I think being stranded out in the middle of the ocean is intimidating. Whether a killer shark is after you, maybe the boat or ship is haunted. I’ve watched the game boy color game, Resident Evil Gaiden, and that game really sets the bar to me as to how scary being in the middle of nowhere in the ocean can be. With packs of zombies on board and a deadly bioweapon as well, with no way out.
Immediately downwind from a wildfire in a dense forest. At the bottom of an elevator shaft, which has no headroom built in when the car descends. Inside an industrial oven or cooking vat that’s starting to heat up.
I dunno, there’s a lot of places out there where you would die, and that are big enough to fit you. You just have to pick one where you’d have enough time to be scared, first.
At the bottom of a flooded cave. Cave-divers can do everything right and still die in a hole.
Deep inside a crater on the Moon, with your oxygen slowly running out and with no means of escaping
War. Having been in the Army, this is now why I’m anti-war. Nobody deserves that. Even if you’re a League of Legends fan.
a noisy room in a hospital and all you can hear is the deafening sound of your child’s final gasp for air. and then, nothing.
I would rather be flayed for eternity in hell than experience that.
Nutty Putty. The answer is always Nutty Putty.
Was going to say this. Any of those cramped, cavernous places. Esp the ones that are underwater.
Gaza sounds pretty rough right now
Epstein’s island.
I’d be terrified of being teleported to a super high, tiny area, like the side of a cliff or the edge of a skyscraper or radio tower something. Any wrong move means you fall to your death, and it’s just a matter of time before you get tired enough to lose concentration for a brief second and…
I got a film for you:
Respectfully, Fuck. No.
I need to check my blood pressure after watching the trailer… I’m gonna go lay down. On the floor. In the basement.
Lost in a cave in the dark for me.
Cavedivers. Grrrr!
Your own brain.
You create the most scariest thoughts yourself.
Ivy league frat house.
Just the regular bottom of the ocean as a bell diver for me.
A diaper box enroute to the Shite House.
A shipping container in remote Antarctica, with a cake iced with the name of your kidnapper. Sooner or later you gotta eat that cake and the only evidence of who put you in there.
You’ve probably got time to smear the kidnappers name in poop before your freeze to death. Failing that, drawing blood with which to write should be relatively simple.
“The wall just says ‘Kevin.’” “You heard the man! Round up all the Kevins!”
