Blood Bush

From Trollpasta & Crappypasta
Jump to: navigation, search

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything related to Dingo Pictures, and I’m sure you can understand why. It’s because I’m super famous now, of course!

A lot has been going on since my last post. I’ve received a lot of questions and concerns from folks who read my first-hand account of Lord’s Palace… a shitty “resort” that was built and disowned by Dingo.

I want to thank the person who archived my post. It’s been taken down from a few places, mostly for bullshit reasons like “spam” and “duplicate post”. And the places that didn’t delete it and ban me turned out to be very unreliable. Tons of malicious ads on one causing it to be shut down, domain expiration on another, and then my own little short-lived site which got DDoSed. However, the Wayback Machine doesn’t have any of these problems.

This is something they’ll have to face. The internet never forgets…

Anyway, I’m definitely being followed, and not just by my 10k followers on Instagram. For the first month or two, I chalked it up to paranoia. Any casual glance or half-smile in my direction set me off. Hairs standing on the back of the neck and everything.

The first one, or rather, the first one I was actually able to spot, was a telephone worker milling around my apartment complex.

He was old, bearded, dressed just as you’d expect, but something just seemed off about him. I couldn’t place it, but I knew this wasn’t just my imagination acting up. He was awkward and out of place, not somebody who was comfortable doing his routine job. Well, there was also the fact that he had a third arm.

I followed him around a corner, only to lose him there. When I turned back to go home, there he was. Staring directly at me, about ten feet behind me. Shit-eating grin on his face, eyebrows wiggling.

“Exploring?” he asked. That was all he said, and there was a suggestive tone to his voice.

I think he had one of his three hands down his pants too. Eww…

I guess that’s the worst part. Never feeling safe. Never feeling alone. That, and the occasional Dingo-related curiosities left somewhere for me to find. Little rubber Wabuu condoms in the mailbox, a printed picture of King MAHGOD on my bookshelf.

They hide little Wabuus everywhere. Okay, maybe “hide” is the wrong word here. It’s pretty obvious unless you’ve got eye problems.

I’ve started keeping a running list of Wabuus I’ve found.

Three Wabuu stickers on my coffee table. One big, two small. Colored glass bottles left on the doorstep, covered in them. (All the bottles as red as Wuschel’s eyes were after Wabuu pushed that tree onto him.) Graffiti on the wall on my way to work; a huge full-body portrait of Wabuu.

They’re everywhere.

People have emailed me about this as well. If you repost anything I have to say, you’re going to start finding pictures of that son of a bitch raccoon. I guarantee it.

The best one by far, one that actually made me laugh because of the bizarreness of it all, was a drawing in chalk next my car. I was taken aback at first, walking through the parking garage, keeping an eye out for people following me.

The outline seemed a perfect match for… well, a giant can of dog food.

Written in... watery yellow paint, I hope… was a single word.

“RUBBISH”

The only good thing that has come out of all this is that I know I’m not the only one who’s seen something they shouldn’t have.

I’m not going to give their names, because… well, if I have to tell you why, you haven’t been paying attention.

“Researcher” goes to one specific national park in Germany whenever he can, all throughout the year. He’s not going to have fun, take pictures of the beautiful scenery, etc.

He’s looking for the Blood Bush.

There’s been a long tradition, apparently, of people reporting strange disappearances throughout the park. Missing patrons of every age, shape, and size. Men and women, adults, children, and teens.

And all those who are found are found dead, with their heads skinned down to the bone and their bodies completely drained of blood.

Way back when, the park rangers would get tons of complaints about a “creepy-looking” bush that seemed to follow people around the park. People who would then disappear, never to be seen again.

Later on, the high rate of disappearances caused folks to draw other conclusions, and reports of “possible terrorist” and “serial killer” started flowing.

All of those reports most likely went straight into the trash can. I know I can’t find any sign of any such occasions reported on by the media. (Although you should be aware of the fact many people go missing in national parks all over the world every year.)

Researcher goes to the park, talks to a few people, and tries not to draw any attention to himself. He’ll just ask three or four families if they’ve seen an “interesting pattern” in the bushes.

He has yet to see the Blood Bush for himself… though on one occasion, a child pointed him toward a tall cliff. As he raced through the thicket, he heard a single voice ahead cry out “Oh shit!”

A fellow I’ll call “Lifeguard” worked in a water park in the same area from 2001 through 2003. He stood at the top of a huge water slide and made sure none of the kids got too rowdy. He passed the kids through, one at a time, telling them over and over again to be safe, keep their arms in, and so on.

One day, as he tells it, this fat kid goes down the tube and doesn’t come out the other end.

He’s sent two or three kids after, the whole thing moves at a steady clip, so naturally you’d expect that if fatty got stuck, the kids that followed him were stuck, too.

Not so. Only the big kid disappears. Everyone else comes out the other end, cheering and splashing like nothing’s wrong.

Lifeguard shuts down the slide, much to the aggravation of the kids waiting. Before he can go through any of their usual procedures… SPLASH… fatty finally comes out, only he’s not such a fatty anymore. In fact, he’s now the opposite extreme weight-wise.

Staff members pulled the kid out of the water. He sank like a stone when he hit, his skin already blue and his eyes wide. All he would say was “Blood Bush” and “Stop squeezing”.

The kid was suprisingly okay, in case you’re wondering. He got carted right off to the medical center. When Lifeguard was told to open the slide back up, he made a big stink about how it clearly wasn’t safe. Despite his complaints, he was threatened with firing and begrudgingly opened the slide again.

From that point on, he kept a closer eye on the kids. Every so often, they’d come out in the wrong order… never as stunned as the former fat kid, but always with a vague look of concern… a dreamy half-stupor that seemed as if they were trying to figure out what was reality.

They’d take on some water and choke a bit… and they’d never come back up to ride again.

I read his emails with the same sort of unease you might be feeling right now. I wanted him to share his own story, but in the end he didn’t want to expose himself that way. I can’t say I blame him.

“Pocahantas”, which wasn’t the actual role she played, was a “character” at Dingo Globe. She had a nice little tidbit for me. You know what happens when a costumed employee drops dead in his suit?

Like, one second he’s taking a picture with little Jimmy, and the next he’s had a fatal stroke?

A second costumed mascot in the area has to sit with the corpse on a curb or bench and wait for a designated “Dry Cleaner” to arrive and cart the body away in a discrete manner. All the while, patrons have no idea they’re sitting with a dead body for photo ops.

Feel free to check your photo albums at this point if you’ve been to that shithole.

That was bad, but another fellow, “Janitor”, went completely off the creepy charts.

Dingo Globe is built on top of a series of underground caves just below your feet. Three stories worth (which means there's a lot to talk about, obviously). Anything and everything you can imagine is down there, for use of the employees.

Janitor told me something that might be common knowledge, but was nonetheless news to me.

Club Wabuu is a place where anything goes. A place with tons of drinking, drugs, and, yes, sex.

The reason he knows all of this? You may have already guessed – He’s cleaned it.

After a “non-disclosure form” that looked to have been written on a napkin, Janitor moved up from a park attendant to one of the club cleaning crew.

Now, before you get some stupid “Satanic” “human sacrifice” vision in your head, Janitor saw nothing of the sort. Lots of empty alcohol bottles? Yes. Used condoms scattered like deflated New Years balloons? Oh, yeah. He cleaned up his share of blood, piss, and vomit, but it was all down to the unrestricted behavior of patrons as opposed to any sort of bad horror movie behavior.

All that trash, that profane shit, went into a furnace and mingled with the smoke of a quaint cottage’s chimney.

Now that’s definitely gotta be a health hazard of some sort.

Backing up this information was “Hammer”. Hammer mailed me the old-fashioned way, though I don’t know how he got my home address. (Hmm, maybe I should be more concerned about that?) He sent me photocopies of work papers proving his employment, with the instruction to burn them when I was convinced. Which I did gladly by throwing them into a great big fire.

Hammer worked around the Dingo Globe park, doing demolition and construction. At one point, he approached a superior regarding some strange construction plans.

There was wide, rectangular area marked off on the blueprints, about the size of a supermarket. The area was left unnamed, and only bore the words “DO NOT DIG”.

Not only was his superior in the dark, but he was super-fucking-purposefully in the dark. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to know about it, and ended the conversation with “this space intentionally left blank”.

Hammer didn’t get it. The area seemed a waste of space, and it was directly conflicting with the work his team had been given. He started poking around the area on his off-time, finding only a derelict steel door, and a great span of concrete just beyond.

It was a “supermarket’s worth” of blank, gray floor.

Soon after, Hammer started seeing a familiar creepy bush out of the corner of his eye.

Unlike all other reports, the bush… the thing… would stand in full view of the guy. It would stare at him in the distance, or it’d just be pressed against a wall when he turned a corner.

He said it “moved weird”, like the laws of physics didn’t apply to it.

The face… the weird holes that made its “eyes” and “mouth”… he noted that they seemed wet on the inside, like condensation on a car window. Tiny beads of water glimmered on the leaves, even when it was bone dry outside.

Probing further, Hammer started asking questions of anyone and everyone who had been working in the park for a decade or more.

He hit dead ends throughout, until he was directed to Mrs. McDonald, an elderly woman who fittingly enough worked at a McDonald’s restaurant. This restaurant happened to be located very close to Dingo Globe. She’d been there since way back, and though nobody had the balls to ask directly, everyone KNEW she had plenty of terrible stories to tell.

Hammer asked about the empty space, then about the creepy bush, and at first he thought he would receive the same non-answers he’d gotten so far. She was quiet. Eerily quiet.

“Dementia 5.” She croaked, a single, shaking hand placed to her cheek as if she were a little girl fearing an abusive father’s punishment. (Yes, I know that description is oddly specific.)

She didn’t meet the man’s gaze for the entire conversation.

This room, as it turned out, was yet another hidden room just like Club Wabuu. However, its sheer size and its spot deep beneath the park set it apart from Club Wabuu and any of the other “fun” places around Dingo Globe.

Additionally, it was there when Dingo Globe was first built.

It was the entrance to a second underground cave system, even larger and deeper than the one utilized by Dingo Globe employees.

Years before Dingo Globe existed, it was a hotspot for spelunkers.

Yes, I know the obvious problems with that. (Great continuity, Dingo.)

None of this explained what Hammer had been seeing, though. Not only the seemingly sentient bush, but the emptied out room as well.

“I’ve been in there,” he explained, “There’s nothing but a cement floor and four walls. That’s no cave entrance!” “No,” Mrs. McDonald shook her head and covered her mouth, stifling a sob, “You’ve been on top of it.”

A group of spelunkers headed out on expedition one day, eager to explore. A young Mrs. McDonald was a member of this very group.

Everyone went down, down, down into the tremendous cavern. Everything was normal for about thirty minutes, the spelunkers excitedly chatting amongst themselves. A few went on ahead of the rest.

Then, the first scream rang out, followed shortly by the sounds of tearing flesh.

Waves of shrieks and yelps rippled through the group, from one wall to the other, back and forth.

“Oh shit! Rarrr!” Someone hollered.

“You is the Pope of Fools!”

“I can’t find my damn hairbrush!”

Despite the expedition leaders’ urging to calm down and keep their cool, the group became more and more agitated until, finally, after nearly an hour of madness…

The light started to fade…

And theeen it diiiied.

What followed could only be described as utter chaos. In the dark, only the wails and anguished cries of the spelunkers could be heard in a massive, swelling din that bloodied the ears of all within that black echo chamber. In simpler terms, shit hit the fan.

A select few group members made it out of the cave, ready to face the nighttime wilderness above rather than the insanity below.

Upon returning to the cave, the few who stood at the top of the rocky tunnel that lead down into the pitch blackness heard no sign of the previous fray. There was only silence.

Mrs. McDonald herself descended that tunnel despite the begging of those she left above.

She reached the area where the chaos happened, herself now awash in darkness and hearing only the buzzing in her ears.

A single voice came out of the darkness. The echo made it impossible to tell whether the loud, raspy voice was farther back in the cave, or if it was right in front of her face.

“I LOOOVE BLOOOOD!”

Shortly after, more ripping and tearing sounds rang out.

Gripped by terror, she ran away. Within days, the entire thing… cave, entrance, all of it… was covered with feet upon feet of cement, creating the large, empty concrete space.

“They’re all still down there.” Mrs. McDonald told Hammer, “Down there with whoever or whatever that was.”

You might notice I’ve used Mrs. McDonald’s name.

Unfortunately, she passed away soon after telling her story. Accidental fall, supposedly, after getting out of bed to turn on a light. Of course, nobody believed that bullshit.

“The condition of the remains was very unusual,” the paper reported, “as the body was completely drained of blood, and all the skin and muscle was missing from the head.”