Tour from hell: The dead skin project's descent

Dead Skin – The Tour From HELL!

It started one fog-heavy night in October — the kind of night that smells like smoke, beer, and bad decisions.
Sid Skinn, a part-time punk and full-time menace, was stumbling home from the pub through the old churchyard, bottle in hand, humming something that sounded like The Damned played backwards.

That’s when he saw it.

A tall, stick-thin shape standing among the gravestones — motionless, like a scarecrow someone had forgotten to take down after Halloween.
Its body was black and wiry, like twisted wire and dried skin. Its head — a huge jack o’ lantern, carved with a jagged grin, flame flickering deep inside.

Sid blinked, thinking it was a prank. “Nice costume, mate,” he muttered, kicking at a loose stone. “You in some charity thing?”

The thing didn’t move.

He stepped closer, squinting. “You alright, pal?”

The eyes of the pumpkin blinked. Slowly.

Then came the whisper — dry, creaking, like dead leaves scraping the ground:

“You woke me…”

Sid staggered back, dropping his bottle. “What the hell are you?”

The figure’s grin widened. “They called me Dead Skin.”

Lightning flashed. The flame inside the pumpkin roared, and suddenly the creature moved — fast — towering over Sid like a nightmare with rhythm.

When the storm passed, all that was left of Sid was his leather jacket, and a half-burned cigarette smouldering in the dirt.

And from that night on, Dead Skin walked the earth again — the legend no one believed, until it was too late.

Dead Skin didn’t sneak. He strutted.
He prowled through the town’s backstreets like a punk frontman looking for trouble.
Every time he swung his knife, it was in time to the music in his head — a dirty, three-chord punk riff that no one else could hear.

He scrawled his name on walls in blood and ash:
DEAD SKIN PROJECT.

The press thought it was a band. The cops thought it was graffiti.
But the locals knew better — and they stopped going out after dark.

By the end of the week, three people were gone, the mayor’s dog had been found with a grin carved into its muzzle, and the graveyard glowed orange every night like a furnace.

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It all ended — or seemed to — on the Miller family farm.
The townsfolk finally banded together with shotguns, pitchforks, and too much courage for their own good.

They caught Dead Skin in the barn, surrounded by bales of hay and half-eaten pumpkins.
He laughed when they charged him. He laughed when they shot him. He even laughed when they cut his head off.

By morning, the body was gone — turned to soot — but his jack o’ lantern head still burned bright.

The Millers, being practical people, took it home. “A trophy,” said the father.
By dinnertime, it was sitting in the middle of their table, candlelight dancing behind its grin.

The smell was strange — sweet and smoky — but no one questioned it.
They ate their meal in peace, until the youngest child swore he heard a whisper:

“Dinner’s served…”

That night, the family’s dog started barking at the barn.
By morning, the kitchen knife was missing.
And in the yard, the scarecrow had changed — now it stood tall and thin, with a pumpkin head that burned from within.

Dead Skin had found a new home.

The Dead Skin Project was alive again — and hungry for more.

Dead Skin Project – Part 2: “The Family Band”

The Miller farmhouse slept in silence, but something was wrong with the air.
It was thick — heavy — like the calm before an encore.

Mrs. Miller was the first to stir. She woke with the taste of smoke on her tongue and a song in her head — a scratchy punk riff repeating over and over, like a broken record.
She went to the kitchen for water and froze.

The pumpkin head was back on the table.
But it wasn’t burned anymore. The grin looked freshly carved, and the candle inside flickered with a steady heartbeat glow.

She blinked — and the grin winked.

By morning, she was whistling Dead Skin’s tune while chopping vegetables — and hummingitlouder when she reached for the carving knife.

The rest of the family began to change too.

Mr. Miller, once mild as milk, started wearing his old leather jacket again and cursing at the tractor.
The kids — little Benny and Ellie — stopped watching cartoons and started scribbling skulls, bats, and guitars in their school books.

Every night, from the barn, came the sound of something being… rehearsed.
Drums from barrels, guitar riffs made of rattling tools, and a low, rumbling voice chanting:

“Dead Skin Project — rise again,
One more song, one more sin…”

The neighbours thought it was coyotes.
They were wrong.

A week later, the Millers hosted a “bonfire party.” Everyone in town was invited — free beer, live music, hot stew.

The crowd came curious, expecting country songs and cheap fireworks.
Instead, they found the family standing on a makeshift stage in the barn, dressed head to toe in rags and black denim.
Their eyes glowed faintly orange.

“Evenin’, folks,” said Mr. Miller, strumming a rusted guitar strung with barbed wire. “We’re the Dead Skin Project.”

The music started slow — a throbbing, dirty bassline — and then burst into chaos: a furious punk roar that rattled the rafters.
People clapped, unsure if it was genius or madness.
Then the pumpkin lights flared.

The barn doors slammed shut.
And the crowd realized the stew wasn’t made of beef.

When the firemen arrived the next morning, the barn was gone.
Only smoke, ash, and music drifting on the wind remained.

But in the centre of the blackened field stood four new scarecrows — tall, thin, and grinning through carved jack o’ lantern faces.
Each one held an instrument.
And if you stood very still, you could swear you heard them playing — faintly, somewhere between the crackle of the embers and the rustle of the corn.

A month later, posters began appearing in nearby towns.
No one knew who put them up.

LIVE TONIGHT — THE DEAD SKIN PROJECT
No refunds. No survivors.

Everywhere the posters appeared, people disappeared.
Everywhere people disappeared, the air smelled faintly of burnt pumpkin and feedback.

And on certain nights, when the wind was just right, you could hear the band playing in the distance — raw, furious, and on fire.

Because the Dead Skin Project never dies.
They just wait for the next gig.

Dead Skin Project – Part 3: “The Tour of Terror”

The posters had done their job.
By the time night fell over the next county, people were already buzzing about the mysterious punk band playing at “The Slaughtered Goat Bar.”
No one knew where they came from, but their flyers promised free entry and unforgettable atmosphere.

The black tour van rolled out of the smoke of the Miller farm.
Its sides were dented, its windows painted black, and its engine coughed like a chain-smoker.
Inside sat four silhouettes — jack-o’-lantern heads glowing like dashboard lights.

Dead Skin himself drove, humming feedback through cracked teeth.
“Next stop, civilisation,” he rasped. “Let’s give ’em a show.”

The first gig began like any other dive-bar disaster.
Drunk locals, sticky floors, one working speaker.
Then the lights cut out.

When they came back on, the stage was glowing orange.
Dead Skin slammed his guitar — a sound like thunder in a graveyard.
The Millers joined in: Mrs Miller on drums made of bones and oil cans, Mr Miller grinding bass strings that sparked, and the kids shrieking backup vocals that peeled paint off the walls.

The crowd went wild — until the music turned into something else.
Each riff dragged the audience closer, bodies twitching in rhythm, eyes going glassy.
When the final chord hit, the whole bar was silent… and still.

By morning, only the instruments were left standing.

Word spread fast.
Videos appeared online — grainy clips of fire, screaming, and killer riffs that made listeners disappear.
Promoters called; festivals offered slots.

Dead Skin answered every message with the same reply:

“We’ll play anywhere… as long as it’s night.”

From Hollowville to Gristle Bay, the band burned across the map.
Every gig left a smoking crater and a few new scarecrows swaying in the wind.
Some said the music wasn’t played through amps at all, but through the souls of the audience.

The press called them “the band from hell.”
Dead Skin just called it “a good tour.”

Their last booked show was Pumpkinpalooza, a Halloween festival held in a massive cornfield.
Ten thousand people showed up.
The stage lights flickered orange as the wind howled through the stalks.

Dead Skin stepped to the mic.
“Ladies and germs,” he croaked, “this one’s for Sid — the fool who found me. Let’s raise the dead!”

The music hit like a bomb.
Fireworks exploded overhead, but halfway through the set the flames started falling instead of rising.
The corn caught fire, the amps melted, and the crowd — well, they didn’t run. They danced.
When the smoke cleared, nothing was left but ash and the faint echo of distorted laughter.

Epilogue – Encore Eternal

Weeks later, truckers reported seeing a van made of smoke cruising empty highways.
Sometimes, they swore they heard music — distant, fast, and furious — blasting from nowhere.
And in every town the van passed, pumpkins began to glow on doorsteps that no one had carved.

Because you can’t kill a good hook.
And you can’t bury a punk band that never stopped playing.

The Dead Skin Project rolls on forever —
Touring the afterlife, one burning stage at a time.