Ghost Stories Of Isla Nublar

by Somethinghassurvived

Next time you go to Jurassic World, try not to think about the deaths that occurred on Isla Nublar back in the Jurassic Park Incident of 1992. And especially don't stray far from the path, or dinosaurs will be the least of your worries.

1. Chapter 1: Ray Arnold

Chapter 1: Ray Arnold

As you step into the neglected control room of the original Jurassic Park, the first thing you notice is the smell. It doesn't smell like mold, mildew, or any other scents of decay, despite the fact that the rest of the building smells like that. The smell of mildew and mold is the natural smell for a place that has been abandoned and left to rot in a tropical jungle for decades. Instead, it smells like cigarette smoke, like someone's been smoking Marlboros here recently. Suddenly, the smell takes a sharp turn towards the sulfurous and an electronic beeping alarm draws your attention. One of the yellowed, moldy CRT monitors has flared to life with a mildew-tinted yellowish green glow and is displaying a diagram of the original Jurassic Park. Parts of the diagram are flashing white in time with the beeping. BIP-BIP-BIP-bop-bop-bop-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-brnt-brnt-brnt...You realize it's showing the fences of the old park failing. This must be what the monitors showed on that fateful day in 1992.

Before you have time to try and comprehend what you're seeing, the monitor blacks out. A silent second passes as you try to figure out what just happened. There's no power in the old control room, hasn't been for decades. Then the seams of the monitor start gushing blood. You scream and turn to run, but as you do the door slams shut with a loud bang and a great plume of dust. You sense you're not alone in the room, and you turn around to find a black man with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses standing there, glaring at you. You know him, and he knows you. The right lens of his glasses is missing. His right eye is missing, along with half of his face. His throat has been torn out. His left arm is missing, and his intestines are hanging out of his body limply. His clothes are badly torn and stained with blood. God, that's a lot of blood. He smells like death. He is dead. You left him to die in 1992, when the raptors came you ran. You could have saved him, you had the shotgun and you ran. He has a Marlboro clenched in his mouth, lit with sulfurous hellfire. "I'm here, I'm dead, and I'm fucking pissed off," he drawls. He steps forward. You scream.