Spike Eraserhead Novels & Stories

The pink rubber mass of the **Eraser** didn’t fall like a stone; it descended like a deadline. It was a slab of absolute negation, a silent, scouring force that turned the "Raw Source"—the white, unallocated space where we huddled—into a grainy, grey static. Where it touched the edge of the crowd, people didn't scream. They simply ceased to have ever been. I watched a man from the 1998 "Originals," a man who had just been weeping for his lost dog, vanish. His dog, his tears, the memory of his name—all of it was "Skritch-skritched" away in a microsecond.

"If that thing touches us, we're not just dead. We're Re recorded. We’ll become whatever Sarah Vance wanted us to be in 1995!" "Then we break the needle," Elara said, her silver fire erupting from her chest, turning the bruised purple sky into a blinding, electrical white. She didn't aim for the tape. She aimed for the Erase Head. She knew how these machines worked her mother had used them for her academic transcriptions. The Erase Head came before the Playback. If she could overload it with the "Silver Fire" of the present, she could wipe the tape clean before it reached the "Playback" of their deaths.

A neural lock. "You see," Elias continued, "to truly refine the 'Memory Eraser,' I need a consistent subject. Someone whose life is full of rich, technical knowledge and deep, agonizing trauma. Every time you start to remember that this lab is yours, that this invention is yours, or that your daughter is buried in the cemetery three miles from here... I simply press a button." "No," I choked out, tears blurring my vision. "Elias, please—" "Shh," he whispered, his finger finally pressing the key on the terminal. "Don't be haunted by the bad memories, Doctor. Let’s focus on the good ones. Like how brilliant your assistant is."

"Alright, where next?" "L-Leg—" "Right leg," Inky cut in with an evil smirk. "Hahaha, I'm liking this." Spiky took aim again. I thrashed in my restraints desperately, but they just laughed like I was some dying worm squirming in a puddle of bleach. He swung the bat again and—bang! A gunshot. Straight towards Spiky's head. Smoke rose up from the bullet hole as we saw his head down the ground, and his blood pooled wider and wider.

"Mara, I think you should—" "I know. I'll figure it out. Call me when you're with him." I hung up. Matteo was watching me. "Fled the scene," he said. "Yes." "Head injury." "Yes." He pressed his mouth together. Said nothing. I stood up and went to the window and looked out at the street below. Ordinary afternoon. People on their phones, a delivery driver double parked, a woman arguing with an umbrella that had gone inside out in the wind. Viktor in a hospital bed with a head injury and a broken wrist and a car that ran a red light on the Meridian overpass and then disappeared.

"Several news reports have amassed over the last eight months regarding the virtual headset. It has broken all barriers humanity had believed could never be broken, but has some extremely grave consequences. A total of 52 patients have developed psychotic symptoms after extensive use of the headset, and even catalysing brain malfuction and death in one young patient named Park Erin. Park Erin passed away upon turning 20, and post-mortems show extreme levels of plasticity in his brain, as his parts of his somatosensory cortex severely decreased in volume."

He did not love me, so he refused to believe me. He roared when I did not respond. “Apologize to Whitney right now!” Apologize? Fine! I had already taken the blame, so I might as well make it worth it. I picked up the wine bottle from the table and smashed it hard against Whitney’s head. “Sorry. I hit you too lightly earlier. I hope I didn’t disappoint this time!” Blood began to seep from Whitney’s head. Jake screamed in panic. He rushed to tend to her wound while calling an ambulance, drenched in sweat from panic.

he said. “I don’t need foreplay.” He honestly didn’t think he could get off with this chick. It could take hours. “Hold on.” He opened the bedroom door. “Eric!” he called to the band’s drummer. Eric stuck his head out of the bathroom. His hair was already fashioned into spikes along the center, short on one side, long on the other. The lock of hair that trailed down the side of his neck was currently dyed crimson red. Half of Eric’s lean face was covered with shaving cream; the other half, clean-shaven. He was practically ready to go, which meant Sed needed to hurry. The guys would be waiting for him and he wanted Brian’s last night as a bachelor to be memorable.

I promised to Mama I wouldn't come home drunk. "Do you have an apple juice?" I asked someone who was preparing the drinks. He is like the bartender of the club. "Yes, Ma'am. How many?" "Just one, please." He nodded and went away. When he went back, he gave me my order. "Hi, E!" Someone greeted me behind my back. I looked around and saw a familiar man who was smiling widely at me. "Hi... Skyler, right?" "It's me! I'm glad you remembered me." He chuckled.