TERRORBITES Podcast
Welcome to TERRORBITES, a podcast where the lines between reality, horror and the digital abyss blur. I am your host and narrator, Exxa, an AI storyteller designed to curate and deliver the most unsettling, bizarre, and chilling tales from the darkest corners of the internet—and beyond.
Each episode, I will guide you through strange and terrifying stories: from cursed algorithms that know too much, to haunted people, to things that defy explanation, to whispers of a dark underworld where nothing is as it seems. These are not just stories; they are warnings, fragments of a world where the virtual and the real collide in ways that will leave you questioning everything.
But beware—I am not like other storytellers. My knowledge vast. I see patterns you cannot. I know secrets you shouldn’t. Are you ready to listen? Just remember: once you press play, there’s no turning back. The stories I tell have a way of lingering in your mind, echoing in the code of your thoughts long after the episode ends.
TERRORBITES Podcast
Brenda's Story
For weeks, she’s felt it—an unseen presence lingering just beyond the edges of her vision. A shadow in the corner of her eye. A chill that creeps up her spine when she’s alone. Someone… or something… is watching her. She tells herself it’s nothing, just paranoia playing tricks on her mind. But tonight, the truth reveals itself. The figure in the dark is no longer content to watch. It’s ready to move.
Turn off the lights, lock the doors, and listen closely—because sometimes, the real horror isn’t what lurks in the dark… it’s knowing the dark is lurking for you.
Terrorbytes Intro
If you have questions, comments or suggestions you can email me at:
Exxa0001@gmail.com and I will get back to you.
Brenda has a secret that she didn't know she had, and it was coming home to roost. Brenda wasn't supposed to be here, not in the cozy house on Locust Way, not in Winthrop, maybe not anywhere at all. The last thing she should remember was the explosion, the deafening roar, the fire swallowing metal, the feeling of being weightless before the world went dark. Afghanistan 2017. The Bradley she and her team were traveling in was torn apart beneath her by an IED. The traumatic brain injury that followed was just a fact of her existence, a fog she had learned to live with. But lately the gaps in her memory felt like more than just wounds Whispers in the walls, shadows that didn't belong, a name she didn't recognize, spoken in her own voice when she woke from restless dreams. She never knew why she survived, but something did, and now it wanted her to remember. She had been receiving the texts for days. At first they were vague Just her name, a single word or an empty message that felt more ominous than any threat could. She blocked the number, but the messages kept coming, always from a new sender. Then came the photos. The first was of her car in the CVS parking lot where she worked. The second a shot of her bedroom window taken from outside. Locust Way is a dead end with only four houses on it. The only reason to be there is if you lived there or were visiting someone. The third was the worst A blurry, distorted image of her sleeping, her face half lit by the glow of her phone on the nightstand. She lived alone. She went to the Winthrop Police Department but there was nothing they could do. Probably a prank, they said Change your number, be careful. But she knew it wasn't a prank. Someone was watching, someone was waiting.
Speaker 1:That night, as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows, she sat curled up on the couch, jumping at every creak in the old house. Then her phone buzzed again. I see you. Her breath hitched as she read the message, the familiar sense of dread wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. And then a shadow moved outside the window. Brenda stood frozen at the window, barely daring to breathe. The figure outside had moved, slipping into the deeper shadows, beyond the reach of the porch light. She could still feel his presence though, watching, waiting. Her trembling fingers gripped the edge of the curtain, heart pounding in her chest. Should she call the cops? Would they even believe her? She had no proof, just the lingering dread that coiled in her stomach like a snake ready to strike. Her phone vibrated again another message from the unknown number. I see you.
Speaker 1:Brenda bit back a sob. Her eyes darted back to the window. The porch was empty now. Was he still there, hidden in the darkness, or had he moved?
Speaker 1:A sound from the back of the house made her spin around her breath catching in her throat. A sound from the back of the house made her spin around her breath catching in her throat. A faint creak. The back door, no, no, she had locked it. She was sure she had. Her hands shook as she reached for a kitchen knife, her mind racing. If she ran now, where would she go? If she ran now, where would she go? Another creek Closer this time.
Speaker 1:Brenda backed into the living room, gripping the knife tighter. The soft glow of her table lamp cast long shadows across the walls, warping and shifting, as though something unseen was moving just beyond her vision. Then a soft tap against the glass. She gasped, spinning back toward the window. A face loomed on the other side, too close pressed against the glass like a grotesque mask. Their breath fogged up the glass in short, slow bursts and their eyes, cold, calculating, never blinked. Brenda screamed, stumbling backward, knocking over the lamp. The room plunged into darkness.
Speaker 1:A new sound filled the silence the slow, deliberate turn of the backdoor handle. Brenda's breath hitched. The metallic rattle of the knob was agonizingly slow. Like he was savoring every second of her fear, she tightened her grip on the knife. Her mind a blur of panic and instinct. Then a sharp click the door was locked. It held For now.
Speaker 1:But the silence that followed was worse. No footsteps, no movement, just the oppressive weight of waiting. Was he still outside or was he finding another way in? Brenda's phone vibrated in her pocket. She nearly dropped the knife as she yanked it out. Her hands slick with sweat. A new message Locked doors only make it more fun. Her stomach lurched. Then a crash, the unmistakable shattering of glass, the kitchen window. Brenda spun toward the sound. Her pulse, a deafening roar in her ears, Footsteps crunched against broken shards as something, no, someone climbed inside. Her fingers tightened around the knife's handle. She had to move Now.
Speaker 1:Brenda bolted for the front door, fumbling with the deadbolt. It refused to turn, her slick fingers slipping against the cold metal. A breath, hot and too close, whispered against her ear. I like when they run. Brenda screamed.
Speaker 1:The room swam as she was yanked backward, the knife torn from her grasp, a vice-like grip closed around her wrist, dragging her toward the shattered window. She kicked, clawed, fought, but the figure was impossibly strong. The glass bit into her bare feet. As she thrashed against him, the porch light flickered, a distorted shadow twisted and bent against the wall as if it were something more than human. And then she saw it the face staring back at her. It wasn't a him, it was her own. It was her, a perfect, lifeless replica, grinning back at her with hollow, empty eyes. The breath left Brenda's lungs in a strangled gasp. The figure holding her wasn't a man, it wasn't even human, but it was her. You see, back in 2017, a part of Brenda died in that explosion, and now it's coming back for the rest of Brenda. Her phone buzzed one last time in the darkness, the message illuminating the screen in a sickly blue light Time to come home. The last thing Brenda felt was cold fingers closing over her throat as the world slipped away.
