Savior’


I reclined in my chair, enjoying the hot sun on my face. The waves before me crashed with rhythmic purpose and I felt myself growing sleepy. Seagulls cawed overhead. The air smelled of salt and sun tan lotion. Things were good.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes in the afternoon heat, and dug my toes into the sand. I watched as a father helped his little boy build a sand castle. I smiled. What a good dad. I took my sunglasses off my head and slid them onto my face, standing and stretching. I loved the beach. It was impossible to be worried about anything here.

I had come here for the weekend, my little ocean front cottage standing timidly behind me. I had purchased it a year ago, my recent business ventures allowing me some of life’s finer luxuries. If only I had someone to share it with. Perhaps later in the evening I’d chance a trip to the local bars and see if I could round up some company. Not that a minded the isolation. After all, it was hard to feel lonely when surrounded by such beauty.

I rubbed the back of my neck. My fingers came away coated in sweat. It was time for a dip. I tossed my sunglasses onto my beach chair and slowly walked towards the water’s edge. Frothing residue lapped at my feet, followed by the dying reach of a small wave. I sighed. It felt amazing.

Smiling, I charged the rolling mass of sparkling ocean. As the water splashed around my waist, I took a deep breath and dove under. I came up gasping, wiping my eyes, skin glistening in the sunlight. I waved to a group of girls who were body surfing to my left and dove under again. Let them watch.


Elias Witherow

Elias is a prolific author of horror fiction. His books include The Third Parent, The Black Farm, Return to the Black Farm,and The Worst Kind of Monsters.

“Growing up reading the works of King, admiring the art of Geiger, and knowing fiends like Pinhead left me as a pretty jaded horror fan today. It takes a lot to get the breath to hitch in my throat and the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.. My fiance is quite similar, so when he eagerly begged me to let him read me a short story about The Black Farm by Elias Witherow, I knew it had to be good... And I was not dissapointed. Elias has a way of painting a picture that you can feel with all your senses and plays the tunes of terror created when our world meets one much more dark and forces you to keep turning the pages hungry for more.” —C. Houser

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