Black Petals Issue #89 Autumn, 2019

A Tale of the Dark Web

Mars-Chris Friend
BP Artists and Illustrators
A Tale of the Dark Web-Fiction by Blair Frison
Drop, Pt. 2: Help Thy Neighbor-Fiction by Michael Mulvihill
Gas Stop-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Grandad's Legacy-Fiction by Jan Cronos
Hive-Fiction by Dan Cardoza
My Nighttime Parents-Fiction by Malik Mandeville
Orphans at the Dark Door-Fiction by Roy Dorman
The News that Night-Fiction by June Driver
The Raft-Fiction by Stephen Caesar
The Voice from the Dark-Fiction by Scott Kimak
Dear Pneumonia-Two poems by Michael Mulvihill
The Well-Poem by Jason Rice

Art by Darren Blanch 2019

A Tale of the Dark Web


By Blair Frison

Addictive nightmares





I need sleep.

But whenever I close my eyes, I see it.

I must share this burden with someone. My life is now a waking nightmare because of that terrible video.

I found it online…on the dark web.  

You know what I’m talking about. The place where drug dealers and pedophiles rub elbows with arms merchants and killers-for-hire. The place where terrorists conspire and all sorts of ugly rumors roam.

I thought it would be a good idea to visit this place.

My purpose? Call it morbid curiosity. I was looking for the most extreme content I could find: snuff movies, red rooms, sex and death commingled.

I consider myself a student of the human condition and am fascinated by Man’s darker urges and apparent hatred of himself. I wanted to plumb the depths of his sickness and see what I could find. Knowledge for its own sake…or something.

I come from a wealthy family and have never known want. I knew I would have to pay for my curiosity, so I purchased several thousand dollars’ worth of crypto in advance. I will not go into the details of accessing the dark web. If you have the desire, it only takes a little bit of research. Seek and ye shall find.

In my search I scoured various message boards covering many distasteful topics such as cannibalism and incest-necrophilia. I chatted with several strange individuals, most of whom were distrustful of my direct approach in seeking what I sought. A few offered to make a trade but wanted me to show them something first. I, however, had nothing to offer—except money.

I was burned more than a few times, but I’d anticipated as much. After more than two weeks of searching and being continuously ripped off, I finally came across something interesting: the promise of a genuine red room.

That is to say, a live-streamed murder.

After a days-long conversation with a friendly stranger on a rather disturbing message board, I was provided with a link to this live-stream. He assured me it was genuine and unlike anything I had ever seen.

It cost me a mere five hundred dollars. And I have no doubt what I saw was real. If you saw it, you would know too.




The scene began abruptly with the camera displaying a large, windowless room with high ceilings. Mulch covered the floor. What appeared to be a giant rock took up one corner, and opposite this was a kids’ swimming pool filled with water.

Jesus Christ, how could I have known what was about to happen?

A portion of the ceiling suddenly opened and a small girl, upside down, was lowered into the room. She was suspended by the feet from what looked like giant forceps. Nude, she writhed. Her hands were bound behind her back and tape covered her mouth. She was only a teenager. Needless to say, she was visibly terrified.

Nothing happened for a few seconds.

Then, from under the rock, a head appeared. It was a snake—an anaconda, I believe.

Slowly, sooo slowly, he emerged from his hideout, forked tongue tasting the air. The girl’s eyes bulged from her head with the most intense shock I have ever seen.

The snake continued his creeping advance. He was massive. He had to be at least fifty feet long, one gigantic flowing muscle. I had never heard of a snake so big; he was an absolute monster if ever there was one. (I suspect he was genetically modified, and still shudder at the thought of what other mad experiments are being funded in the dark by twisted imaginations with vast resources).

The snake’s face rose to within inches of hers, his tongue darting in and out. He loomed above her, all coiled aggression. Mercifully, the girl fainted.

Whatever was holding the forceps began to shake the girl, like someone dangling a toy in front of a cat. The snake’s head pulled back slightly, tongue still flickering. He remained still for a moment, and then, without warning, he struck.

His jaws clamped down on her throat and his body whipped around her with lightning speed. He took her to the floor and proceeded to squeeze the life from her as the giant forceps were lifted from the room and the ceiling panel replaced by unseen hands.

I watched, stunned, as the snake uncoiled and released his teeth from her throat. He then unhinged his jaw and began to swallow her whole, a hideous lump working its way down the length of the snake’s body. The entire process could not have taken more than twenty minutes.

Afterwards, I sat in silence for what seemed hours, trying to process what I had just watched. My conscience gnawed at me to do something. That poor girl was in the springtime of her life, and others could be in danger of the same ghastly fate. This had to be reported.

I looked down at the wet circle on my crotch and sighed.

I paid for this. And I was just as guilty as the psychopaths who made the film. I could never do prison.

I looked up at my screen.

Thank you for purchasing Death by Beast. Next week, watch a frenzy of tiger sharks rip apart a Brazilian volleyball team! Only $999! Click here to order now.




That was one week ago.

The shark video is starting in a few minutes.

I imagine it will be quite horrific and I have a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach—but I am also trembling with anticipation. Can you imagine the carnage? I know I shouldn’t watch, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity.

And now I have someone to share my burden with. I hope you will lend me your ear again, since I doubt sleep’s comfort will be visited upon me tonight.

But, with your help, maybe I will sleep tomorrow night.

Or the next night.

Or the next…


The End



Blair Frison,, who wrote BP #89’s “A Tale of the Dark Web,” lives with his family on the beautiful island of Cape Breton, in Nova Scotia. He is pursuing a degree in management and spends most of his free time writing and watching an unhealthy amount of horror movies. He has a passion for music and animals and hopes to one day get over his fear of flying. Blair has written for various publications, such as Year’s Best Transhuman SF 2017, Fossil Lake IV: SHARKASAURUS!, The Edge: Infinite Darkness, Deadman’s Tome, Boxing 24/7, and Haunt of Horrors. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.

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