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Behind the scenes from The Beetle Realm, scary short stories & exclusives just for you.

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The Blood Trade

There in the black towering steeple, the bell bellowed three more times. The raven, etched in the metal moved back then forth with a stern might. The ringer felt dreary after the final rope tug. Down below, in the murkiest roads of the region, Beitrie sweated like a slave. The shackles tight around his throat, only to be released if enough rounds of bleeting was carried out. The bleeting duties were to drench minerals with molten then burying the rod into the temple of mammals, scold them to death. Mostly rodents, boars & rabbits. The meat was to satisfy the monster below, Mokrel. Slammed, tortured & broken was the monster. Barely surviving, blood had been mined from its massive body by the machines. The bulging blood tanks branded with the insignia of the mighty raven.Many believe the monsters blood had special properties beyond this realm, so it was sold to the many regions. A thriving business for any immoral entrepeneur. The man in the main building by the entrance to the below stood with a sinister brood. Every 11th of the 13th month, the managers of the blood trades met in the gothic spindling tower- to negotiate their business. The butler smirked as he emphatically laid out the boiled brown jerky for the members. A bloodied delicacy before their eyes, relieved for the sight of them-delicately textured- but they refused to even taste it. Instead they simply marked their signatures beside it.The signatures glowed faintly in the gloom, scrawled in ink mixed with powdered bone. With each name sealed, a tremor echoed beneath their polished boots. Far below, Mokrel stirred. Not from pain. Not from rage. From hunger. Beitrie, weak from smoke and sweat, watched the latest rodent writhe in the embers, then unalive into the hiss of the ritual. The blood tanks moaned. Pressure swelling. Meanwhile, the butler felt it first. The heat creeping up the walls, the scent of iron thickening in the smog. "Did anyone authorize a full quotum harvest today?" one of the merchants asked him, adjusting his thin velvet collar.No one answered.Then a howl. Long. Drenched in dwindling despair. Not from below—this was from the walls. The stone bled slowly like it has just been stabbed. Red ran like roots across the inner chamber. Mokrel had stopped bleeding. Mokrel had stopped breathing. And Mokrel, in his monstrous mind, remembered. The raven bell thundered—it had shattered. The black steeple tumbled down. This was not time for signatures, in the room of cowards where the butler seemed totally fraught, their business now seemed like their personal hell. The boiling jerky had begun to hiss and steam by itself.Brick and mortar had no chance. Everything fell. Beitrie was thrown against a mound in the blast of one of the blood tanks, on his back just lying there to be blanketed the ashed-rain. The taste of burnt fur on his tongue. The machinery was sealed over. The trade ended.Not long after, The 13th month was soon forgotten by the realm. But in the region, there had been this folktale warning being passed around—See thy raven in smog or fog,
Pray Mokrel will never return
If it does,
Sure as God,
This time you will burn.

The Blood Trade

There in the black towering steeple, the bell bellowed three more times. The raven, etched in the metal moved back then forth with a stern might. The ringer felt dreary after the final rope tug. Down below, in the murkiest roads of the region, Beitrie sweated like a slave. The shackles tight around his throat, only to be released if enough rounds of bleeting was carried out. The bleeting duties were to drench minerals with molten then burying the rod into the temple of mammals, scold them to death. Mostly rodents, boars & rabbits. The meat was to satisfy the monster below, Mokrel. Slammed, tortured & broken was the monster. Barely surviving, blood had been mined from its massive body by the machines. The bulging blood tanks branded with the insignia of the mighty raven.Many believe the monsters blood had special properties beyond this realm, so it was sold to the many regions. A thriving business for any immoral entrepeneur. The man in the main building by the entrance to the below stood with a sinister brood. Every 11th of the 13th month, the managers of the blood trades met in the gothic spindling tower- to negotiate their business. The butler smirked as he emphatically laid out the boiled brown jerky for the members. A bloodied delicacy before their eyes, relieved for the sight of them-delicately textured- but they refused to even taste it. Instead they simply marked their signatures beside it.The signatures glowed faintly in the gloom, scrawled in ink mixed with powdered bone. With each name sealed, a tremor echoed beneath their polished boots. Far below, Mokrel stirred. Not from pain. Not from rage. From hunger. Beitrie, weak from smoke and sweat, watched the latest rodent writhe in the embers, then unalive into the hiss of the ritual. The blood tanks moaned. Pressure swelling. Meanwhile, the butler felt it first. The heat creeping up the walls, the scent of iron thickening in the smog. "Did anyone authorize a full quotum harvest today?" one of the merchants asked him, adjusting his thin velvet collar.No one answered.Then a howl. Long. Drenched in dwindling despair. Not from below—this was from the walls. The stone bled slowly like it has just been stabbed. Red ran like roots across the inner chamber. Mokrel had stopped bleeding. Mokrel had stopped breathing. And Mokrel, in his monstrous mind, remembered. The raven bell thundered—it had shattered. The black steeple tumbled down. This was not time for signatures, in the room of cowards where the butler seemed totally fraught, their business now seemed like their personal hell. The boiling jerky had begun to hiss and steam by itself.Brick and mortar had no chance. Everything fell. Beitrie was thrown against a mound in the blast of one of the blood tanks, on his back just lying there to be blanketed the ashed-rain. The taste of burnt fur on his tongue. The machinery was sealed over. The trade ended.Not long after, The 13th month was soon forgotten by the realm. But in the region, there had been this folktale warning being passed around—See thy raven in smog or fog,
Pray Mokrel will never return
If it does,
Sure as God,
This time you will burn.

The Remnant (Sigil I)

The blistering Belgique winds blasted the rocking train.Miles seemed to blush by, and in the back, baggage slid from side to side. A mean-looking but rather slim man stood by the bent metal railing. Just brooding in the mundane crowds like an evil crow surveying the bushes. Mr Ritezer Molten was his moniker, rather tall and rocking a black-beard that barely moved from it's stalwart position when he spoke...and when he finally did, it was a rather menacing tongue:Brumult temrenter bime. Meditim rethrim rind. Telz rellm besimte.These bellowed right into minds of the bored, slumped passengers. One burly man shot up, he was sat beside Mr Molten, and irritatingly felt the strangest sensation in every third sentence. It soon became evident, the intentions of these sounds were meant for something darker- but then the muttering stopped.Mr Molten reeked evil, sinister like a bad smell. The man's long dank coat and rigid collar made the train riders feel the temptation they should stay sat in their seat, even though the train had just screeched to its final stop.They finally snapped out of it, they stomped and sneered at the man upon exit. The burly fat man thought hard to ignore it, but he let this shadow overtake his mind.Deep, deep down it was as though the train riders secretly enjoyed being intoxicated by the spell. Mr Molten was standing ready to exit. The burly fat man blasted by but felt the irresistible urge to breathe in Mr Molten's musk. His mouth, dried at the strong scent of smoke and ash. It was as if he was tasting faint memories of the past. The peppery blended spice made him ready to embrace...BLAM! Stacking over his suitcase, the train passengers just stomped over.Shrugging it off, the indulgence of the smell still made him feel bad. The bustling exit, made the mysterious silhouette of Mr Molten slip into the evening shadows. Everyone seemed to blissfuly ignore the event to rush back to their busy lives.The reality was far more barren, the burly fat man barely remembered the meeting he was on track for, muddled in every step, he finally rested his bearings by the bins. There, just beyond the rusted railings, something caught his eye.Markings on the metal... A rather strange figure riding horseback in rising flame. The emblem of the burnished metal made the bloomin' fat man struggle for a moment. It was his neglecting blood pressure that made him turn red.The tall, dark and strange man might have belonged to the The Remnant Sect, thought the burly man. It was the shadow society that's blood rituals had been only rumour in the town. The Remnants were said to have the mighty power to break men's struggles… But, this was just make believe, the burly man thought. If man truly wanted to beat their struggle, then the many reverends of the town would suffice to rid the ill mind and body.Mr Molten intimidated those he saw as lesser, stalking his prey by casting his dark thoughts into the minds of his victims. Slaver mind theory: those tempted to resist, deny the righteous bliss. The Remnant Sect members sought to master the very essence of the together mind, beneath the blinkered third eyes of many. Mr Molten staggered into these types of smoky towns to rid the monotonous lies made by reverends. The billboard outside the church made Mr Molten bite his lip in rage. The Remnants were just a fading myth.The end of Sigil I

The Ijikurse.

In my mind they scream my name. I'm not J-J-Jonie. They tried to eradicate me. I slay evil. IRL. The bass runs through my big skull, bliss. The rage I felt. Repeat. From the beginning- Seditious 180bpm. It's the RPG Maker stare-off. Me & the 8K monitor I just bought. Everyone says they see more with 8K, but I don't see more.//MINOS.respawnI eradicate bugs. Delete. Minos isn't in my game, I don't remember it being in the game, the story…Maybe the mechanics got buggy. I'm not Jonie in my mind, that's because in the big event they define as… existing, Mr Z is my moniker. I release the best rpg maker game, I steal boyfriends, I receive bad review's!?No! I rang my family immediately to cool it. Mr Z killed Jonie, so i'm blunt. Then back to the bass, Mr Z's dominion. I bash out the main story, rather… I let myself be a medium for it. The Ijikurse. My game, i just released the demo into the ether.//MINOS.respawnDAMN i love running my rpg maker empire. They fucking fear me, the baddies that... The f -  the bloody bug!!!
Isn't it too late? It's in the release…My tumblr feed, broken. I'm sitting there, in the mud. Evil exists I must end it. But the internet is down. I'm in the mud. I need my root beer and end my bad thoughts. I released the RPG, bliss. Bliss is me. Mmm.In my re-telling of this, there's a few things I shouldn't mention. The thing is it still sends me insane. Just let me, 1 more beer. Tsk! Bite me. The evil melts away for the briefest moment.In my meditation tape, I feel a strong purple light that removes everything, except for the bad thing. Blergh! I shouldn't be meditating on this shit.The lights went out, but then it was a bleedin' miracle. Internet back, I scoured the Ijikurse for bugs. No sign of MINOS. I must have been seeing things, bad thought. But then my monitor begins to rattle. Believe me or not but my reflection got so close - BONK! The monitor it actually hit me - hard! Then-Black screen.//- !? The text types itself, the words bleeding through the millions of pixels.I'M RELEASED.I peel myself away just as my speakers blow out! Boof! The bassline drops, not even ready for it. The menu music but it's slowed, reverbed.The bass pounds what feels like this eternal terror. My breath synchronises to it. I'm stuck to it.
Then I see on the monitor: No save file. Error on boot.That's when i knew, I needed to end it. I rush over to the black mess, my empire I built, immaterial right now. The bass still beating against my body. I begin typin'-MrZ.respawn
MrZ.respawn
MrZ.respawnEnter…The end.

Evil Sprite

I do not breathe, I do not need to read. Believe me, I tried to be evil. I hated it. Saints are beggars of glory and might. No saint, no sinner, just ink. The ink stain seemed to talk all kinds of zany things on the map of The Seekries Mansion. ‘Don’t move in there, there is only lies and we know that map is the secret. But fear me, madrigal, for secrets are full of shit. fear me, Death.'Madrigal enjoyed tying her lace with the tinged map in her mouth, Jekyll her brother was only 7 and knew all this time they shouldn’t be breaking in. The brown haired, brown eyed and malt brown soft skinned Madrigal didn't know it yet, but she was madly in love with the mystery. They broke in through the back. No need for a key, they had been told the backgate would be left ajar but tied with tape. Easy. Rip!Time slips by us all, I think to myself. I sipped my tea in the living room, I should have waited but they touched the brimstone. It was my moment.Rrr-eeeek!The silhouette of a boy turns around, disturbed. I go over to the wall to listen. There is another! I shake the electricals in the walls with a surge. I would have thrown the stacked saucepans to the floor but that's just not me. The screams, finally! I move in. I do not breathe. But down her spine, she feels it. A twisted tingle. I'm right there. Mine!In my bed, I remember the mansion. Jekyll! There he is, is he okay? Just standing there, my brother... with a frown. I don’t know it, how to speak. I just don't let her leave the thought of me. I’m finally real!!!Madrigal, so sweet now turned.
Madrigal, I stole more then just your mind. I stole your soul.
Madrigal, kill him.

I End Evil - Interactive Fiction. Support me on Indiegogo!

I end evil. This is Brezerik's mission. For the revenge of his brother, who was slain in battle... The battle against those that dwell in the shadows. In the murkiest part of the lands, the Rinthtúm is dark and manifests supernatural evil. Men that enter the Rinthtúm, have never returned. The sinister legend unfolds...Battle enemies in this branching narrative, survival horror story. Every move matters. The evil might mess with your mind, it seems the evil within has been expecting someone like you to enter their domain. This is an interactive fiction game with striking imagery, a narrative with mystery and a mind-bending mechanics.In the silent retreat, the monster's mutter... Morlok. Their master. Will you take revenge, just barely survive, or reveal the sinister mysteries of the evil? Bespoke mechanics and a truly terrifying narrative. Expected demo release: Mid-Late 2025.

• Indiegogo!

The revenge of the muffin.

The evening of the the boy’s 8th birthday is met with both embarrassment and joy. It meant that he was ready to go out by himself for the first time without his mom, Mildred.
‘There be monsters among men.’ She warned the boy, ‘just be my brave boy and rush back. My three shillings…’ she hands over the money ‘but…buy everything that your eyes desire, my birthday boy!’
The boy was totally enamoured. Mildred isn’t always this rewarding but the boy sailed the momentary bliss. The embrassment was as strong. The bullies from school stole his triple chocolate muffin & said they would return for the rest of his birthday bounties.
‘By the embankment the sweet shoppe is the…’ Mildreds tongue sticks out but the boy beats her to it.‘The one with the red door!’ the boy exclaims, the boy realsing he could buy 8 triple chocolate muffins. Bullies R.I.P.‘My boy, if i remember rightly… the establishment might be run by a strange man, I’ve heard rumors that the beggars steal from him are made sorry.’ Mildred had an eerie sneer but a rather romantic smile. The boy thought for a brief moment: is my mom going to let me go or is she riffing on this man for some other reason?
By running, the boy scurried the evening streets like a murderous rat. The sweet shoppe stood just right where he’d remembered. But there was no man. Not a soul greeted him, instead the dazzling display of the sweetes treats blew the boy away. The boxes & boxes & even more boxes of sweet bundles.‘I bet they are filled will the tastiest bon-bons.’ the boy ran his mouth, supposing the man might pop out to help. The sign read 13 shillings for a box. The boy reluctantly moves on, toward the back then. But…he remembers…The muffin stolen by the bullies. In the maddest moment, the sense of revenge urged him to strike. He steals the box and runs.By the bins of the embankment, the boy removes the evidence. The boy eats every single sweet, just too scared to return to his mom. Suddenly the boy senses something. He thumbs the bin, trying to grasp it for…The rest of his body… It’s red hot. Blimey. The boy begins to feel his backside become rather bushy! By the minute, everything races before him in streaks of zany colour. The bins seem to expand, the surroundings too. The boy metamorphosed into a skunk!!!Still by the bins, the boy is stunned when he hears a blurt of something extremely loud. As he tunes in, he sees a rather beefy looking man sticking out the rubbish. The boy or err… boyish-skunk is stuck there. Stopped by the horrible, sweaty fear. Someone more elegant meets with the man, its the boys mom. She mentions briefly, ‘I’m looking for my son!’‘Mildred, its me.’ The man bellows. But before he spins round, the man stops. He stares by the bins. Evil seems to emit from his glare. The man replies to Mildred’s scarce mutterings.‘Bite me, I mean. Remember me? I’m running errands for my establishment. I’m sorry about the missing boy. But back at my establishment, I might be able to ring someone. In the meantime, my muffins are for sale.’ He grins.The End.

The Monster Is Behind Me…

The shadows lie. By the evening, I barely see the ends of my brown locks as I begin tying them. I stop. Is there something behind me? Just my mind… But I mention it to my mum, the shadows moving in the sadly brief talk before she rushes off for salsa night. My texts blew up. My Instagram is spooking me a bit but I stayed for the memes. I stare directly through my mobile. I’m blinded. I’m running from it. The bad mood.My behaviour shifts thinking about my bedtime, my real shackle. I was scared of the shadows. So I jump right in bed with my mascara & joggers still on. Bethmarvels3x remixes the reel of my ramblings. The most I muster is telling everyone that monsters in the dark didn’t exist! I record, make-up still intact, boom! If I’m being real with you, I still believed something existed in the dark of my room every evening.I bravely took up the challenge of making a music EP for extra credit, my grandparents bought me a microphone. It meant meeting bandmates by 7 p.m. down in the smoke. I ring my mom to pick me up, s.t.r.a.i.g.h.t. away. There aren’t any murders or reports like that. The latest rumour going round is there is this beast-like entity that makes gruff pants and the smell of it is supposedly like rotting flesh.There is a man unearthing the floorboards by the bottom of the stairs. Rat problem, my mum claims… it might be weeks for the rodent(s) to surface. Traps are set. I might be able to sleep tonight. Before I slip to sleep, there is a strange beating rhythm. I mean, it isn’t scary because it’s just a rat! Right? I’ve been so bad at self-soothing recently, meep.‘Be there by 8.p.m.’ my boyfie had just rung. I need to buy more brushes, I can’t seem to blend the blusher properly. It’s a bloomin’ shoddy budget brand. The starkness of my tones is bearable but the more reds, the merrier. I meet him in the restaurant. It’s been three years since we met, but 8 months of messily making out! He mentions the beast thing briefly ‘I think, Maisie… The thing that everyone be talkin’ bout is real. It’s like a monster. But I don’t regard it… I mean I wouldn’t say it’s evil. More like ’em Japanese mongrels’ he’s messily scoffing the meatballs, I’m not enjoying the mood.‘Them silent beings that mean serenity and reincarnation if you see ’em. The real evil things, the real monsters; Maisie they’re… us, people. Misplace power, misstep boundaries, everyone has a bad bone. The bad shit that people get up to just to make their egos feel big.’ He ended abashedly. I enjoyed the meal.My boyfriend made me feel better. Smart guy but needs to reign in a bit. Back to my bed, I’m tired but I don’t stop thinking about the restaurant. I run my mind. Might have ruined my mum’s third relationship, that was evil. By 3.a.m my mum is snoring. There’s a bustle in my room and I have to blink my eyes multiple times. I’m stupidly sleepy, I bash the side cab to see where I stuck my mobile phone. Ergh so late! Message. The Boyfie. It reads: Maybe be there for my brother’s birthday on Sunday? I love the idea of belonging, family matters. Right.The scariest thing was I knew then it was in my room & I needed to be the brave 17-year-old to stand up from my bed right… N-O-W! Just make the shadows your bitch. I blew off the motivating speech in my head. I move but the rucksack makes me trip. Blast. This is the end. But, I stay there & nothing. No meanie. Just my smelly socks. I switch on the side light & I see myself, meh, looking a STATE in the mirror. I feel like a right messy bum.My biggest enemy is standing there, staring back at me through the mirror. The bad self-talk makes me feel like this moment is entertaining to me. Back to shut-eye. I stare into the shadows. I bet my selfie is being liked right now. My mobile, oh… 11 souls think I’m that bitch! That’s enough for tonight but just 1 mor- I’m shocked. My Instagram screams for my eyeballs. The beast. 3 eyes, hairy belly. A scary motor oil slime sneaks off its tongue! Then I saw blood. ENOUGH. I shut the screen off. That’s me, bedtime.I make my barrier out of bear and my big purple throw, I’m safest in my bed. I think this shit is beyond bonkers. It’s just special effects, it’s just made up, it’s just Instagram…My mobile buzzes. I must remember to reply to my boyfie, but my biggest intuition struck me then like never before. I stop letting the shadows grow stronger. I stop relying on the realm of momentary bliss to make feel better.The End.

© Be The Bite Studios. MMXXVI. All rights reserved.

The Blood Trade

There in the black towering steeple, the bell bellowed three more times. The raven, etched in the metal moved back then forth with a stern might. The ringer felt dreary after the final rope tug. Down below, in the murkiest roads of the region, Beitrie sweated like a slave. The shackles tight around his throat, only to be released if enough rounds of bleeting was carried out. The bleeting duties were to drench minerals with molten then burying the rod into the temple of mammals, scold them to death. Mostly rodents, boars & rabbits. The meat was to satisfy the monster below, Mokrel. Slammed, tortured & broken was the monster. Barely surviving, blood had been mined from its massive body by the machines. The bulging blood tanks branded with the insignia of the mighty raven.Many believe the monsters blood had special properties beyond this realm, so it was sold to the many regions. A thriving business for any immoral entrepeneur. The man in the main building by the entrance to the below stood with a sinister brood. Every 11th of the 13th month, the managers of the blood trades met in the gothic spindling tower- to negotiate their business. The butler smirked as he emphatically laid out the boiled brown jerky for the members. A bloodied delicacy before their eyes, relieved for the sight of them-delicately textured- but they refused to even taste it. Instead they simply marked their signatures beside it.The signatures glowed faintly in the gloom, scrawled in ink mixed with powdered bone. With each name sealed, a tremor echoed beneath their polished boots. Far below, Mokrel stirred. Not from pain. Not from rage. From hunger. Beitrie, weak from smoke and sweat, watched the latest rodent writhe in the embers, then unalive into the hiss of the ritual. The blood tanks moaned. Pressure swelling. Meanwhile, the butler felt it first. The heat creeping up the walls, the scent of iron thickening in the smog. "Did anyone authorize a full quotum harvest today?" one of the merchants asked him, adjusting his thin velvet collar.No one answered.Then a howl. Long. Drenched in dwindling despair. Not from below—this was from the walls. The stone bled slowly like it has just been stabbed. Red ran like roots across the inner chamber. Mokrel had stopped bleeding. Mokrel had stopped breathing. And Mokrel, in his monstrous mind, remembered. The raven bell thundered—it had shattered. The black steeple tumbled down. This was not time for signatures, in the room of cowards where the butler seemed totally fraught, their business now seemed like their personal hell. The boiling jerky had begun to hiss and steam by itself.Brick and mortar had no chance. Everything fell. Beitrie was thrown against a mound in the blast of one of the blood tanks, on his back just lying there to be blanketed the ashed-rain. The taste of burnt fur on his tongue. The machinery was sealed over. The trade ended.Not long after, The 13th month was soon forgotten by the realm. But in the region, there had been this folktale warning being passed around—See thy raven in smog or fog,
Pray Mokrel will never return
If it does,
Sure as God,
This time you will burn.