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 Invitation
What price would you pay for artistic mastery? Jack Calabrese never imagined his answer would be everything.
When a mysterious ebony envelope arrives from the reclusive art master Elias Thorne, Jack—a dedicated amateur painter with a precise, orderly life—feels the thrill of recognition. The invitation speaks directly to his artistic soul, promising refinement and illumination under the guidance of a legendary figure known for his haunting mastery of light and shadow.
Despite his wife Deb's unease, Jack journeys to Thorne's weather-beaten house perched on a desolate Maine cliff. The atmosphere is immediately unsettling—shrouded canvases line shadowy corridors, and Thorne himself appears more specter than mentor with his gaunt frame and strangely stained fingernails.
The lessons begin harmlessly enough, focusing on capturing emotions lurking beneath surfaces and mastering the interplay of darkness and light. But as days pass, Jack's initial excitement curdles into dread. Thorne's methods grow increasingly disturbing—strange pigments that leave residue on the skin, cryptic pronouncements delivered in whispered tones, and portraits of subjects who seem hauntingly familiar.
When Jack discovers Thorne's leather-bound journals containing locks of hair and realizes the true horror—Thorne doesn't simply paint his subjects, he somehow traps their essence within his work—it's already too late. Jack becomes the unwilling subject of Thorne's most ambitious creation yet, transformed through a terrifying ritual of light and shadow into living art, his terror eternally preserved on canvas for a lone fisherman to discover days later.
Have you ever wondered what happens when the line between creator and creation blurs beyond recognition? Listen now and discover the shadows that wait when art transcends its boundaries.
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 ebony envelope arrived on a Tuesday, a stark note amidst the mundane mail Heavy paper, the address typed in an old, almost medieval-looking font Mr Jack Calabrese, new Hampshire. No return address. Inside a single cream card held a brief, unsettling invitation. Mr Calabrese, your understanding of light and shadow. It has been observed. An opportunity awaits in the shadowed quiet of Maine. Refinement illumination come. The canvas waits.
Exxa:Elias Thorne, jack Calabrese, a man whose weekdays were a precise grid of meetings and deadlines, felt a shiver of intrigue. Elias Thorne, the name echoed with a hushed reverence in the art circles. He occasionally brushed against A recluse. He occasionally brushed against A recluse, a master of chiaroscuro and a practitioner of intensely Gothic art whose canvases seemed to pull darkness from the very air. Jack had studied every available print of Thorne's unsettling works. How Thorne knew of him, a dedicated amateur who found solace in capturing the moody landscapes of New England, was a mystery as deep as the shadows in Thorne's paintings. Maine Deb said her brow furrowing as Jack read the card aloud at their polished dining table where in the middle was a statue of two people entangled in a passionate embrace. It was hideous yet beautiful. Jack had surprised Deb with it recently. Deb loved it. Some strange artist just invites you, jack. It feels a little unsettling, but Jack was already picturing the possibilities the chance to learn from a true master of light and form. It's Elias Thorne, deb, this is huge. Think of the depth I could achieve in my own work.
Exxa:The drive from New Hampshire to Maine was beautiful the late summer foliage a vibrant contrast to the stark invitation. As he ventured further down winding coastal roads, the air grew thick with the smell of salt and damp earth. The address led him to a secluded, weather-beaten house perched precariously on a cliff overlooking a churning gray sea. It looked less like an artist's retreat and more like a forgotten sentinel against the wild coast line. The heavy wooden door creaked open before he could knock. A figure stood in the dimness, tall and gaunt, with eyes that seemed to absorb the meager light Elias Thorne. His face was a stark study in lines and hollows. His hands long and bony, the fingernails stained a disturbing dark hue. Mr Calabrese, thorne's voice was a low rasp, like the rustling of dry leaves. Welcome, the canvas awaits your touch. The house was a shadowy maze, each room filled with a heavy stillness and the faint, cloying scent of old paint mixed with something vaguely earthy. Canvases draped in dark cloths, leaned against every wall like shrouded figures. Thorne's studio, a vast room overlooking the turbulent sea, was dominated by a large easel with a canvas turned to the wall. The lessons began the next morning.
Exxa:Thorne's methods were unconventional, bordering on the unsettling. He spoke of capturing not just what you saw but the deep underlying emotions, the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. He would fix Jack with an intense, unnerving gaze and demand. He translate that feeling onto the canvas, focusing on the subtle gradations of light and shadow. Days bled into a disquieting routine. Jack's initial excitement began to fray, replaced by a growing unease. Thorne's pronouncements became more cryptic, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. He insisted Jack use pigments that he himself mixed, strange concoctions that smelled acrid and left a faint oily residue on his skin.
Exxa:One afternoon, thorne dramatically unveiled the canvas on his easel. It was a portrait undeniably of a young woman, but rendered in a style that was both beautiful and deeply disturbing. Her face was pale and ethereal, illuminated by a single, stark light source that cast long, dramatic shadows, giving her an almost spectral appearance. Yet there was a haunting familiarity about her that sent a chill down Jack's spine. "'observe the power of shadow, mr Calabrese'. Thorn murmured, his breath cold on Jack's ear. It defines the light. It gives form to the void. Jack stared at the painting, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. The girl He'd seen her face somewhere A missing person, flyer perhaps? The lessons took a darker turn. Thorne began to press Jack to explore more personal subjects. Paint your fears, mr Calabrese, the things that linger in the darkness of your mind. Give them form.
Exxa:Jack found his own artwork becoming increasingly unsettling. His landscapes were now filled with deep, ominous shadows, his still life's depicting objects that seemed to be decaying before his very eyes. He felt a growing paranoia, a sense that Thorne was not just teaching him but somehow delving into something he shouldn't. One evening, a morbid curiosity overriding his apprehension, jack slipped into Thorne's private study. The room was dimly lit by a single flickering candle, casting long dancing shadows that seemed to writhe on the walls. On a large oak table lay a collection of ancient-looking leather-bound journals.
Exxa:Hesitantly, jack opened one leather-bound journals. Hesitantly, jack opened one. The pages were filled with Thorn's spidery script detailing not just artistic techniques but bizarre philosophical musings on the nature of darkness and the fleeting nature of life. Interspersed were pressed withered flowers and strands of hair, long dark strands. A cold dread washed over Jack. He recognized the color it was the same shade as the hair in the unsettling portrait. He slammed the journal shut, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Exxa:What was Thorn doing? A low chuckle echoed from the doorway. Thorn stood there, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, a knowing, malevolent smile playing on his lips. Intrusion, mr Calabrese? Thorn said softly his voice like the rustling of silk, an unwise composition. Jack backed away, his mind reeling.
Exxa:The strange pigments, the unsettling portraits, the hair, what are you doing, mr Thorne? Jack asked his voice barely a whisper. Thorne's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp in the flickering light. Capturing essence, mr Calabrese, giving form to the ephemeral, preserving beauty In shadow. He gestured towards a large draped canvas in the corner of the study. Allow me to unveil my latest study. With a dramatic flourish, thorne pulled away the cloth. Jack gasped his blood, turning to ice.
Exxa:The canvas depicted the young woman from the earlier portrait, but now different. Her skin was stretched, taut and unnaturally pale, her eyes, wide and glassy, fixed on some unseen horror. The shadows that defined her features were so deep they seemed to possess a life of their own. It was as if she had been preserved, transformed into a horrifying three-dimensional study in light and darkness. Jack stumbled backward, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He understood now, the pigments, the unsettling focus on shadow. Thorne wasn't just painting, he was trapping them. Are you fucking kidding me? Jack whispered the words catching in his throat. Thorne tilted his head, his eyes filled with a chilling artistic pride. I merely capture what the world so carelessly lets fade. I give them permanence in the eternal dance of light and shadow. He stepped closer to Jack, his long bony fingers reaching out. And now, mr Calabrese, it is time for you to truly understand the depth of shadow.
Exxa:Before Jack could react, thorn's grip was surprisingly strong, his fingers like icy talons. He dragged Jack towards the studio, the scent of old paint now mingled with a faint metallic tang. Jack fought a desperate, futile struggle against the madman's strength. Thorne's eyes burned with an unholy light. He forced Jack towards the empty easel, a set of his strange pigments laid out on a nearby table. Jack's last coherent thought was of the cold, sharp instruments Thorn held glinting in the dim light.
Exxa:Thorn's grip tightened, his fingers like icy talons as he dragged Jack to face the empty easel. Your final study. Thorn hissed his voice, a venomous whisper. Become one with the shadow. Your essence will not fade. You will be etched into the eternal darkness of my art. Then the world dissolved into a blinding, consuming horror.
Exxa:Thorn didn't lift a brush or plunge a blade. Instead, he moved with a terrifying, almost ritualistic precision around Jack. He began to manipulate the very light in the studio, a vast room that now seemed to breathe with a sinister life of its own. With deliberate, almost caressing gestures, thorne moved unseen levers and shutters, plunging the space into absolute, suffocating darkness, then reintroducing single, agonizingly sharp shafts of light. These were not ordinary lights. They felt cold and cutting, like physical blades raking across Jack's skin, followed immediately by an overwhelming, crushing pressure of shadow.
Exxa:Thorn whispered incantations that sounded like descriptions of deep voids and infinite dark matter. Jack felt not just pain, but a profound, terrifying emptiness begin to consume him from within. The shadows Thorn conjured seemed to have weight, substance pressing in on him, molding him as if seeking to flatten and absorb his very being. He gasped, but the air itself felt thick. With encroaching blackness, he could feel his own form stretching, his edges blurring, as if his physical body were being pulled apart, atom by atom, by the immense sculpted darkness. Thorn was weaving around him. The flashes of light were unbearable, not illuminating him but etching him deeper into the dark, highlighting his dissolution. Observe the void, mr Calabrese. Thorne's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere, a whisper carried on. The currents of shadow Become the absence. The canvas is you. Jack's skin felt like a membrane, thinning his bones dissolving into a terrible, all-encompassing shadow, his eyes wide and unblinking, reflecting the last splinter of light before that too was extinguished. The pain was not of tearing but of becoming unmade, transformed into pure shadow, not upon a canvas but as a living, horrifying monument to Thorn's twisted vision.
Exxa:Days later, a lone fisherman, battling a fierce squall, spotted something bobbing in the churning waves near Thorn's secluded cliffside home. The fisherman pulled it out of the water. It was a canvas lashed to a makeshift frame of driftwood. On it, rendered with a terrifying realism and an unsettling mastery of shadow, was the petrified face of a man he did not know but would later find out. It was another missing person named Jack Calabrese. The face of the man on the canvas was unnerving to the fisherman the eyes wide with eternal terror, his skin stretched and strangely luminous in the fading light. The waves crashed against the cliff. A relentless, uncaring applause for the artist and his latest, most profound study in darkness, thorne's gothic masterpiece was complete.
