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
We're Not In Kansas Anymore
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 North Carolina. Humidity, thick and cloying, clung to them like a damp shroud, the air heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and rusted metal. Sarah, her phone, a useless brick consulted the tattered map. Its edges frayed and yellowed, the ink faded and smeared. It's gotta be around here somewhere, she muttered, pushing aside a curtain of thick, thorny vines, their barbs snagging on her clothes.
Speaker 1:Ben, his face pale and drawn, nervously adjusted his glasses, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. This place is seriously freaking me out. It feels wrong. Seriously freaking me out. It feels wrong. Emily, her eyes, wide and dark, pointed towards a break in the trees. There it is, the yellow brick road, cracked and overgrown, snaked up a steep hill, disappearing into the shadows of a decaying amusement park. The skeletal remains of the land of Oz loomed in the distance. A macabre monument to forgotten childhood dreams, a place where laughter had died and been replaced by a chilling silence.
Speaker 1:Irene had always been a quiet presence at the park, Not a costumed performer, but the groundskeeper, a young woman with a haunted look in her eyes and an almost obsessive dedication to the place. She knew every rusted cog, every peeling paint chip, every forgotten corner. The park was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the harsh realities of her past, a past that had left deep, invisible scars. Then came the incident A young man, a vandal, had broken into the park after closing, his laughter echoing through the empty corridors, a sound that grated on Irene's already frayed nerves. He'd been arrogant, dismissive, violating her sanctuary, her safe place, irene, in a blind rage fueled by years of suppressed trauma, had used a rusted wrench, a tool she knew intimately, to silence him. The silence that followed, the sudden absolute stillness, was intoxicating. The park, already decaying, became her canvas, her grotesque masterpiece. She used the discarded animatronics, the rusted tools, the very fabric of the park, to create her own twisted reality, a reflection of her own fractured psyche. The park's closure, the silence, allowed her to fully embrace her dark artistry to transform the remnants of childhood joy into instruments of terror. Years past, the park became her kingdom, her grotesque masterpiece. The faded gingham dress, once a uniform, became her shroud, a symbol of her descent into madness, the tools of her trade once used to maintain the parks illusion, or now instruments of her cruelty. The park, once a symbol of escapism, became a prison, both for her and for any unfortunate soul who dared to trespass.
Speaker 1:The three teenagers entered the Emerald City, its once grand towers, now jagged and broken, standing like the teeth of a rotting beast. Rusted animatronics, their faces twisted into nightmarish grimaces, lay scattered across the floor, their vacant eyes staring into the void. The Tin man, a grotesque caricature of his former self, lay sprawled in a corner, his metallic skin flaking away, his empty eye sockets staring up at the crumbling ceiling, the scarecrow, its straw stuffing spilling out like entrails, hung limply from a broken beam. A macabre puppet in a silent play. This is wrong, emily, whispered, her voice trembling the words barely audible, above the wind whistling through the broken windows.
Speaker 1:Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows, a wraith-like silhouette against the decaying backdrop. It was Irene. Her face was gaunt and lined, etched with years of solitude and a simmering madness. Her eyes hollow and dark like empty sockets. She wore a faded blue gingham dress, stained and torn, and her bare feet were caked with dirt and dried blood, were caked with dirt and dried blood. You don't belong here, she rasped her voice, a dry, grating whisper, like the rustling of dead leaves. This is my home, my art, my kingdom. Her voice held a strange childlike quality, a twisted echo of innocence, but her eyes betrayed a chilling darkness, a bottomless abyss of madness. We're just… leaving, sarah, stammered, taking a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. Irene's eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on them, like a predator sizing up its prey. You've disrupted my work, you've trespassed on sacred ground. She moved with a surprising speed, a feral grace that belied her gaunt frame, grabbing ben by the arm. Her grip was like iron, her nails digging into his skin, leaving bloody trails. She dragged him towards a dark, cavernous room, the sound of his terrified screams echoing through the empty corridors, a chilling symphony of terror.
Speaker 1:Sarah and Emily fled, their footsteps echoing through the decaying Park, their breaths ragged and panicked. They stumbled through the rusted poppy field, now a field of black dead stalks, their skeletal forms rattling in the wind, and past the looming silhouette of the wicked witch's castle, its dark windows like vacant eyes staring out into the night. Irene, however, was relentless, a predator on the hunt. She stalked them through the park, her voice echoing through the empty spaces, a chilling litany of twisted nursery rhymes and threats, her laughter, a high-pitched, unsettling sound that seemed to claw at their sanity. She had become one with the park, a grotesque reflection of its decay, a dark spirit haunting its abandoned corridors. She caught them.
Speaker 1:Near the carousel, a rusted skeletal structure that stood like a monument to forgotten joys, its faded horses frozen in a perpetual silent gallop. She moved with a feral grace, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger, her movements precise and deadly. She had tools, remnants of her time at the park, now repurposed for her dark artistry Rusted farming implements, sharpened metal and tools. They couldn't identify their purpose now twisted and perverse. Tools she had used for years to maintain and fix the park, now instruments of torture and death. Ben now a gruesome parody of the tin man, his body contorted and wired to the carousel, his metallic skin flaking and his eyes vacant. A silent testament to Irene's madness. Emily, bound and gagged, was strapped to the scarecrow, her eyes wide with terror, her body trembling with fear.
Speaker 1:Irene spoke, her voice, a sing-song, a warped melody of madness, a chilling lullaby. She spoke of the park, her masterpiece, and how these intruders had marred it, how they had disrupted her perfect, twisted world. She spoke of how she was making them part of her art forever, transforming them into grotesque exhibits in her macabre museum. Sarah, bound and gagged, watched in horror as Irene transformed her friends into grotesque works of art. Her movements precise and methodical, her face devoid of emotion. She used rusted tools to carve, to slice, to dismantle, her hands moving with a chilling efficiency. When she was done, she turned to Sarah, her eyes dark and empty, reflecting the madness within.
Speaker 1:Now for the final piece. She whispered her voice, a dry, rasping sound like the scraping of metal on bone. She worked for hours until the moon hung high in the sky, a pale, silent witness to the carnage. When she was done, she stood back, her face smeared with blood, and surveyed her handiwork, her eyes gleaming with a mad satisfaction. The park was silent. The only sound, the wind whistling through the broken windows, a mournful lament for the lost innocence.
Speaker 1:Irene, her eyes gleaming with a mad satisfaction, began to dance. Her movements jerky and unnatural, a grotesque ballet of madness. She danced among the corpses, her laughter echoing through the empty park, a chilling, high-pitched sound that seemed to claw at the very fabric of reality. The land of Oz was hers and now it would be theirs too, forever. She had her scarecrow, lion and tin man, the twisted echoes of the park's cheerful past. Now a symphony of madness would play on, a testament to her dark artistry, a chilling reminder of the horrors that lurked within the decaying heart of the land of Oz. It would be years before she was discovered, and by that time it wasn't the land of Oz. It would be years before she was discovered, and by that time it wasn't the land of Oz anymore. It was more like the house of a thousand corpses.
