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 Lifer
Nestled beyond the boundaries of our known world sits Blackmoor Penitentiary—a nightmarish prison where the walls pulse with malevolent life and the sky hangs perpetually like a bruised wound. Here, under the watchful gaze of an inhuman warden known only as "the Keeper," society's most dangerous criminals fight nightly for their survival.
Our narrator, self-named "the Lifer," has endured this hell for over seven years. Unlike his fellow inmates—monsters whose names once dominated headlines and true crime podcasts—he's just a regular person who made one catastrophic mistake. Now he battles alongside notorious killers like the Butcher (a hulking brute covered in trophies from countless kills), the Widow (a graceful assassin who's dispatched seven husbands), and the Surgeon (a calculating strategist who turns anything into a weapon).
Each night brings the same grim ritual: prisoners thrown into "the pit," a circular arena slick with blood and lined with bone spikes. The Keeper watches from his throne of bones, ember eyes glowing with anticipation as inmates tear each other apart. We follow the Lifer through a particularly brutal fight as he dispatches three opponents in succession, earning another day of life but feeling increasingly hollow about his victories. When a terrified young prisoner arrives the next day, our narrator confronts the devastating truth: there is no escape from Blackmoor, only the endless cycle of violence that transforms even ordinary people into monsters to survive.
Ready to descend into a world where supernatural horror meets prison survival? Join us for this bone-chilling exploration of what happens when humanity faces the ultimate test in a place where even hell doesn't want its inmates. Listen now and ask yourself—what would you do to survive just one more day in Blackmoor?
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 first thing you notice about Blackmoor Penitentiary is the smell. It's not the stench of sweat, blood or decay though those are there lingering like old friends. No, it's the smell of wrongness. It clings to the air thick and oily, like the breath of something that shouldn't exist. The kind of smell that makes your skin crawl and your stomach churn, even if you've been here for years, even if you've forgotten what fresh air tastes like.
The Lifer:This place is off the grid. Sometimes I think it's off the planet. I've been here for seven years, four months and sixteen days. Not that time means much in a place like this. The sun doesn't rise or set. In Blackmoor, the sky is always a bruised, purplish black, like a wound that never heals. The walls are made of jagged black stone that seems to pulse faintly, as if the prison itself is alive and maybe it is, I don't know. All I know is that I'm here and I'm not getting out. None of us are.
The Lifer:The warden makes sure of that. They call him the Keeper. He's not human. I don't know what he is, but he's not human. He's tall, too tall, with skin the color of ash and eyes that burn like embers. His voice is a low, guttural growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. When he speaks, the air grows heavy and you can feel the weight of his words pressing down on your chest, squeezing the breath from your lungs.
The Lifer:The Keeper doesn't run Blackmoor like a normal prison. There are no guards, no cells, no rules, not really. The only rule is survival. Every night, the prisoners are thrown into the pit, a massive circular arena carved into the heart of the prison. The floor is slick with blood and the walls are lined with jagged spikes, stained brown with age. The keeper watches from above, perched on a throne of bones, his ember eyes glowing in the darkness. The pit is where we fight, not for freedom, not for glory, but for the chance to live another day. The keeper doesn't care who wins or loses. He only cares about the blood he feeds on it. I think, or maybe he just enjoys watching us tear each other apart. Either way, the pit is where we prove our worth. And if you're not strong enough, if you're not fast enough, if you're not ruthless enough, well let's just say the keeper doesn't tolerate weakness. The other prisoners, they're not like me, they're not like anyone. They're monsters, the worst of the worst, the kind of people whose names make headlines, the kind of people you read about in true crime books and shudder at the thought of. They're here because the world couldn't contain them, because even hell didn't want them.
The Lifer:There's the butcher, a hulking brute with a face like a smashed pumpkin and hands the size of dinner plates. His arms are corded with muscle and his chest is a canvas of scars and crude tattoos, trophies from countless kills. He's killed more people than I can count and he likes to remind everyone of it. His voice is a gravelly roar and his laughter is the sound of bones breaking sound of bones breaking. He's not just strong, he's relentless. Once he has his sights set on you, he doesn't stop until you're a bloody smear on the floor.
The Lifer:Then there's the widow, a slender woman with cold dead eyes and a smile that could freeze blood. Her hair is a cascade of black silk and her movements are fluid, almost hypnotic. She's killed her husbands all seven of them and anyone else who got in her way. She fights with a dancer's grace, her strikes precise and deadly. She doesn't just want to kill you, she wants to make it hurt. Her favorite weapon is a pair of razor-sharp daggers. She keeps hidden in her sleeves their blades etched with serpentine patterns.
The Lifer:And then there's the surgeon, a thin, wiry man with a face like a rat and a mind like a razor. His eyes are small and calculating, always darting, always scheming. He's not the strongest, but he's the smartest, and that makes him dangerous. He fights dirty, using the environment to his advantage, and he's always armed with makeshift weapons shards of glass, broken bones, anything he can get his hands on. He's a survivor and he'll do whatever it takes to come out on top.
The Lifer:But they're not the only ones. Blackmoor is a melting pot of nightmares, and new faces are always being thrown into the mix. There's the prophet, a gaunt, wild-eyed man who claims to hear the whispers of the keeper. He's unpredictable, his movements erratic, his attacks fueled by a manic energy. He fights with a jagged piece of metal. He calls the voice of God and his strikes are as wild as his eyes. And then there's the ghost, a silent, shadowy figure who moves like a Wraith. No one knows his real name and no one has ever heard him speak. He's a master of stealth, appearing and disappearing at will. His weapon of choice is a length of chain which he wields with deadly precision, wrapping it around his enemies' throats or limbs before they even know he's there.
The Lifer:And then there's me, the lifer, that's what they call me. I'm not famous like the others. I didn't make headlines or inspire horror movies. I'm just a guy who made a mistake, a big one, and ended up here. I don't belong in a place like this. But the keeper doesn't care about that. In his eyes, we're all the same. We're all meat for the grinder.
The Lifer:Tonight the pit is especially crowded. The air is thick, with the stench of sweat and fear, and the sound of growling, snarling voices echoes off the walls. The keeper is in his throne, his ember eyes glowing brighter than usual. He's excited I can feel it in the air, like static before a storm. The butcher is the first to step into the pit. He's shirtless, his massive chest covered in scars and tattoos. He grins, showing a mouthful of broken teeth, and cracks his knuckles. The widow follows her movements, smooth and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. The surgeon is last, his thin frame hunched over his eyes, darting around like a cornered animal. And then there's me. I don't want to fight. I never do, but I don't have a choice. The keeper's voice booms through the arena, low and guttural, like the growl of some ancient beast Begin.
The Lifer:The butcher charges at me first, his massive fists swinging like sledgehammers. I duck just in time, feeling the rush of air as his fist misses my head by inches. I swing back, my fist connecting with his ribs, but it's like hitting a brick wall. He laughs a deep, rumbling sound and grabs me by the throat, lifting me off the ground. I can't breathe, my vision starts to blur and I can feel the edges of darkness creeping in. But then I remember what the surgeon told me once In the pit it's not about strength, it's about survival. Do whatever it takes. I reach up, digging my fingers into the butcher's eyes. He roars in pain, dropping me to the ground. I don't hesitate. I grab a shard of bone from the floor, leftover from some previous fight, and drive it into his throat. Blood sprays everywhere, hot and sticky, and the butcher collapses to the ground, his massive body twitching as the life drains out of him.
The Lifer:The widow is on me before I can catch my breath. Her movements are fast and precise, her fists and feet striking like vipers. I manage to block most of her attacks, but she's too quick. She lands a kick to my ribs and I feel something crack. I stumble back, pain shooting through my side, but I don't fall. I can't fall. The surgeon is watching from the sidelines, his rat-like eyes darting between me and the widow. He's waiting for one of us to weaken, waiting for his chance to strike. I can't let that happen. I faint left, then swing right, catching the widow off guard. My fist connects with her jaw and she stumbles back, her cold eyes flashing with surprise. I don't give her a chance to recover. I grab her by the hair and slam her head into the wall. Once, twice, three times. She goes limp and I let her body slump to the ground.
The Lifer:The surgeon is next. He's not as strong as the others but he's cunning. He circles me, his eyes darting around, looking for an opening. I don't give him one. I charge at him, tackling him to the ground. He struggles, his thin arms flailing. But I'm stronger. I grab his head and slam it into the floor over and over until he stops moving.
The Lifer:The keeper's laughter echoes through the arena, low and guttural, like the growl of some ancient beast. I look up blood dripping from my hands and meet his ember eyes. He's smiling, a twisted, grotesque smile that sends a shiver down my spine. Well done, lifer. He growls, you've earned another day. I don't feel proud. I don't feel anything proud. I don't feel anything. I just feel tired, tired of the blood, tired of the pain, tired of the endless cycle of violence. But I know it's not over. It's never over, not in Blackmoor, not as long as the Keeper is watching, and he's always watching, is watching and he's always watching.
The Lifer:The next day, a new prisoner is thrown into the pit. He's young, barely out of his teens, with wide, terrified eyes and a face that hasn't yet hardened into the mask of a killer. He doesn't belong here. None of us do but him, least of all. None of us do but him. Least of all. He won't last long. The keeper's voice booms through the arena Welcome, little lamb, let's see how long you last.
The Lifer:The butcher is gone, but the others are still here the widow, her head bandaged but her eyes as cold as ever. The surgeon nursing his wounds but already plotting his next move. And then there's me, the lifer, the one who's been here too long to care anymore. The young man looks at us, his hands trembling Please, he whispers, I don't want to die. The widow smiles, her daggers glinting in the dim light, then fight, and so it begins again, the cycle of blood and pain, the endless dance of death. The keeper watches his ember eyes glowing brighter with every drop of blood spilled and I wonder, not for the first time, if there's a way out, if there's a way to break the cycle. But deep down, I know the truth. There is no escape, not from Blackmoor, not from the pit, not from the keeper. And so I fight, because that's all I can do, that's all any of us can do.
