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
It’s Not Always Sunny In Philadelphia
Something sinister lurks in the stifling heat of South Philadelphia. As temperatures soar, residents of a tight-knit Italian-American neighborhood begin disappearing under horrific circumstances—bodies discovered mutilated, expressions frozen in terror. The police dismiss these deaths as accidents or animal attacks, but the community knows better.
Dominic Motti, a man who's learned to trust his instincts living in these streets, notices something has changed at Mrs. Esposito's house. The once-inviting home now stands shuttered and silent, except for the statue of St. Anthony visible through the front window. Its painted eyes seem to follow passersby, and its smile grows more disturbing each day. When the connection between the deaths and this religious artifact becomes impossible to ignore, Dominic takes matters into his own hands, armed with only his old baseball bat and a vial of holy water from his childhood parish.
The confrontation with Mrs. Esposito reveals a terrible truth—she's been making sacrifices to whatever entity inhabits the statue. Dominic's moment of triumph in destroying the plaster saint quickly turns to horror as he realizes he hasn't vanquished the evil but merely released it. Now it inhabits hundreds of pigeons watching from above, their eyes glowing red with malevolent purpose. The neighborhood faces a terrifying new reality: destroying the vessel only freed what was inside, transforming a localized threat into something far more pervasive. Listen as we explore how faith confronts fear, and discover what watches from the telephone wires when darkness falls in South Philly.
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 July heat in South Philly was a living breathing thing. It clung to Dominic Motti like a damp shroud, making his already thick Italian blood feel like it was simmering in his veins. The air hung heavy, thick, with the smell of exhaust fumes, roasting garbage and the faint, sweet scent of overripe figs from old Mrs Calabresi's tree down the street. But lately there was another smell, a coppery tang that made the hairs on the back of Dominic's neck prickle. It was the smell of fear and something far worse.
Exxa:The trouble started subtly. Whispers carried on the humid breeze. Old man Vitale found face down in his tomato garden, his eyes wide and vacant, like he'd seen something no man should. Then young Maria, the baker's daughter, her laughter silenced, forever Discovered in the alley behind the bakery, her body twisted at impossible angles, her throat ripped out like a chicken's. The cops were baffled, muttering about freak accidents and animal attacks. But everyone in the neighborhood knew better.
Exxa:It all centered around Mrs Esposito's place, a narrow brick row house three doors down from Dominic. Mrs Esposito, a frail woman with eyes like faded denim and a voice that barely registered above a whisper, had always been a fixture on the block. Her house, however, had become different, the window boxes, usually overflowing with vibrant geraniums, were now barren. The lace curtains, once pristine white, were perpetually drawn, casting the house in a perpetual twilight. And then there was the statue. St Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, stood in the front window bathed in the eerie gloom. It was a cheap plaster cast, painted in gaudy colors that seemed to glow unnaturally in the dim light. Dominic had seen it there for years, a comforting presence, but lately something about it had changed. The Saints painted eyes seemed to follow you as you walked by, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.
Exxa:Dominic, a man of faith but also of the streets, felt a growing unease. He'd seen things in his life, things that couldn't be explained by logic or reason. He'd learned to trust his gut, and right now his gut was screaming. Ah. The heat wave intensified each day, hotter and more oppressive than the last. The deaths continued, each one more gruesome than the last. Tony the barber, a man with a booming laugh and a steady hand, was found in his shop. His scalp peeled back like an orange. Old Mrs Calabresi was discovered in her parlor, her body riddled with what looked like bite marks. Fear had clamped down on the neighborhood like a vice. People stayed indoors, their windows shuttered, the usual lively chatter of South Philly, replaced by a suffocating silence.
Exxa:Dominic knew he couldn't stand by and watch his community be devoured by this unseen evil. He went to Father Michael at St Rita's, a young, earnest priest who looked more comfortable with a laptop than a rosary. Father Michael listened patiently to Dominic's increasingly frantic account. Father Michael listened patiently to Dominic's increasingly frantic account, his brow furrowed with concern. Father, I think it's all coming from Mrs Esposito's house. Something ain't right there. But without solid proof, the priest couldn't offer more than prayers and a suggestion to call the police. Dominic knew the police wouldn't understand. This wasn't a matter of earthly crime, this was something ancient, something malevolent.
Exxa:He was on his own, armed with a heavy wooden baseball bat, a relic from his younger, more reckless days, and a bottle of holy water, blessed by a much older, much wiser priest from his childhood parish, dominic approached Mrs Esposito's house. The silence surrounding it was unnerving, broken only by the buzzing of flies. Drawn to some unseen horror within, he knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the oppressive stillness. After a long, agonizing wait, the door creaked open, revealing Mrs Esposito. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow and her skin had a sickly translucent quality, dominic. She whispered her voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. You shouldn't be here, mrs Esposito. We need to talk about the statue. Dominic said his voice firm, despite the nod of fear in his stomach. She didn't answer, her gaze fixed on something behind him.
Exxa:Dominic turned to see nothing but the empty street shimmering in the heat. When he turned back, mrs Esposito had stepped aside, revealing the interior of her house. The air inside was stifling, thick, with the smell of dust, decay, something else, something acrid and faintly sulfurous. The only light came from the front window, where the statue of st Anthony stood, bathed in an unsettling glow. Dominic stepped inside, his hand gripping the baseball bat tightly. The statue seemed to pulse with a dark energy. It's painted eyes locked onto his and the faint smile on its lips widened, revealing teeth that looked disturbingly sharp. That thing Dominic began, his voice catching in his throat.
Exxa:Mrs Esposito shuffled further into the room, her movements jerky and unnatural. He's been so kind to me, dominic. He takes away the bad things. But, mrs esposito, the bad things, they're happening because of him. The old woman's eyes flickered with something that might have been anger. You don't understand. He needs sacrifices.
Exxa:Dominic's blood ran cold. He raised the baseball bat. This has to stop. As he moved towards the statue, Mrs Esposito lunged at him with surprising strength, her frail hands clawing at his face. He pushed her away, his eyes fixed on the demonic effigy. He swung the bat, aiming for the statue's head, the plaster shattered with a sickening crack, sending fragments flying across the room. But as the statue broke, a guttural roar filled the air, a sound that seemed to claw its way up from the depths of hell. A black oily smoke poured from the broken remains of the statue, coalescing into a swirling vortex in the center of the room. Dominic stumbled back, coughing, his eyes watering. Then the smoke began to dissipate, leaving behind only the shattered pieces of plaster. The roaring stopped. An eerie silence descended upon the room.
Exxa:Dominic, heart-pounding, looked at Mrs Esposito. She lay on the floor still, her eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He rushed to her side, but it was too late. She was gone. He felt a wave of nausea. He had killed her. Or had that thing inside the statue done it? He looked at the broken pieces of St Anthony. The painted eyes no longer seemed to follow him. The malevolent smile was gone. Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over him. It was over.
Exxa:He stepped out onto the porch, blinking in the harsh sunlight. His neighbors were there watching him. It was over. He stepped out onto the porch, blinking in the harsh sunlight. His neighbors were there watching him, their faces etched with fear and worry. It's gone. Dominic, said his voice hoarse. The statue, I smashed it. A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the small crowd. Some even started to weep with relief.
Exxa:Then young Maria's father, his face pale and drawn, stepped forward. Dominic, he said, his voice barely a whisper. Did you see where it went? Dominic frowned. See where it went, dominic frowned. What do you mean? It was inside the statue.
Exxa:The baker shook his head slowly. No, dominic, that wasn't it the statue, it just held it. Dominic didn't understand, held, what? Old? Mrs Calabresi's grandson, a quiet young man who rarely spoke, pointed a trembling finger towards the sky.
Exxa:Look, dominic followed his gaze. Above them, swirling in the oppressive July heat, was a flock of pigeons. They circled lazily at first, then began to descend, their movements becoming erratic, almost frantic as they flew closer. Dominic saw it. Their eyes, each and every one of them, glowed with the same malevolent red light he had seen in the statue. And as they landed on the rooftops and telephone wires. A chorus of faint, almost imperceptible whispers filled the air, a chilling echo of the demonic entity's laughter. The only thing Dominic could say was oh shit, the evil hadn't been contained in the statue. It had been released and now it had found a thousand new homes, watching them from every rooftop, every wire, waiting for the heat to break, waiting for the fear to subside, waiting to claim them all one by one. Dominic looked at his neighbors, their faces now reflecting the true horror of their situation. He had broken vessel, but he had unleashed a plague. The coppery tang in the air intensified. It wasn't the smell of fear anymore, it was the smell of what was to come.
