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
The Guitar Man
Ever encountered someone who seemed too talented to be human? That unsettling feeling sits at the heart of "The Guitar Man," a chilling tale that explores the supernatural power of music and the price we pay for beauty.
When a mysterious stranger arrives in Black Hollow—a forgotten Appalachian town of just 839 souls—he brings with him a guitar that produces sounds unlike anything the locals have ever heard. His music fills the dilapidated Bent Penny bar with raw, haunting melodies that make you "feel things you thought you'd forgotten and forget things you didn't want to remember." Night after night, crowds grow, people travel miles to listen, and for a brief moment, this dying town experiences something like revival.
But something isn't right about the guitar man. His eyes occasionally flash yellow, his smile reveals teeth too perfect, and people who listen too closely begin to disappear. Tommy Hargrove is the first to glimpse the musician's true nature, but by then it's too late—the spell has been cast. One by one, the townsfolk vanish, leaving empty streets, abandoned vehicles, and the hollow shell of what was once a community. When the guitarist finally leaves, he takes with him "a town full of fresh souls for his boss," moving on to find another place to play his deadly songs.
Have you ever been completely captivated by a performance that seemed almost supernatural in its power? Share your experience with music that moved you beyond words—hopefully with less sinister results than the residents of Black Hollow.
Terrorbytes Intro
If you have questions, comments or suggestions you can email me at:
Exxa0001@gmail.com and I will get back to you.
The Guitar man, the town of Black Hollow population 839, had seen better days. Nestled in the shadow of the Appalachians, it was the kind of place where time seemed to stand still, where the air was thick, with the scent of pine and the weight of forgotten dreams, and the weight of forgotten dreams. The streets were empty, the storefronts boarded up and the only sign of life was the flickering neon sign above the bent penny, a dive bar that had somehow managed to outlast the town's slow decay. It was there, on a cold October night, that the guitar man came to town. No one knew his real name. He just appeared one evening, a lean figure in a battered leather jacket, his face hidden beneath the brim of a worn-out hat. He carried a guitar case scuffed with age, its surface covered in stickers from places no one in Black Hollow had ever heard of. He didn't talk much, just nodded to the bartender and set up in the corner of the room, his fingers dancing over the strings as if they had a life of their own. And when he played, the whole town stopped to listen. His music was like nothing they'd ever heard before. It was raw and haunting, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the earth. It made you feel things Joy, sorrow, longing, regret. It made you remember things you thought you'd forgotten and it made you forget things you didn't want to remember, night after night. He'd treat them right, and the crowd at the Bent Penny grew every night, spilling out into the street as word spread about the guitar man. People came from miles around, drawn by the promise of something they couldn't quite name. They sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the man in the corner. A makeshift speaker system was set up outside and the people sat quietly and listened, as if he held the answers to questions they didn't know how to ask. He could make them love, he could get them high. He could bring them down. Then he'll make them cry.
Exxa:But there was something strange about the guitar man, something that didn't sit right. His music was beautiful, but it had an edge to it, a darkness that lingered long after the last note had faded. They would listen to the music and would like to sing along. They want to get the meaning out of each and every song. Then they find themselves a message and some words to call their own and take them home.
Exxa:And then the stories began. Something keeps him moving, but no one seems to know what it is that makes him go. What it is that makes him go? Whispers that followed him from town to town, tales of bad luck and broken promises of people who'd crossed his path and never been the same. Tommy Hargrove was the first to notice it. He was a regular at the Bent Penny, a man with a face like a crumpled paper bag and a heart full of regrets. He'd been coming every night since the guitar man arrived, sitting in the same spot at the bar, nursing the same cheap beer. But tonight something was different. As the music filled the room, tommy felt a chill run down his spine. The notes seemed to twist and writhe, wrapping themselves around him like a snake. He tried to look away, but his eyes were drawn to the guitar man's hands, to the way they moved over the strings with an almost unnatural precision. And then he saw it For a split second. The guitar man's face changed. His eyes glowed yellow like a demon. His smile had a sinister look to it, revealing teeth that looked too white. Tommy blinked and the image was gone, replaced by the same tired face he'd seen every night. But the feeling remained, a cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. He didn't stay for the encore.
Exxa:The next morning tommy was gone. His truck was still parked outside his trailer, the keys in the ignition, but there was no sign of him. His neighbors said they'd heard music in the night, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The guitar man kept playing, night after night, his music, drawing people in like moths to a flame. But the crowd was thinner now and the faces that remained were pale and drawn, their eyes hollow, with something that looked like hunger.
Exxa:By the end of the week the bent penny was empty. The bartender had vanished, along with most of the regulars. The only ones left were a handful of diehards, their faces gaunt, their hands trembling as they clutched their drinks. They didn't talk much, just sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the guitar man as if he were the only thing keeping them alive. And then, one by one, they disappeared too. Then, just like that, the guitar man left town the same way. He'd arrived quietly, without a word. He packed up his guitar and walked out into the night along with a town full of fresh souls for his boss, his footsteps echoing on the empty street behind him. The bent penny stood dark and silent. Then lights begin to flicker and the sound was getting dim. But he never seems to notice. He's just got to find another place to play and fade away. Got to play.
