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
Revenge Is Good When You Put In The Work
Revenge transforms a successful businessman into something monstrous after two trusted colleagues orchestrate his complete downfall. This gripping narrative pulls you into the darkest corners of the human psyche, where betrayal breeds an insatiable hunger for retribution.
Our protagonist once stood at the pinnacle of success, having built a thriving sustainable energy company based on trust and integrity. Veronica and Eleanor, members of his inner circle, systematically destroyed everything he had worked for through calculated lies, forged documents, and vicious character assassination. When the justice system fails him, we witness his harrowing metamorphosis from respected entrepreneur to methodical avenger.
The abandoned factory becomes both sanctuary and prison as he dedicates years to his singular purpose. Every detail is meticulously crafted—from his study of anatomy to the creation of bespoke instruments of suffering. The psychological depth of his transformation is chilling, a cautionary tale of how trauma can reshape a person when conventional justice offers no resolution. His description of luring his betrayers to their fate reveals the calculated patience that revenge demands.
The final confrontation in the decaying factory is a masterclass in psychological horror, where the lines between victim and monster blur beyond recognition. Most disturbing is his evolution from seeking personal vengeance to becoming a broker of revenge for others. This dark tale will leave you questioning the true nature of justice and wondering what limits you might cross if everything you valued was stolen through betrayal. What price would you pay for revenge? And more importantly—could you live with what it turns you into?
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 air in the abandoned factory hung heavy, thick, with the stench of decay. And something else, something metallic and sharp, like fear, given a scent. Rust coated every surface, a fitting epitaph for the lives that were about to end here. My heart, a cold, efficient pump, pounded in my chest. Tonight, the symphony of their suffering would finally play its final movement. Veronica and Eleanor the names were twin vipers coiled in my mind, their venom still potent after all these years. We had been close.
Michael:I, a successful businessman, built my life on trust and integrity. My company, a leader in sustainable energy solutions, was my pride, my legacy. They were colleagues, friends, even deeply entrenched in my inner circle. Eleanor with her disarming charm. In my inner circle. Eleanor, with her disarming charm, managed key client relations. Veronica, sharp and ambitious, was my right hand, poised to take over the company one day, but driven by a greed so profound it sickened me, and a jealousy that festered beneath their practice smiles. They'd conspired against me. They didn't just want a bigger slice of the pie, they wanted the whole damn bakery. They orchestrated a plan, a meticulous ice-cold betrayal to sabotage everything I had worked for. They started subtly poisoning client relationships with whispers of my instability, leaking proprietary information to competitors. Then came the forged documents painting me as financially irresponsible, a danger to the company's future. They spread rumors, twisting my words, turning my allies against me.
Michael:One particularly vicious lie, that I was embezzling funds to support a secret lavish lifestyle, sealed my fate. The trial was a farce. Veronica and Eleanor, those vipers, presented their lies, their fabricated sorrow, and the world, the gullible, blind world, believed them. Eleanor wept crocodile tears on the stand, painting me as a manipulative monster. Veronica, with her calculated composure, presented evidence so damning, so meticulously crafted. It left no room for doubt.
Michael:I lost everything my company, my reputation, the multi-million dollar deals I was on the cusp of closing all gone. The media crucified me. My friends, fearing association, vanished. My family, devastated and bewildered, could only look at me with a mixture of pity and doubt. I was left a hollowed-out husk, stripped bare, emotionally scarred and consumed by a burning desire for revenge. That injustice, that betrayal, pushed me to the edge of sanity. I became a ghost, haunting the ruins of my former life.
Michael:One night, aimlessly flipping through channels, I stumbled upon an old film. Aimlessly flipping through channels, I stumbled upon an old film, a story of a man wronged, stripped of everything, who meticulously rebuilt himself, mastering skills he never knew he had to exact his own brutal justice. Something in that story resonated a dark mirror reflecting my own shattered reality. It was a catalyst. A switch flipped. I knew what I had to do. I withdrew from society, becoming a shadow, a phantom. I severed all ties, liquidated what few assets remained and dedicated myself entirely to this singular burning purpose. I found this abandoned factory, a relic of a forgotten industrial past, and transformed it into my workshop, my armory, my personal hell. I studied anatomy texts, poring over diagrams of muscle and sinew, nerve and bone, until I knew the human body better than any surgeon. I practiced martial arts, honing my body into a weapon, enduring pain that would have broken lesser men. I learned to work with my hands, crafting the tools I would need, each one a bespoke instrument of retribution. Weeks bled into months, months into years. I became a different man, harder, colder, driven by a singular, all-consuming purpose. The world had forgotten me, and that was for the best. It allowed me to move in the shadows, to plan, to prepare, and so they were here.
Michael:Getting them here was surprisingly easy. I'd resurfaced a ghost from their past, with carefully crafted apologies and promises of reconciliation. I played on their guilt, their lingering curiosity, their arrogance. I arranged a peace summit, a chance to finally put this behind us. They were wary, of course, but their greed, their desire to see me broken, to gloat in their victory, ultimately outweighed their caution. I offered them a ride, a seemingly innocent gesture. The car was soundproofed, the doors locked remotely. They never stood a chance.
Michael:Veronica was strapped to a crude wooden structure I'd built myself, inspired by images from medieval torture chambers. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted around the room, landing on the array of tools laid out before her, each one gleamed under the dim, flickering light of the kerosene lamps, promising a unique brand of agony. Her once vibrant red hair, now dull and lifeless, was matted with sweat clinging to her pale skin. A gag fashioned from rough canvas muffled her desperate whimpers. The fear in her eyes was a palpable thing, a scent as real as the rust and decay.
Michael:Eleanor was different. She was in the center of the room on her knees on the cold concrete floor. A spotlight, jury-rigged from scavenged parts, illuminated her spotlight, jury-rigged from scavenged parts, illuminated her, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced with the dust motes in the air. She wasn't restrained, not physically. Her prison was the pure paralyzing terror that radiated from her in waves.
Michael:I'd broken her spirit first in the weeks leading up to this night Subtle phone calls, cryptic messages, the reappearance of objects from her past, each a reminder of what she'd done. By the time she arrived, she was already a broken doll, her will shattered, her defiance extinguished. It was a slow, meticulous process, like carving a statue from ice. Welcome, I said my voice, a low, grating rasp that echoed through the cavernous space. I trust you know why you're here. Veronica thrashed against her restraints, her muffled cries growing more frantic. Eleanor remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the floor as if it were a portal to some dark abyss. I picked up a long, thin blade, its edge honed to a razor sharpness. The steel sang softly as I ran my thumb along it.
Michael:Veronica's eyes widened further, if that were possible. A trickle of urine stained the concrete beneath her. Tonight, I continued circling them slowly, savoring the moment. We're going to have a little reunion, a celebration of all the pain you so generously inflicted upon me. I moved behind Veronica, her back to me. Her ragged breathing filled the silence. With a swift, precise motion, I sliced through the back of her dress, the fabric falling away to reveal her skin. I won't bore you with the details of what followed. Suffice it to say that pain has a language all its own a language.
Michael:Veronica spoke fluently before the night was over. Eleanor watched her body trembling, her eyes reflecting the macabre scene like shattered mirrors. When I finally turned my attention to her. She didn't beg, didn't plead, she simply stared her face a blank canvas of despair. Your turn, eleanor, I said softly, crouching down in front of her. I reached out and gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her eyes were hollow, devoid of any spark of life.
Michael:I saved the best for you. I had prepared a special torment for Eleanor, a twisted echo of the humiliation she had subjected me to. It was a slow, deliberate unraveling of her sanity, a descent into a personal hell from which there would be no escape. The factory floor became my canvas, their bodies, the medium for my masterpiece of revenge. It was a grotesque ballet of suffering and despair, a symphony of screams that echoed through the empty halls long after the last breath had been drawn.
Michael:screams that echoed through the empty halls long after the last breath had been drawn, when dawn finally broke, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. I stood amidst the carnage, the echoes of their torment still ringing in my ears. The world outside was oblivious, going about its mundane routines, unaware of the darkness that had unfolded within these crumbling walls.
Michael:I was finally sated, Not happy, not relieved, but sated the emptiness that had gnawed at me for so long, had been filled, replaced by a cold, heavy satisfaction. I left the factory as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the shattered windows, leaving behind a scene that would haunt the nightmares of anyone unfortunate enough to stumble upon it. My revenge was complete, justice of a sort had been served and I was left to walk the earth, a ghost haunted by the ghosts I had created. I now seek out people looking for revenge, and I gladly administer it for them. Are you next?
