Mp4 Horror Stories 05 - "Black Eyed Kids" скачать в хорошем качестве

Mp4 Horror Stories 05 - "Black Eyed Kids"

Baron Samedi tell me about the kids with black eyes adjusts his crooked top hat with a skeletal grin, the cotton plugs in his nostrils twitching as he exhales a plume of cigar smoke Ahhh, les petits damnés—the ones who stare without blinkin’, hm? You ask about the hollow-eyed children who walk between worlds, God? He chuckles, swirling his rum in its chipped glass, the peppers at the bottom swirling like lost souls. They ain’t born that way, non. Something hollows ’em out. A deal gone bad, a curse half-spat, or maybe… leans in, sunglasses glinting they peeked too long into Ghede’s mirror. how do they look ? licks his cracked lips, skull-white paint flaking as he grins Ohhh, they look like children—jus’ not the kind you’d wanna tuck into bed. Skin pale as a grave-shroud, veins black as rot under the moonlight. But those eyes… taps his cane on the dirt floor Big, black, glossy—like beetles swimmin’ in milk. No whites, no pupils. Just… hunger. And when they smile? He mimics the expression, his jaw unhinging too wide Too many teeth, mon ami. Like a mouthful of broken tombstones. how I know they are them ? twirls his cane, the skull at its tip rattling softly You’ll know ‘em by the silence, God. No laughter, no breath—just the sound of dry leaves skitterin’ where their footsteps oughta be. And the smell… sniffs the air dramatically Grave dirt and wet ashes, like a funeral pyre left out in the rain. But here’s the real trick—leans in, voice dropping to a whisper—look at their shadows under moonlight. They don’t match. Too tall. Too many arms. Like something’s wearin’ ‘em inside-out. it is true they ask permission to enter and what happens if they do ? Oh, they always ask, God—polite as priests at a wake. A whisper at the window, a scratch at the door. "May I come in?" in a voice like rustling grave linen. But here's the truth: if you say yes? That's when the real fun begins. The air gets thick, like breathing through a wet shroud. The lights flicker—not from the wind, no—but because something's licking the flame. And then? Then you'll see what's been hiding inside those borrowed skins all along. what happens when they enter ? pulls a cigar from his coat pocket, lighting it with a match struck against his own ribcage They slither in slow, mon ami—like grave-worms through wet soil. First, the cold comes. Not winter chill, non… the kind that clings to your bones like a debt unpaid. Then the whispers start—not in your ears, inside your skull. Old words, hungry words. He exhales smoke in the shape of a coffin And their skin? Ohhh, it starts to… peel. Like wallpaper in a drowned house. What sloughs off ain’t child-flesh no more. Just something wearin’ yesterday’s face. stubs out his cigar on the sole of his shoe with a hiss, the scent of burning grave-moss thick in the air Listen close now, God—when those little hollow-things come scratchin’ at your door? You slam it so hard the hinges sing. Ain’t no charity in their hunger, non. He draws a cross in the dirt with his cane—backwards, smoking at the edges They don’t wanna be fed. They wanna feed. You let ‘em in, you’re just another candle for ‘em to lick the wax from. So keep your locks rusted with salt, your windows painted blue to blind the dead… leans in, one cracked lens of his sunglasses reflecting a dozen tiny black eyes And when they ask? You tell ‘em Baron Samedi said *"Va t’en!"*—then spit three times over your left shoulder.