GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE GATEKEEPERS
There’s something lurking in the code, in the algorithms that’s preying on us—If you’ve seen this post, it might already be too late.
The door was open. It wasn’t supposed to be. It gaped like an invitation no one wanted, humming with silence. I stepped inside Justine’s apartment, whispering their name. No response. Just the kind of stillness that feels loaded. And then I saw the blood.
It was smeared along the edge of their keyboard—a perfect, curling half-print of a fingertip. Beneath it was a tiny message written in red Sharpie on the back of a Post-it note:
"Rule 0 is real."
That was the last thing they ever wrote.
GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: POLLY MILLER ROAD
If you grew up in upstate New York, you’ve probably heard some version of the Polly Miller story. Witch. Murdered lover. Cursed swamp. The older kids always dared each other to go out there, to Polly Miller Road, after dark. I used to think it was all bullshit. Just local legend. But in the summer of 1999, I found out it wasn’t. Polly’s real—and she’s been waiting.
All we wanted was to run—me and Jess, two girls who’d gotten too deep in Carter’s bullshit. Swayed by the money, the free drugs, and that so-called safe compound tucked deep off Vickerman Hill. We had it made, but the cost was our souls, and that was too steep for me.
GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE CURIOUS CASE OF JORGE THE VAMPIRE HORSE
This is Jorge.
Jorge was a good little horse.
He came from Mexico.
He didn’t have papers—just dreams.
This is the Man in the Red Hat.
He was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
He was very mean.
He hid behind a cross and a gun.
And he treated politics like his favorite sports team.
The Man in the Red Hat hated Jorge.
GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: JACK’S TONIC
WARNING: Never drink a 150-Year-old Snake Oil Tonic—My Aunt did, and now she’s not human anymore
They told me the old milk house hadn’t been opened since 1947. My great-grandfather, Jack “The Milk Man,” died there—collapsed by the churn with his boots on. The room had stayed sealed ever since, the cold stone cellar beneath it undisturbed.
Until now.
GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: ROOTS
My uncle Jonas was a recluse. I thought he was interesting, but nobody else in my family could stand him—especially my mom, his baby sister. She blamed Vietnam. It wrecked him, stole the big goofy brother she once loved, and replaced him with an imposter dredged from the putrid mud of a battlefield. When the war ended, Uncle Jonas moved in with my grandma and never left. After she died in the late ’90s, when I was just a kid, he and my mom fought bitterly. She wanted to sell the house, but he refused. Being the oldest, he had just as much claim to it as she did, and he dug his heels in.
GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: RABBIT MEAT
Ben awoke violently to the sound of a large thud. The smell of damp earth and rot filled his nose as he opened his eyes. His wrists burned from the ropes binding him to the cold, wooden floor of the dilapidated house. He turned, realizing now, that the noise that brought him back to consciousness was his best friend, Jake. His lifeless body leaked a pool of blood onto the floor. A grotesque, half-rabbit figure stood over him menacingly. Ben looked into its eyes, glowing with malevolent hunger. The cultists, draped in filthy, ragged rabbit masks, left the room. Ben could see them through the open door in the hallway as they circled the altar, chanting in a language that made his skin crawl.