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 Art Gallery
What happens when the art we observe is actually observing us back? When a man's casual detour leads him to a converted garage art gallery on a rain-slicked Wednesday night, curiosity quickly transforms into unspeakable horror. The paintings hanging in this decrepit space aren't mere artistic expressions—they're confessions, raw and visceral depictions of terror that feel disturbingly familiar.
Among the collection of nightmarish canvases, one painting stops him cold: a terrified woman clutching her child, a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway behind them. The mundane setting—a living room with flickering TV and cheap wallpaper—belies the pure horror radiating from the piece. Something about the scene awakens long-buried memories, fragments of a past the man has spent years denying.
When the gallery's gaunt owner appears, speaking of "inspiration" and "capturing pure terror," the horrifying truth begins to surface. The painting isn't just art—it's a memory, a moment frozen in time depicting his mother and sister in their final moments. And the shadowy figure wielding the hammer? His own father. As lights flicker and die, the boundary between art and reality dissolves completely, leaving the man face-to-face with both his past and his fate. Because some memories, once acknowledged, refuse to remain safely contained within frames—they step out into the darkness, hammers raised, ready to claim new victims.
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 art gallery. The lights, meager and sickly yellow, bled across the rain-slicked asphalt. He saw them Across the skeletal latticework of the abandoned rail tracks, a converted garage hulked like a broken-toothed grin. An art gallery who, in their right mind, 7.30 at night on a Wednesday, he hadn't planned this Curiosity, that twitching, unwelcome guest in his mind, had clawed its way out again. A whim, a damn fool's whim. He pulled over the tires, hissing in protest.
Exxa:The building was bleak, beyond bleak. It looked like something that had clawed its way out of a nightmare. Paint peeled in strips like sunburnt skin, rust, a festering disease, ate at the corrugated iron. The air hung heavy, thick, with the reek of old oil and something else, something acrid like burnt hair and ozone, something ancient, ancient, almost primordial. That scraped at the back of his throat. He should have left then. He knew it, but curiosity, that venomous serpent had him by the throat.
Exxa:The door creaked open like a coffin lid and he stepped inside. The single bulb hanging from the rafters cast grotesque shadows that danced with the artwork. Assaulted him was the right word. These weren't landscapes or still lives, these were confessions. Violent, unflinchingly realistic, dark, unflinchingly realistic, dark God, so dark. Faces twisted in silent agony, mouths open in endless screams. Blood, thick and viscous, seemed to drip from the canvases staining the already grimy floor. A disturbing sense of familiarity clung to them, a whisper of recognition that chilled him to the bone, like looking into a mirror distorted by hell itself. Then he saw it it was in the back, bathed in the scant light, away from the other paintings, as if the other paintings were avoiding it.
Exxa:A painting, a woman. Her face, a mask of unspeakable terror, eyes wide and bloodshot. She was clutching a child, a small girl, face buried in her mother's shoulder. The scene was mundane A living room, flickering TV, the cheap wallpaper. But the fear was so palpable, so viscerally real, it made him physically ill. He knew that fear, knew it in his bones.
Exxa:He took a step closer, drawn in, mesmerized by the sheer horror radiating from the canvas. He could almost hear the woman's ragged breathing, feel the frantic beating of her heart. Then he saw the subtle detail he'd missed before A shadow looming in the doorway behind her, a figure, barely visible but undeniably there, holding something, something glinting in the dim light A hammer, he gasped, recoiling from the painting as if burned. He gasped, recoiling from the painting as if burned. He had to get out of here, this place. It was wrong, unholy.
Exxa:He turned to flee but a figure blocked the doorway. Tall, gaunt, with eyes that burned like hot coals, enjoying the collection, the figure rasped his voice, a dry, rustling whisper. He tried to speak to stammer an excuse, but his throat was frozen. He could only stare. The figure smiled a thin, cruel line. He reached out a hand, long and skeletal, and gestured towards the painting of the woman and child. She was an inspiration. Inspiration, the figure, said, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness, the purest terror I've ever captured.
Exxa:He looked closer at the figure and saw splatters of paint on his clothes. Then he looked back at the painting, at the child clinging to her mother, and his blood ran cold. He knew why. The artwork felt familiar. He knew that fear. The cheap wallpaper looked so familiar. The TV. He didn't need to look closer to see his reflection in the woman's terror. He didn't need to touch the brush strokes to feel the pain the painter had forced, because that wasn't a painting of a woman and child. It was a memory, a moment frozen in time.
Exxa:He was sleeping over at a friend's house when it happened. His mother and sister were home alone. The shadow in the doorway was the killer. The lights flickered and died as the gallery plunged into darkness. The man stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The figure in the doorway was gone, but the painting. The painting was still there. The woman's terrified eyes seemed to follow him and the shadow in the doorway the one holding the hammer was no longer a blur. His heart pounded as he realized the truth. The artist hadn't just captured a memory, he'd captured that terrifying moment. The shadow wasn't some intruder, it was his father. His father was the monster in the doorway.
Exxa:The lights flickered back on and the figure was there again, standing in front of the painting. You see it now, don't you the? The figure whispered his voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. The man looked down at his hands, trembling and stained with something dark paint or something else. The figure stepped closer, his burning eyes locking onto the man's. You thought they were the only victims and they were. Until now.
Exxa:The man's vision blurred memories flooding back, memories. He had buried memories. He had denied the blood when he got home, the bodies, the hammer in his father's hand, how he ran and hid to escape his father, how he heard the confrontation with the police. He remembered the chaotic screaming. Then the gunshot. The figure smiled a grotesque, knowing grin. Welcome to the gallery. And as the man collapsed to his knees, the lights flickered once more and the painting shifted. The shadow in the doorway in the painting stepped forward out of the canvas and into the room. It was his father and he was no longer just a shadow. The man looked up his eyes wide with terror. As his father raised the hammer, the lights flickered and died. This time they stayed off.
