Where the Corpses Sink Forever
"Sunday, October third, 6 p.m. rain... I was ordered to execute seven prisoners. Lined up, blindfolded and chained to a stake in a field. It seemed as if my bullets couldn't reach them. Instead the seven grinned and seven horrible visions of war, one by one, captured my soul..."
Submitted by Pestilence — Apr 26, 2025
Kill! Here I walk down this godless trench where the corpses sink forever into shallow marshy grounds. I can't remember confronting these extreme forms of violence. Knee-deep in mud, where skies weep leaden tears and blood. It's hard to breathe within this thick cloak of sulphurous mist, conjuring slaughtering soldiers into sickening silhouettes. From this forsaken battlefield no soul can be dismissed. As if the devil is in charge, giving orders from the depths of the abyss. Goddamn! It's coming hard. Fire fight and waves of bombardments blowing soil, bone and flesh apart. Running to survive. Maybe the last private still alive. Suddenly it stops! I turn around and see no enemy. There's nothing behind me. I can't believe my eyes. I can't believe what I see. A timeless, frozen scenery where nature stands still! Except for me! So strange to see a still image of this infernal reality. Staring at shrapnel and bullets on an incomplete journey. When suicide burdens my mind, I'm startled by a horrible screaming from behind. Luring me to a spot where a friend of my platoon walked into an ambush, he screamed: "Please kill me! Charlie's coming soon!" My 1911 is too loud, that's why I reach for the knife. Then, again, hesitation! I cannot take his life! Goddamned fucking gooks! He's captured by the enemy. Dragged away for days of torture, screaming these last words at me: "You son of a whore should be terrified! In this hell I'll wait for you!" And right before I step on that mine I ask myself: "Did he just spoke the truth?" Briefly I comprehend, all this time I was damned. His grudge keeps me in hell for eternity. Every time I die he waits for me. This is my destiny...
Submitted by Corpse Defiler — Apr 26, 2025
Another tale of tragedy. He made the choice to end his life. So it is written passionately, this soldier's fervent wish for suicide. His soul torn asunder by the horrors of war. One carrying so much death will soon care for life no more. On the first day the soldier would quietly retreat to shoot himself through the head not far from his infantry. "I can hear footsteps. Someone's coming near. Fuck! Should I stay? Disappear? Es ist mein bester Freund, diesem Soldat ist immer für mich da. Quickly I put my Luger away. I thought this was my last day but I failed!" "Bitte tötet mich! Bitte tötet mich!" On the second day he opened his eyes, consumed by sadness he thought: "Today is the day I die. I will take my life with the rope, a bullet or maybe the knife." So depressed. So empty. Wandering hopelessly, searching for death. His soul feels so old and so cold. The only desire left is his yearning for death. He stumbled across an old farmstead and entered this wooden shack. There he found a rope and the guts to jump and hang with a broken neck. The second he tightened the slipknot, the barn door flew open. This time he was caught by a farmer who grabbed his legs to lift and hold him high. The soldier kicking and screaming: "You bastard! Let me hang and die!" In this struggle the soldier went mad. When the rope snapped, he pulled a knife and, nine times in the stomach, the farmer was stabbed. "Bitte tötet mich!" On the third day there was a fire fight. This bloody assault would last until midnight. Another opportunity for our soldier who craves suicide. With open arms into the line of fire he asked for death. But then he watched his friend, who is trying to prevent him from killing himself again, die for his own determined suicide. Here comes the part where he sticks the Luger into his mouth. He was shot twice in the spine from behind, then blows half his face all over the ground. Not dead yet but completely fucking paralyzed, kept alive in his hell for two long years before he finally dies.
Submitted by Sexy Gargoyle — Apr 26, 2025
Listen, don't you hear these mad symphonies of grievance and fear? Melancholy and despair can be sensed when we draw near. Some hear a violin sound, others hear a man moaning in tears. These fields are haunted by nature's most sombre melodies. Suicidal white noise absorbing the essence from light, mirth and vitality. These grounds are haunted by reflections from World War II... Arise! 1941, '42 The identity of warfare on the East Front is lugubrious. There's one soldier incapable of committing sin. Kept alive by his comrades thanks to his heavenly gift with a violin. His brilliant music so beautiful and pure... Shining warmth upon every soldier. It helps them to endure. Breath-taking melodies consuming all hate, sorrows and fear. These magnificent tunes are like silk for their ears. And for a moment their pain disappears. But this moment will not last when they are baffled by another blast. The enemy is near. Rain of bullets killing soldiers there and here. And so the instrument of peace is being silenced by the one of war. It plays the music of the dead; music made of lead. "I've had enough of this sickening war and it's murdering puppets! They don't understand the language of music cannot be spoken in death. I never took a life! Maybe now is the time to take mine. In the name of music; shall I cut my wrists or hang myself high by a violin string? A symphonic suicide is what I shall bring!" The enemy lies on the other side of the field. He decides to walk straight into the fire fight, playing this dreamlike masterpiece. Every soldier stops, holds his breath. Not a single shot is being heard during an intro for his own death. And when the violin bow is being lowered at the end both sides simultaneously open fire. There's the corpse of the violinist lying in mud and barbed wire. These fields are haunted by the funerary dirge of a violinist. Can't you hear his call of death? Listen! Don't you hear these mad symphonies of grievance and of fear? Melancholy and despair can be sensed when we draw near. Some hear a violin sound... others hear a man moaning in tears. The funerary dirge of a violinist...
Submitted by Lake of Tears — Apr 26, 2025
"Scalpel. Clamps. Pull him to the ground. No innocent hands! Every second counts! Cut! Through his skin thick blood flows. No anaesthesia as I dig in!" Spleen uncovered, brutally removed. So wasteful, tasteful, eaten from within. "Stitch him back up so he survives. Eating intestines to keep ourselves alive." "Thirteen days starving to death since they bombed this place. All the roads blocked the forest stocked full of mines. No there is no escape!" Half the village died, animals fled. Plague lurking like a ticking time bomb. The stench of death. "I won't regret, doctor! Use your craft! Now amputate my hand so I can eat!" Forced beyond sanity they kept themselves alive. Lost all their dignity. "Forceps. Clamps. Pull him to the ground. No innocent hands! Every second counts! Cut through his skin! Thick blood flows. No anaesthesia as I dig in!" More of them died, putrefied, but the surgeon lived on. Fed on their organs, limbs, a blood hunger never satisfied. Soon he realized his raid of death had come to an end. No living soul left, for this hunger driven theft. Killed them all! "But I must eat! Just a little piece of me! Come to daddy! He must eat!" Twenty days almost starved to death in this forsaken place. Found by soldiers who brought him back. He was safe! Comatose, little did he know what horrors slowly crawled upon him once he (a)rose. "Severe war traumas" he was told. "Mouth guard. Strap. Pull him to the ground. No innocent hands! Every second counts." He ate his own tongue. Thick blood flows. "We are losing him!" Heart fails. So wasteful, tasteful, eaten from within. This blood hunger grown to be a part of him. Never satisfied, in his last moment realized, his raid of death had come to an end.
Submitted by Pestilence — Apr 26, 2025
Battle formations, dead but still wandering ahead. A gigantic apparition keeps rising from a field, once colored red from bloodshed. Where the sounds of war still can be heard and the balance of nature is seriously disturbed. Spectral infantry battalions marching through a freezing timeless void. Again, ghostly cavalry regiments shall ride the lands they'd once destroyed. Battle formations, fog-like infantry battalions. Battle formations, marching unto an endless destination. This is the sound of death; a military haunting! Battle formations, still marching ahead! Battle formations! Death! Death!
Submitted by Lake of Tears — Apr 26, 2025
Staring, screaming ""Bring my map!" with clenched fists. "Colonel, Attaquez l'Allemagne!" "Tous nos hommes, sans aucun remords!" This storm of sacrifice will reign! I have conquered! "Murdered!" I am your leader! "No! You slaughtered us all!" Déserteurs! "We'll infest your nightmares with our pain!" General Nightmare! He dreamt the horrors of the ones condemned to death; screaming women, children.... Tourmentés, brûlés, violés, tués! Woken from delirium (by) the stench of burning flesh. Wading through an ocean of blood and tears still fresh. "Suis-je fou? Mais je reste puissant! Je m'en fous de la populace!" ATTACK! Trembling, raging "Bring my map" with clenched fists. "My orders: Attack! Attack!" "Tous nos hommes, sans aucun remords!" This storm of sacrifice will reign! General Nightmare! He dreamt the horrors of the ones condemned to death; screaming women, children... Tourmentés, brûlés, tués! He dreamt the horrors of the ones condemned to death; screaming women, children... Tourmentés, pour l'éternité!
Hector was nine. In school making colorful drawings most of his time. One day he made this horrible portrait of a dead man and his child. The teacher was shocked! How could such a young lad draw pictures so sad? Hector was asked to explain. He replied: "It's me and daddy in the attic; hanging when we are dead." Cold and dead! Later that day, the boy left school early. Hector ran away. When he came home, he found his daddy's revolver. Now it's time to play. While father slept, his son blew his brains all over the bed. Then he went upstairs to the attic. There the kid shot himself through the head. Cold and dead! Mother came home and saw her husband. Mother came home and saw her son. Her soul collapsed and her heart froze. After the funerals she took an overdose. It is the house! Haunted! The house is cursed, the house is damned. Bewitched! Touched by the devil's hand. Haunted! The house is bitter and sad. Bewitched! It somehow drove little Hector mad. Once upon a time during the war the Nazis came and breached down this door. "Aufstehen!" The men had to stand and see. "Hinsehen!" How their women got raped so brutally. So hard... Cold and dead! Father resisted and for that he was taken upstairs after his boy. With his hands tied to his back and another rope around his neck, they made him stand upon the shoulders of his own dear son. Unfortunately the child could not hold his daddy that long. For several days he sat amongst his ravished and executed family. Eventually he knotted a rope out of his own bed-sheets and hung himself next to daddy.
Submitted by SerpentEve — Apr 26, 2025
There he lies: haunted, hunted, beaten, tortured, hanged and eaten. Encumbered by the past of these seven apparitions. "Where am I?" "Did I just die?" No one in sight, scanning his surroundings for where they might lie. The Prisoners, one by one, left him traumatized. Now only seven empty stakes pierce a blood red sky. He runs but stumbles, tries to crawl, to flee from this macabre scene. With broken bones, blind and shocked, can't comprehend what he has seen. The wet earth trembles and war winds howl like Wehrmacht-wolves on hungry prowl. "These fields are more than I can see! I cannot take this!" These fields are lurking as black hail falls like ashen blades. These fields are closing in to bury him with frozen spades. On bitter taste of blood he gags. Dragging on with broken legs to break loose from the horrid stench of burning lives and burning flags. With elbows through the mud he drags himself forward! Forward! "I shall escape this plot. I must! I will!" The wind lies down and the earth stands still. Black hail fire stings no more. Dear Lord above, did I escape that hellish place of gore?" He ends up where it all began. Seven pair of demon eyes. Seven fearsome demon smiles. Trapped in a paranormal chain. Bound to suffer endless warfare, torture, fear and pain. So ends this tale of fates aligned. A prophecy of war entwined into bloody knots that won't unwind, this ominous recording is all that's left behind: "Sunday, October third, 6 p.m. rain..."
Submitted by MetalElf — Apr 26, 2025