“Please let me out.” My son David pleaded with me. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“You know I can’t do that David.” I leaned against the wall next to the bathroom I had trapped my sixteen year old son in, the only one in the house without a window.
“LET! ME! OUT!” he suddenly screamed, punctuating each word with a kick to the bathroom door while shaking the door handle.
I jumped at the sudden display of violence. Such fits of rage had become common over the past couple of weeks, but they still frightened me. That’s not my David I kept repeating to myself while clutching the gold cross that dangled around my neck.
“I’m sorry mom. I didn’t mean to scare you.” It was eerie how easily he could read my emotions, even when he couldn’t see me. “I’m ok now.” I knew better than to believe him. He was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security so I’d let him out.
The doorbell rang. Finally, I thought while hurrying to the front door.
“Who’s that?” David’s voice carried down the hall. “Is it Veronica? If it is you have to let me out.” He insisted turning the handle back and forth quickly trying to open the door.
“Good morning Mrs. Knowles.” The priest standing on my porch greeted me once I had opened the door. The man standing next to him just smiled.
“Father Cooke, thank you so much for coming. Please come in.” I held the door open as the two men entered my home.
“I’d like to introduce you to my associate, Mr. Alexander.” Father Cooke indicated the tall, thin man standing next him. I assumed he must be some sort of clergyman the way he was dressed in all black like Father Cooke, but I thought it was odd that he wasn’t wearing a roman collar.
“He specializes in handling situations like yours.” He explained, noticing the way I inspected him.
“It is a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Knowles.” Mr. Alexander said, extending his free hand. The other hand held a small leather satchel close to his side.
“Tell them to leave, mother.” David called out. “They have no business here.”
“I didn’t know where else to put him.” I blurted out afraid they were going to think I was a horrible mother.
“We understand. Hopefully he won’t have to be in there much longer.” Father Cooke said.
“We can talk in the kitchen.” I said leading them through the house. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked after they had taken a seat at my small dining table.
“Nothing for me,” Father Cooke replied.
“Coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble.” Mr. Alexander said after setting his bag on the table.
I quietly prepared the coffee while they waited patiently for me to take my seat. I could tell they were anxious to begin. I know it was important that they start as soon as possible, but accepting that your son needs an exorcism is not easy. It borders on madness.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” I spoke while stirring my coffee staring into the cup before taking my seat. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
“We believe you.” Father Cooke reached out and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Your story is not as crazy as it sounds.” He looked over at Mr. Alexander. “Especially to men like us. Possession is far more common than the church cares to admit”
“I know you’ve already told Father Cooke everything that has happened, Mrs. Knowles, and he has told your story to me, but if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to hear it again, in your own words.” Mr. Alexander requested.
I looked over at him, “I don’t know where to begin. These past two weeks have been crazy.”
“Let’s start with the breakup since that seems to be where you first started to notice his erratic behavior.”
I shifted my eyes and gazed out the window for several seconds, took a deep breath, released it, then tried to tell David’s story.
“They broke up just over two weeks ago, the day Veronica returned home from her trip to Florida. At the time I didn’t know the specific reason why they broke up, but I have since learned it was because David was smothering her with attention. Calling and texting her several times a day while she was on vacation.” I paused and took a sip of my coffee before continuing. “Nobody likes being smothered like that, but that was just so unlike David. He didn’t use to be that clingy.”
While I was talking Mr. Alexander had pulled a pen and notebook out of the inside pocket of his jacket so that he could take notes. “How did David respond to the breakup?” he asked after finding a free page to write upon.
“He was psychotic, to put it mildly.” I responded “He went crazy. He was obsessed with getting her back. I had never seen him act like that. The things he said and did give me chills just thinking about them.”
“Can you be more specific?” Mr. Alexander asked.
“The first night after the breakup I tried to talk to David, but he just went to his room and slammed the door. I thought it would be best to give him some space to deal with his emotions and that he would come and talk to me when he was ready. I don’t know when he climbed out of his window. All I know is that I got a knock on my door at two o’clock in the morning when the police brought him home.”
“I WASN’T DOING ANYTHING WRONG!” David screamed, his voice echoing down the hall. “THEY HAD NO RIGHT TO INTERFERE. I WAS JUST TRYING TO FINISH WHAT WE STARTED.”
A tear welled up in the corner of my eye then slowly rolled down my cheek. Father Cook stood up and grabbed the tissue box sitting on the windowsill above the sink and set it on the table in front of me. I smiled my thanks then began to sob.
“Perhaps it would be better if I just ask for clarification on certain points of the story you told to Father Cooke.” He suggested taking note of my fragile emotional state. “I know this is hard, but I need to make sure I have as much information as possible to determine what has taken possession of David.”
“Sorry,” I used a tissue to wipe my eyes. “It’s been so hard. I can’t do this anymore, not by myself.”
There once was a Mr. Knowles, but he decided the family life wasn’t for him and left when David was three years old. I never remarried and never asked for any kind of spousal or child support during the divorce process. I was determined to provide for myself and David without help from anyone else.
“You’re not alone, not any longer.” Father Cook patted my hand “Take your time. We understand how hard this is on you.”
I took a few minutes to compose myself. “Ok.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m ready.”
“The night that David was brought home by the police, the officers told you he was picked up for destruction of property and disturbing the peace, do you know what happened that night?”
“Yes I do, but only because Dawn, that’s Veronica’s mother, called me the following morning to tell me what happened and let me know they would be getting a restraining order. David had taken all of the flowers off of a neighbor’s rose bushes and started to arrange them on the lawn while calling out for Veronica to come outside and stand inside the sigil, whatever a sigil is. That, along with how late it was, disturbed them enough to call the police instead of me.”
“What color were the flowers?” Mr. Alexander asked, “…and were you told anything about the specific way he arranged the flowers?” he added.
“I know the flowers were pink, I’ve seen them plenty of times when I would drop David off at Veronica’s. I don’t know anything about what he was making with them. But…if you go and look in his room, he has drawn this weird star within a star symbol all over his walls. It was probably that. He has been obsessed with that symbol since the breakup.”
“Which room is David’s?” Mr. Alexander asked standing up and walking over to the hallway.
“It’s the last door on the left.”
I watched as Mr. Alexander walked down the hall and opened David’s door, but didn’t go in. He just stood right outside the doorway peering around the room. It almost seemed like he was afraid to cross the threshold
“Was that too much for you magister?” David chuckled as Mr. Alexander passed the bathroom on his way back to the kitchen.
“Do you know what it means?” I asked once Mr. Alexander had returned to his seat.
“I do, but I think it is best to explain everything once I have all of the facts, otherwise we will lose precious time dwelling over things that will not make sense without the proper context.”
“Let’s continue.” He said picking up where he left off before walking down the hall to David’s room. “Did he try and return to her house after that night?”
“No, he didn’t. The police made it clear that if he was found anywhere near her house again, he would be arrested. That didn’t stop him from trying to contact her though.”
“That was when you had to confiscate his phone, correct?”
“Yes. He started calling her, then when she wouldn’t answer he would leave voice mail, and when that wasn’t working he started texting her.” I stood up and walked over to the counter and grabbed David’s cellphone out of my purse then returned to my seat.
“The messages started out with him pleading with her to return to the sigil with him then as the days passed they got more insistent and threatening and then they just started sounding like gibberish.”
I unlocked the phone, tapped the instant messenger app then handed the phone to Mr. Alexander. “Some of the earlier texts have been deleted, but most of the crazier ones are still there.”
“THOSE MESSAGES ARE PRIVATE!” David suddenly yelled while renewing his attempts to escape his bathroom prison.
Mr. Alexander spent the next few minutes scrolling through the text message history. I could tell by the look on his face that he saw something he recognized.
“It was those text messages that convinced the judge to grant the restraining order against David.” I offered while he read the texts.
“Based on what you are telling me, I think whatever happened to David started sometime before Veronica left for Florida. I also think she knows more than she is letting on, particularly about that symbol in David’s room and the language used in the texts.”
“Is this the current phone number for Veronica?” He held David’s phone up so I could see the screen. “I think it’s time she told the truth.”
“It should be.” I responded “I don’t think she changed it.”
“DON’T YOU DARE CALL HER!” David was becoming more agitated. We continued to ignore him.
Mr. Alexander pulled his own phone out then dialed Veronica’s number, knowing that David’s number would be blocked. As the phone started to ring he pressed the speaker button and set the phone on the table so everyone could hear the conversation.
“Hello…” Veronica sounded wary, not recognizing Mr. Alexander’s number.
“Hello Veronica. My name is Theodore Alexander. I am working with the Knowles family on a treatment plan for David and I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“I don’t know.”
“It will only take a moment, and it would be extremely beneficial for David.”
“My parents don’t want me to have anything to do with David or Mrs. Knowles. They would have a shit fit if they knew I was even talking to you.”
“You won’t be talking to either of them, just me, and I only have one question.”
“One question…that’s it.” She relented.
“Thank you.” he said then asked his question. “The symbol drawn all over David’s walls and the text messages he sent you, the ones that look like gibberish. I know you’ve seen them before. Based on the timeline I am working with I am assuming you encountered them about a week before you went on vacation and if I am correct they were part of a spell or ritual David performed. For David’s sake, I need you to tell me the name of whatever it was he found.”
His question was greeted with silence. I looked over at Father Cooke, knowing something strange was happening to David, but not wanting to accept the reality that he might truly be possessed, despite all evidence indicating he was.
“Veronica” Mr. Alexander pressed “If I don’t find out what he did, its effects will likely drive him insane, if it doesn’t wind up killing him first. You know this is not David. Help me, help him.”
“Iusiurandum aeternum” she finally whispered “he found it on the internet.”
He looked like he was about to ask a follow up question but Veronica cut him off. “I’ve answered your question, don’t call me again.” Then she hung up.
“Did that help?” I asked “Do you know what happened to David?” I was starting to hope there was a way out of this nightmare.
“Yes, I know what happened to David and the good news is that I can help him.” Mr. Alexander smiled then started to remove several things from his satchel.
The first thing he removed was an old dog-eared book that at first glance looked like a bible, but the large embossed pentagram on the solid black cover indicated otherwise. Then he removed an amulet that had a similar pentagram hanging from a silver chain with the Latin phrase “ambulamus in tenebris ergo lumen non est caecus nobis” written around its circumference. Finally, he removed a red satin stole that was adorned with an upside down black cross on both ends.
“What’s all this? Why does he have those evil things?” I demanded an answer from Father Cook. “Why did you bring him here?” I spat at him while jabbing a finger at Mr. Alexander.
“Please calm down, Mrs. Knowles.” Father Cooke spoke softly. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Calm down? CALM DOWN!?” I yelled “You brought a Satanist into my home.”
“Please allow us to explain.” he beseeched me. “We came here to help David and based on what you told me, I wasn’t going to be able to help him, but I was sure Magister Alexander could. This is all for your son.”
“I know this may be hard to believe Mrs. Knowles, but I truly want to help David, and I really am the only one that can help him. When Father Cooke took his vows, he became powerless to interfere with the entity that now possesses your son.” Magister Alexander tried to assure me.
I just sat there, eyes shifting from Father Cooke to Magister Alexander my mouth agape. I wanted to yell and scream at them, but I couldn’t force the words out. I was too stunned that Father Cooke, a priest I have known for almost 20 years had brought this man into my home.
“Let me tell you what I know about the being possessing your son then if you still don’t want me here I will leave.”
I just stared at him, my eyes becoming thin lines of scorn. Magister Alexander took my silence as consent and started to describe the events that he believed led to David’s possession.
“David and Veronica were your typical teenagers in love. Thinking they were meant for each other…that they were going to be together forever.” He began. “But, something made them fear for their future as a couple, and like all couples that are being forced apart they sought a way to prevent that from happening, using the only thing at their disposal, the internet. I don’t know how they found the Iusiurandum aeternum, but they did.”
“The Iusiurandum aeternum is an Enochian devotion ritual. Its title essentially translates to eternal oath which in the context of the ritual means that they are pledging their souls to each other. In order to complete the ritual, the couple must complete the incantation within an Enochian sigil created out of rose petals. If one of them fails to complete it, the angel that was summoned to oversee the bond will become trapped within the body of the person that initially summoned it.”
“Angel?” I scoffed. “My son is possessed by an angel?”
“Yes, an angel.” Magister Alexander answered “Specifically a Cherub.” He quickly continued after seeing the look of disbelief on my face. “You may think they are cute and innocent, but that is just an artist’s interpretation of them. They are depicted as babies because of their infantile tempers and obsession with God. They need something to love which is why they are the ones summoned when this ritual is performed and it is also why they go crazy when they are trapped and unable to express that love.”
I started laughing before he finished speaking, but the insanity of the situation quickly turned the laughs into sobs. The idea that my son was possessed by a chubby little baby with wings was ludicrous. I felt stuck in a dream I couldn’t wake up from.
“I know how ridiculous it sounds, but that is what possesses your son and there are only two ways to save him. Convince Veronica to complete the ritual and be forever bound to David…which we both know will never happen, or allow me to perform an exorcism on him.”
I quickly recovered, and wiped my eyes with a fresh tissue after noticing the deadly serious look on the faces of Father Cooke and Magister Alexander.
“I am forbidden from interfering with emissaries of the almighty otherwise I would perform the exorcism myself. That is why it must be Magister Alexander.” Father Cooke explained, he continued speaking hoping he was getting through to me. “As a priest I have the power to exorcise demons, and a duty to protect my flock from the creatures of darkness. Theodore is a Magister of the Satantic church. He has the power to exorcise angels and a duty to protect members of his congregation from beings of light.”
“Our churches keep each other in check here on earth, and when a demon or an angel finds itself trapped in a human body it is our responsibility to send it back where it came from as quickly as possible. The longer they are trapped here the more twisted they become and the less likely it is that we can save the person they are possessing.”
“Does that help you make sense of it?” Father Cooke finally asked after giving me a few moments to process what he said.
“It’s a lot to take in, but yes…yes, I do understand. It really doesn’t matter, as long as you can save my son. I just want my David back.” I started to cry again.
“Does that mean you want me to perform the exorcism Mrs. Knowles?”
“Yes.” I whispered
“Then there is one final thing we need to take care. He pulled a thick piece of parchment out of his bag and slid it in front of me. “This is a standard contract for services rendered. As a member of the Satanic church I must demand payment for the exorcism, but the payment cannot have monetary value. It must be something you value beyond worldly goods. With that in mind I just have one final question I need ask you. What are you willing to pay to save your son?”
x2They arrived quietly; unannounced and understated, hanging patiently from the common hackberries of Serenity Falls. No one knows who put them up, or when for that matter. So subtle was their appearance that, by the time anybody noticed the “strange posters on Wilt Avenue”, the low quality printer paper had already become waterlogged, black ink bleeding into empty space like fungus on a branch and a green-orange bloom of rust forming across the cheap thumbtacks which pinned each notice to its tree.
I wish they’d never received the attention they did. I wish we’d all simply passed them by, until the rain and snow soaked the stock into shreds of wadded tissue, smudging the text into pools of grey mush, degrading its structure until they slipped from their pins and fell to the ground. Harmless mulch. Dead words decomposing on a wet sidewalk.
Suffice to say, that isn’t how this story ends.
It was earlier in the month, November 3rd I think, when someone, somewhere passed by the modest black and white posters and, presumably following a quick double take, circulated a grainy picture on one of the town’s message boards. Our ever dwindling online community is propped up on the industry of small business owners, farmers, yard sale enthusiasts and bored parents, the latter of whom started sharing the picture around almost immediately.
Which one of you thought of this?
On Shetland St too. Took a flyer in front of Archie this morning!
New Elf On The Shelf?
Someone should take these down.
I didn’t comment, personally. I’m a long way from being a parent - I’m actually not sure I want kids all that much - but I still spend a lot of time on these parenting forums. I’ve been babysitting other people’s children for a few years now; it’s pretty chill, gives me time to do homework and writing, and it’s one of the rare jobs available for 11-15 year olds in Serenity Falls. As someone on the more senior end of that spectrum, I’ve had a few years to make a name for myself; Sarah Jennings, babysitter extraordinaire; more reliable than an older sibling, easier to kick out than a mother-in-law.
I was halfway through posting my availability in the odd jobs section, looking to land a few gigs in the lead up to the holiday season, when my egregious attention span deflected me towards the aforementioned post. It was easily the busiest chain on an otherwise deserted message board. 998 comments, 74% liked, a range of opinions roughly 70/30 in favor of these strange, black and white posters.
The unexpanded image was kinda shitty, and I didn’t care enough to open it up at the time. Briefly scanning over it however, as I made my way back to the other tab, I was able to make out the poster’s key phrase; at the very top, scrawled in black sharpie, much larger than anything around it:
“Bad Man’s Home”
A few days later, I got to see the notice in person.
I was heading to a regular babysitting job, the Sullivan household on Wilt Avenue. Mr. Sullivan is one of the few adults who has my number in his phone, largely due to the fact that he’s a single father whose place of work is prone to late night meltdowns.
Mr. Sullivan’s kid, a 7 year old named Charlie, is super cute but undoubtedly a handful. Where a lot of kids nowadays can sink themselves into a tablet for three or four hours without coming up for air, Charlie would probably end up using it as a frisbee. He spends every waking moment running through the house, jumping down the stairs, crawling under tables, wielding an imaginary sword to save an imaginary friend from an imaginary foe. My job is to watch him bounce off the walls until he tires himself out, keeping him off the furniture and making sure he doesn’t get near the knives.
I was actually looking forward to seeing him, as I walked down Wilt Avenue, awkwardly fishing some headphones out of my backpack. When I was about three houses down, I saw a white rectangle of weathered paper hanging against the trunk of one of Serenity Fall's hackberry trees; the last tree before Mr. Sullivan’s house.
Immediately recalling the rather hysterical forum post from a few days before, I kept my eyes on it as I drew closer, the words “Bad Man’s Home” coming quickly into view.
After approaching a little further, I stopped walking, and examined the poster in full view.
Bad Man’s Home
He has come. Here Winter Long. To take misbehaved & cruel.
Take A Number. Call If Boys & Girls:
Is Bad
Is Cruel
Breaks
or Hits.
No Tree For Presents. No Chimney For Toys.
No returns once took. Boys & Girls Kept.
The bottom of the poster had been cut into little strips of paper. Each one had the same cell phone number scrawled messily along it, ending in 0026.
That was it. Nothing special, nothing world ending. Just some Babadooky, Krampusy boogeyman that a random parent had put up in the run up to Christmas. Whoever had done it, they’d made the poster look like it was written by some kind of monster; jagged, uneven letters, and the stilted syntax of something with only a vague grasp of human language.
I have to admit it wasn't bad work.
I could imagine the strips at the bottom being torn from the sheets around town, brandished by impatient mothers at their misbehaving children, the number half dialled by beleaguered fathers in a bid to quell their kid’s tantrums.
On this poster alone, four strips had already been torn off.
I wasn’t so sure it sat well with me, as I knocked on Mr. Sullivan’s door and heard his footsteps from the hall. But, then again, I only have these kids for an evening a week. Parenting is a full time job, and I’d learned early on that I was in no position to judge. A Santa here, a Bogeyman there. I guess these things existed for a reason.
“Hey Sarah, thanks for coming, I know it’s short notice.” Mr. Sullivan appeared at the door quickly, putting his jacket on as soon as it opened. “Charlie’s in the living room, and there’s money for you to order food on the table.”
“No worries at all, thank you.”
“Ok I’ll be back around the normal time but I'll give you a call when I’m on my way.” He smiled as we changed places, calling back through the door as he rushed out down the steps. “Charlie, be good for Sarah ok?”
Curiously, Charlie didn’t reply. In fact the house was unusually silent; no hammering footsteps on hardwood, no unintelligible battle cries from down the hall. I noticed a flicker of concern on Mr. Sullivan’s face as he crossed the sidewalk and climbed into his car.
As I walked into the living room, the faint sound of some kids TV show rose through the silence. A team of superheroes were fighting across Mr. Sullivan’s 4K setup, each member sporting a primary color and battling for the planet Earth in the middle of a quarry. Charlie was sitting on the opposite sofa, bathed in the glow of the screen. Despite it being his favorite type of show, he didn’t look at it once, his eyes staring off into one dark corner of the room.
Something was up.
By this point, on any normal day, Charlie would have already greeted me with a hug, and be sprinting up the stairs on all fours, intent on fighting evil on every piece of furniture he could find. The Charlie before me wasn’t just still, he was keeping still. A conscious lack of movement, the kind that takes effort to maintain. Instead of letting his feet dangle down from the sofa, kicking rhythmically against the leather like normal, his knees were tucked up against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs.
His guard was up, and whatever shadowy force he feared, it was clearly too powerful for his sword and shield to handle.
“Hey Charlie, are you ok?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he looked up at me silently, then back to the corner of the dark room with a sense of fearful vigilance. As soon as I sat down, he immediately latched on to me, tightly and wordlessly, as if I was the last rock before the waterfall. His eyes never wavered however, remaining fixed on that dark point in space, paying it his unflinching attention.
Once my eyes were able adjust, I saw what he was staring at; a small side table and, resting on top of it, a cordless landline phone.
We sat there for almost an hour, any questions I asked ran intoa wall of silence struggling uselessly to get any purchase on his mumbled, one word answers.
I’d almost given up entirely when, in the dancing light of the TV, he turned his attention away from the phone and, for the first time, towards me.
“Sarah… what’s... a femur?” He asked quietly, under his breath, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Where did you hear that?”
Again, no answer.
“It’s a bone in your leg. It’s the thigh bone.” I replied, lifting one of my legs up to the couch, and pointing.
Charlie held in space for a moment, pulling back into himself, in the same way an ocean recedes before a tidal wave wrecks the shore. Seconds later, the steadily creschedoing air raid siren of a child’s cry filled the room, an unchecked river of tears streaming from Charlie’s eyes.
I felt his grip tighten, latching on to me even harder, as if he were scared that letting go would cause him to fall sideways into the dark corner of the living room, never be heard from again.
He didn’t say anything else for the rest of the night, but he kept me by his side the entire time, his hand only letting go of mine when he finally drifted off to sleep, later in the evening.
I never learned why he’d asked that question, or what he’d heard to make my answer so deeply distressing to him.
I had to admit though, the kid was better behaved than I’ve ever seen him, and, in some ways, that's what concerned me the most.
A week later, new posters went up.
I’d already heard about it as I made my way down Wilt Avenue to the Sullivan house. The reaction to the posters was decidedly cooler than it had been a week prior, but it was still a definite talking point among the parenting community, of whom a small handful had, in some way or another, employed the posters with their children.
Tbf they’re being suuuuper well behaved now
Did other people try? Didn’t expect the call to go through.
I never called it. Don’t know why anyone would
I think this is worth telling Sergeant Weis about.
I’m taking them down wherever I see them. This is not funny.
The next time I visited Mr. Sullivan’s house, I made a point to check on the latest edition. The poster was only about three days old this time, not nearly as worn as their predecessors.
Bad Man’s Home
He is choosing. Expect Him and Behave.
Answer His Call.
No Doors here. No Windows. No running on broken things.
The vague sense of threat was elevated now, or perhaps the opposite; more grounded. The statements made across these new posters seemed less like the ramblings of a fairy tale monster and more like the threats of a deeply disturbed individual.
Suffice to say, no one had taken a number this time.
When Mr. Sullivan answered the door, I could tell he looked worried. He greeted me distractedly, making idle small talk as he made his way out the door. Stepping quickly down onto the sidewalk, he briefly turned back to me.
“If anyone um… if anyone...“ He searched to find the words, but decided to call it off halfway through. Instead, he just looked at me, a pained expression on his face, and simply said “Thank you for looking after him tonight.”
I smiled, nodded and shut the door. Turning around, I was greeted to a vision of Charlie, sitting quietly on the stairs, waiting for me.
Not much happened for the first half of the night. We brought the big box of legos up to his bedroom and started building space ships. There a powerful quiet to his demeanor. Even when he managed to say more than a single word, it was always under his breath, solemnly, looking down at his creations.
“Mine doesn’t look very aerodynamic.” I said, holding the intentionally shitty lego ship in front of him after an hour or so of building. “Can you help me make it better?”
“It’s ok. They’re getting built in space.” Charlie mumbled, going back to his work.
“Oh ok, then maybe I’ll add some-”
A noise cut across the silence, barreling up the stairs from the living room and piercing through the door. As soon as it reached our ears, Charlie finally looked up, his eyes awash with total, mind gripping fear.
Someone was calling the landline.
After a few rings, Charlie sprang to his feet and bolted towards the door. I caught him a little as he went, stopping him as gently as possible, but I could immediately feel him starting to struggle against me, increasingly distressed with every passing moment.
“Charlie, what’s wrong?”
“We have to pick up the phone! Sarah, we have to pick up the phone, we need to!”
“Hey, hey, hey. It’s ok. It’s ok. Lets just see who it is. We’ll go together ok?”
I took Charlie’s hand, as he pulled me all the way down the stairs and into the living room.
By the time we reached the phone, the call had ended.
Just as I was about to turn away, the blue screen of the phone lit up, and the ringing began once more. I felt Charlie’s hand clench my fist as I read the incoming number, it was from a cell, ending in 0026.
I didn’t want to answer, but the phone just kept ringing. Again, and again, and again. Every time it stopped, we had only a brief moment to wait before the ringing filled the room once more. In the same way that a word that you’ve said too often starts to loose its meaning, the ring tone almost seemed to change as we listened to it loop over and over, its banal tone fading away, replaced by something eerie and sinister; the constant wailing whine of an uninvited guest; let me in, let me in, let me in, let me in.
“You have to answer or it won’t stop!” Charlie whimpered, after the number called a seventh time.
“Has this number called before?” I looked down at him, the phone hailing us with sickening patience.
“Dad called it and… and then they called back and… and he talked on the phone and yelled but they… they didn’t say who they were and, and they said they were going to...”
He spoke quickly, a runaway train of thought that had dropped back into his mind when he could no longer bring himself to say the words out loud. Even as he stopped talking, I could tell the thought was continuing on, running through his brain, prompting a fresh bout of tears to escape.
Through it all, the phone kept ringing.
Turning away from Charlie, gripping his hand tightly, I snatched up the receiver and accepted the call.
For a moment, when I put it to my ear, all I could hear was deep, low breathing.
“The boy.”
The voice was unimaginably low, grating and deep, as if they words were being dragged over gravel on their way toward me. The two words were spoken with a bristling anger, an impatient demand. If Charlie had heard this voice before, then it was no wonder he’d been terrified of the phones in this house.
“No, you’re talking to me.” I squeezed Charlie’s hand, hoping to project the confidence I didn’t feel myself. “I want you to stop calling. I don’t want you to call this house again.”
The line went silent for just a moment.
“A choice has been made. No toys. No running. The misbehaved come home.”
“Fuck you.”
Using the momentum of my own anger, I slammed the phone down, hanging up the call.
It didn’t ring again.
Even though line was dead, the voice’s presence remained in the room, hanging over us both. I put Charlie on the couch and marched over to the windows, drawing the curtains
“What did it say?” Charlie asked, his voice quivering.
“Nothing” I responded, as I walked back over to the couch.
The night went by uneasily. I tried to comfort Charlie as much as I could, but I think he knew how deeply disturbed I’d been by the incident. I think he saw that I was as worried as him.
I waited in the kitchen, even after Mr. Sullivan came back. Caught between a strong reluctance to walk home alone, and a complete refusal to leave Charlie in the house without me or his father, I’d called my parents for company on the way back.
“Did you eat dinner?” Mr. Sullivan asked, concerned.
“No.”
“Do you want anything before your parents get here?”
“Mr. Sullivan, did you call the number on... those posters outside?”
I don’t know if it’s because of the latent anger in my voice, or simply the complete left-field nature of my inquiry, but I saw Mr. Sullivan’s eyes darken.
“Did someone call?”
I let my silence answer his question, and waited for him to answer mine.
Mr. Sullivan took a pained, reluctant breath.
“He kept running off, all day, at the store, on the way home. I couldn’t keep up with him, I… I had work to do. I’d seen the posters around so I took a flyer just to… I thought some parent put them up, you know? Some spooky, morality tale before Christmas. The next day he was climbing on the furniture and I… I pretended to dial the number and... “
He looked embarrassed, but I don’t have time for him to wallow. My mom was only a few streets away and I still didn’t understand what was happening.
“Pretended?”
“Yeah that’s the… that’s the thing.” Mr. Sullivan looked at me, fear in his eyes. Reluctant as he sounded, he also spoke as if it had been torture keeping all this to himself. “I have never called that number. I didn’t even dial I just... held the phone to my ear and...”
Mr. Sullivan looked down, dreading the question he was about to ask.
“What did he say?”
I could see the fear in his eyes. He was worried for his son, terrified. I didn’t want to tell him what the man on the phone said to me, the idea of reciting the insidious threat felt physically repulsive.
“He said a choice has been made. He said the… the misbehaved come home.”
Mr. Sullivan stayed silent for a moment, before muttering “I never meant for-”
The doorbell rang, making me jump a little and causing him to stop mid sentence. I had a feeling he was grateful for the interruption.
My mom had arrived to walk me home.
I left Mr. Sullivan behind, nothing not sure what I could say to the man to make him feel better.
As soon as I made it down the front steps and onto the street to where my mother was waiting to collect me, I remember feeling a distinct chill running across the back of my neck, a shiver that cooled my very being as we made our way back down the darkened street. I told myself it was merely a by-product of the the biting winter wind that had drifted into town that night but, as me and my mom turned the corner from Wilt Avenue, and the Sullivan house fell out of view, I distinctly felt the sensation ebb away.
It was something else then; a subtle mix of paranoid anxiety and fear, which traveled with me along that street, and that street alone.
Deep down, I knew exactly why I'd felt that way.
When I’d picked up the phone earlier that night, and held it to my ear, the figure on the other end had demanded to talk to “The Boy”. Those two sharp syllables kept ringing in my mind, even after Charlie had passed into some uneasy semblance of sleep, and I’d finally left Wilt Avenue behind.
The thing on the phone had been the first one to speak. It had no way of knowing that the call hadn’t been picked up by Charlie, that I’d intercepted it instead.
Unless something could see us.
Unless something was watching the Sullivan House.
Ok whoever’s behind this, you need to stop.
This has gone beyond a joke, our girl is terrified.
I’m calling Sargeant Weis when I get home from work
Please someone stop this.
It’s a prank. Just don’t answer when they call...
I didn’t see Charlie before the posters changed again. I’d taken a bit of a break from babysitting after the events of the previous week. Mr. Sullivan triggered that particular decision when he called me up a few days later, cancelling my next two jobs with him.
“I uh… I think I’m going to just work from home for a week or two,” he said, soberly down the phone. “I’m sorry I just want to... keep an eye on things.”
I could understand why. The forum post was slowly thinning down, now solely populated by the two or three sets of parents who had actually taken flyers from the sinister notices. However, as those without a stake in the game drifted from the conversation, the remaining comments grew more hysterical than ever.
They spoke about receiving calls at all hours of the night, feeling like they were being watched as they walked their children into school, hearing someone move around outside their homes, knocking on doors, passing by windows.
Whatever this was, it had moved far beyond a joke.
The final few parents left on the comment thread started to discuss using their sick days. Staying home with their kids, or passing them off to grandparents who lived out of town.
I don’t know whether they followed through with their ideas. I dropped off the message board shortly after, believing my part in the whole ordeal was over.
Last night I discovered otherwise.
It was 11:03. I was in bed, trying to pull myself away from the harsh, hypnotic glow of my phone screen and chase an elusive, uneasy sleep.
Suddenly everything went dark, the backlight of my phone turning black except for two expectant circles, one red, one green, and the number of an incoming caller.
A number ending in 0026.
I felt my throat drop into the pit of my stomach. I stared at the number for almost a minute, my heartbeat quickly outpacing the phone’s rhythmic shuddering, before I realized it wasn't going to stop.
So far, my involvement with these strange events had been indirect, partial, merely the result of my being in the wrong place in the presence of those at the center of the being’s dark lens.
Now, I was at home, alone… and the call was meant for me.
With a quivering hand, I reached out and slowly led the green circle to the other side of the screen.
That same deep breathing, a noise I hoped I’d never have to hear again, drifted through the phone.
“What… what do you want?“ I asked, anxious for the answer yet treasuring every second that the man chose not to reply.
When he finally answered, he said only two words.
“He’s home.”
After that, the line went dead.
For the briefest moment I lay paralyzed, held firm by that dark, dreadful admission.
The next moment, I was up, throwing the covers aside, switching out my thermal pajamas for a pair of jeans and an old jacket. As I burst out of my room into the dark corridor, I screamed for my Mom to wake up. My voice broke and shuddered as I spoke, a pressurized cry of worry and terror erupting from within me in one desperate syllable.
I could tell she'd heard it in my voice. I could hear her rushing out of bed and up to the door.
“Sarah, what is it? What’s wrong?” She half-whispered, as she emerged from the dark bedroom, pulled from the edge of sleep into a dark hallway, needing a moment to adjust to the waking world.
I didn’t know what to say in response. I didn’t have a plan, or the time to explain myself. Instead all I could bring myself to say was:
“I need a ride to the Sullivans’.”
I told her everything I knew on the drive over. As strange as the chain of events sounded, she seemed to believe me. I guess she’d noticed I hadn’t been myself lately. Halfway through the story, she pulled her work phone from the glove box and handed it over, telling me to call the cops.
We got there about five minutes later. Wilt Avenue was lit up for Christmas, red and blue dancing across the street as we made our way toward the Sullivan household. I felt a sensation vaguely resembling relief upon seeing that the cops had gotten there before us.
We pulled up a little further down the street, our view of the Sullivan house obscured by a slowly gathering crowd of concerned neighbors. As soon as the wheels ground to a halt, I threw open the door and started to climb out. My mom briefly tried to stop me, a single look between us causing her to leave me be. When I stepped out and began to storm down the sidewalk, I heard the driver’s side door open and shut behind me, my mom quickly following in my wake.
Forcing my way towards the gathering crowd, my heart in my throat, I found myself marching in the direction of the hackberry, it’s dark trunk mockingly displaying one of the latest posters, the words obscured by an alternation of dark shadow and the disorienting lights of the idling cop car.
I tore the crisp white page from its shiny new thumbtack without breaking stride, crumpling it up as I pushed through the crowd and stepped up towards the house.
The door was ajar, the lock broken. All the lights in the house were off. The only cop present was at the bottom of the steps, facing away from me, squatting down as if examining some evidence on the ground.
I called out to her as soon as I was in earshot.
“Where’s Charlie... where’s Charlie Sullivan?” I cast the question desperately into the air, terrified of the fresh nightmare its response might bring.
“Sarah?”
The cop turned around at my question, but she wasn’t the one who responded.
As she turned to face me, rising back to her feet, the seven year old figure of Charlie Sullivan pushed past and started running up to me, tears that had become all too familiar streaming freely down his cheeks. I dropped down to the ground to meet him as he collapsed immediately into my arms, grasping me close and pressing his head into my shoulder.
“I thought…” I begin to say, overwhelmed by relief, as I hear my mother arrive behind me, waiting patiently alongside the still gathering crowd.
“It… came… came inside and it took… it...”
Charlie whimpers and erupts into a wail, his little arms squeezing me tighter.
“Charlie.” I asked, as I stared up at the cop and over to the empty house. “Charlie, where’s your father?”
Charlie didn’t answer, he just kept screaming into the cold November night, distressed, distraught, trapped in a horrible new world he didn’t understand.
As I wrapped one arm firmly around him, I used my free hand to uncrumple the newest poster, holding it close, reading the words that had been left for us.
Bad Man’s Home.
No windows. No doors. No light.
You called for bad people. Were cruel. Misbehaved.
Bad people are coming.
No returns once took. Boys & Girls Kept.
I dropped the paper to the cold, damp ground, putting both my arms around Charlie, watching the cop walking back to her car.
She reaches in and brings the receiver up to her mouth.
“Hey it’s Hatch, can you spare anyone for Wilt Avenue? Yeah. Well… looks like we got a third one… Yeah, same as the others...”
It was only then, as my blinding focus ebbed away, and I started to become aware of my surroundings, that I noticed the distant noise of sirens, a few streets over, emanating from two separate directions.
As the minutes passed, the sirens only grew quieter, their tragic song drowned out by a child’s unending cries.
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“Who told you about her?”
It was a conversation neither of us wanted to have. But here we were, in the name of closure, discussing the water under the bridge.
“Amelia. She saw you two holding hands on 4th Street.” I pressed my lips together, swallowing the urge to cry. “Why, David?”
He tapped his foot nervously. Licked his lips. “I just wasn't feeling it anymore.”
“Come on, David. Don't give me that vague shit.”
“Look.” He put down his silverware with a clatter. “We broke up. I don't owe you an explanation.”
“No. You don't owe me an explanation.” I crossed my arms over my chest.” You owe me the last two years of my life.”
“Okay. I thought we could have a civil conversation. Forget it.” He pushed his dish away and stood up. “Bye, Amy.”
I watched him leave without a word. Wondering how that cold person could possibly be the same one I fell in love with.
Thump. Someone else slid into his seat, next to me at the diner bar.
“Excuse me. Someone's sitting there. “
“No, he's not, “ she said, with a snort. “He’s gone for goooood.”
She was an older woman. Long, gray, curly hair down her shoulders. Sort of a hippie style of dress, with necklaces of beads around her neck and a tasseled shawl.
“Uh, excuse me? Were you eavesdropping?”
“Of course I was! Love me a little daytime drama. No cable at home.” She took a fry off his abandoned plate and ate it. “Ex-boyfriend, huh? I know all about those. Have a million of ‘em myself. “
“Oh.” She's one of those old advice ladies. The ones who delight in watching people, who think it’s their job to tell everyone how to live.
“You wish you had those two years back, huh?” she asked, swiping a fry through his ketchup.
“I guess.”
“Better to have never loved at all, than loved and lost, huh? “ Slurrrp. “That's how I feel, too. Shakespeare's a lot of hooey. “
“That’s not Shakespeare. It’s Tennyson.” I fished around in my purse, and slapped a five-dollar tip on the table, “I'm actually on my way out, so --”
She grabbed my arm.
Hard.
Every single person in the diner froze. The blonde waitress, balancing a huge tray of dirty dishes. The thrashing toddler near the door, one fist in the air. The spoon of tomato soup, suspended a few inches from an open mouth. Even the curls of steam hung still, mid-air.
The two of us were alone. The waitress, the patrons, the baby -- for the moment, they were no more than statues. Mannequins. Wax figures.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” she growled in my ear. Her grip was painfully tight. “You want those years back, don't you?”
Please stop. Please… “Y-yes,” I stuttered.
For an instant, my vision flickered.
Then she was gone. And I was standing in a bustling diner, alone.
I hooked my purse over my shoulder. What was that? I thought, rubbing my throbbing head. I must’ve… I must’ve imagined that, right?
I started for the door.
No…
The toddler that I’d seen moments before was gone. His parents were still there, standing by the door -- a woman dressed head-to-toe in denim, a thin man with a beaked nose. But the kid was gone.
My heart dropped.
“E-excuse me,” I said, my voice shaky. “Where’s your son?”
The woman’s eyebrows raised. “We don’t have a son,” she said. “Yet.” She patted her belly and smiled. “He’s due in five months.”
“Oh.” My mind was whirling. “Sorry to bother you.”
Crash.
I whipped around.
A huge tray of dishes had fallen to the floor. Shards of ceramic, stained with food, littered the floor. A blonde waitress hunched over them, picking them up delicately. “Practice, practice, practice,” her boss muttered behind her.
I swung the door open and swept out into the cold wind. Then I pulled out my phone. I almost expected the date to say 2016. But it didn’t.
November 28, 2018.
I pulled up the news. Everything seemed normal. The 2018 midterm elections happened a few weeks ago. Riverdale season 3 was airing. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
But the scar on my pinky was missing -- the one I’d gotten when I cut my hand on a can of tuna, a year ago. My hair was a few inches shorter than usual.
When I got to the corner, I pulled out my phone. Dialed David’s number. Did the same thing happen to him? He was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I had to know.
Riiiing. Riiiiing.
Doo-doo-doo!
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
“Change your number already, David?” I muttered under my breath. At the corner, I took a left -- not a right. I still knew the pin to get into his building.
Knock, knock. I rapped on door 416. “David, I know you’re in there! I have something important to…”
The door creaked open under the weight of my fist.
I stepped inside.
The studio apartment was as I’d remembered it. Dishes neatly piled up by the sink. A poster of Rocky on the left wall. A twin bed on an IKEA set.
“David?” I called.
The bathroom door hung open.
I stepped inside. “David? I --”
The sound transformed to a scream.
David lay limp in the bathtub. One arm hung over the side of the tub, fingers skimming the floor. Huge gashes covered his face and his body. Gashes that suggested a strange precision -- not a struggle for life. Each one was exactly the same length, the same depth, the same angle.
The tub was filled with a mix of blood and water.
I screamed until I was hoarse. Then I backed out into the main room, fumbling for my phone.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
I looked up.
The woman sat on his bed, shawl draped around her shoulders, legs crossed.
“Did you do this?” I screamed.
“What, you thought I’d give you two years of your life for free?” she said, with a dry chuckle. “Of course not. I need to eat too, darling.”
I felt numb. Paralyzed. A dull ringing throbbed in my ears.
“Now, if I were you… I’d run.”
“Why?”
“Because, it was only you -- and everyone in that diner -- who got the two years back.” She pulled out a cigarette, and twirled it between her fingers. “To everyone in the outside world… you were the last to see David alive."
[The following is a performance evaluation of Agent Giggles written by her supervisor, Agent Smiles.]
I, Agent Smiles, operator of human relations, peacemaker, and devout follower of Choose Happiness™!, have come to conclusion that we must remove Agent Giggles.
I do not know why I got my hopes up with this one. She consistently disappointed and allowed her optimist too much leeway. It is almost as if she enjoys that her optimist is Depressed. I have come across far too many agents like her and in order for our operation to succeed, we need to cut the fat.
If recollection serves me right, and it always does, Agent Giggles was recruited from the German branch of Choose Happiness™! She was selected for her skills as a chef and innovator in the kitchen. She could make anything taste delicious. Roadkill, rotten fruit, decaying meat – she made it taste like we were eating at a five-star restaurant. I was personally impressed and we all felt she would make an excellent addition to the third floor.
Her appearance left something to be desired. She had a sullen face and broad cheeks. Before she could start at our headquarters, she had to be fitted with the Smile Machine. For agents not familiar, it is a common training tool we use in the United States. The Smile Machine is a contraption that brightens the demeanor of an agent. A band slips over the ears and two hooks are inserted into the sides of the mouth. The band is then tightened to increase smile potential.
She was a quick learner. Agent Giggles graduated from the Smile Machine in only four weeks, ten weeks quicker than most. A pleasant side effect was that, because of the forced drooling and lack of teeth movement, she lost almost fifteen pounds. You can never be too thin, as you all know.
Unfortunately, she was not the agent I hoped she would be. My precious intuition failed me. I will repent for what I have done, as will everyone who works for me.
Her very first assignment went smoothly, I will admit. She was preparing meals for one of our gluttonous optimists. She created her meals in such a way that made him think he was eating everything he wanted, but was actually eating only three hundred calories a day. He grew more and more Happy as the pounds melted away. It was a remarkable sight. The bones began to show. They pressed against his flesh as if they wanted to escape. His skin sagged like those naughty frowns we do not allow. His hair fell out. He overcame his gluttony quickly, weighing in at ninety pounds.
It was disappointing that he could not maintain his Happiness, but his ribs made an excellent Fulfillment the next evening.
Agent Giggle’s most recent assignment did not go as smoothly as the last, to say the least.
She was to prepare third floor meals for optimist #104. #104 has shown some signs of Sadness, which of course cannot be tolerated. Although gluttony was not her particular problem, it was of the utmost importance to keep her Happy. We learned that she knew a man who failed on the second floor. #104 was concerned that perhaps Choose Happiness™! was not for her. This could not stand.
I myself had a serious conversation with Agent Giggles. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that optimist #104 could not consume over five hundred calories a day. She had to feel hungry at all times. This hunger, as we know, would fuel her enthusiasm for the program. Agent Giggles agreed to this assignment. I remember her smile clearly, cheeks still scarred from the Smile Machine.
The first few days went well. #104 requested more Fulfillment, but was denied. She complained to multiple Agents, who all repeated the lines we have practiced. “You’ll never be hungry if you are Happy.” I was told she cried herself to sleep. This, of course, was wonderful news.
But Agent Giggles decided, on her own, to change the program for #104. An informant let me know that #104 spoke to Agent Giggles and introduced herself with her old name. Blasphemous! Agent Giggles at first resisted this breach of protocol, but soon began to connect with #104, even revealing her own old name. This alone is cause for annihilation.
She began feeding #104 extra food in the night, when she thought no one would see. #104 stopped crying in her bed. She stayed late during Fulfilment to learn German words from Agent Giggles, including banned words (murder, death, cult.)
I am shaking as I type this. My anger is quelled only by my Happiness. I trust the program and know firsthand the glory of Choose Happiness™!. To see one of my Agents disregard protocol so drastically is excruciating to me.
My recommendation: Immediately remove Agent Giggles from her post and replace her with Agent Tickles. Although young, Agent Tickles is a true believer. As far as Therapy, I would like to see Agent Giggles utilize the Grinner. This is the only way I can feel Happy. I want her to feel Happy again. This is the only way.
Signed,
Agent Smiles
[Agent Giggles was remanded to the Grinner just as Agent Smiles requested. The Grinner is, of course, the extreme version of the Smile Machine. She was hung by her lips ten feet in the air, smiling wider than she ever had in her life. Unfortunately, her smile was not strong enough and her face ripped. The fall was what broke her back. The blood loss ended her life. It is truly ceremonious that she could be returned to Fulfillment and finish the circle.]
[#104 was placed back on the correct diet and moved to the fourth floor, where she will be safe.]
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
We pulled into the gas station parking lot a minute later, and I was out the door and rushing inside before the car had even stopped. The plan was for me to get to the tape recorder ASAP, snag it, and hide out in the bathroom until I could listen to the cassette in my pocket and find out what the Russian radio had said about Rosa.
If she had been targeted like the rest of us, cool. If she had been replaced, like Evil-Aggie Sistrunk, then… Well, I didn’t really want to think about that what-if.
But as soon as I crossed the threshold, I froze.
Rosa was close behind me, and when she saw who I was looking at, she also froze.
“Yo, nerds!” Jerry called out from behind the counter. “Hey, did we hire Old-Bob as a new cashier? Because if not, that guy is getting a little too comfortable around the cash register.”
Rosa ran up to the counter and dove across it, wrapping him in a big hug. He shot me a confused expression and asked, “Did I miss something?”
I wanted to allow myself that same sense of relief that Rosa was feeling, but after what I’d seen, I couldn’t. Obviously, this might not be the real Jerry. Or the real Rosa. I’d need to study him closely.
The first thing I noticed about this man presenting himself as Jerry was how he looked like somebody had recently used his face as a punching bag. His left eye was red and bloodshot, with several deep-purple bruises on either side of his head and a cut above his brow not quite covered by two Hello Kitty bandaids. Oh, and he had a tampon stuffed up one of his nostrils--presumably to stop bleeding, but let’s not jump to any conclusions.
He patted Rosa on the back, but she wouldn’t release her cling. As I approached the counter, maybe-Jerry took the words right out of my mouth.
“Dude, what the hell happened to you?”
“I…” Wow, that was close. I almost blurted out the truth before I caught myself and remembered that Rosa was still here. “I got into a fight. What happened to you?”
“Same.” He lifted a bottle of tequila to his lips and took a generous swig. “Do you want some?”
“No, I’m good.”
“I’ve got some other medicine, too. Quick question, am I covered in spiders right now?”
“Not that I can see.”
“That’s a relief.” He put the bottle on the counter, then wrapped his arms around Rosa and said in a soft voice, “Rosa, sweetie, I’m glad to see you too, but you’re squeezing me really tight and I think I’ve got a broken rib or three, so if you don’t mind-”
She disconnected, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him violently, screaming “What the hell is wrong with you two?!”
Jerry (I’d concluded that this must have been Jerry) looked at me, then at her, then muttered defensively, “Ain’t nothing wrong with us.”
“Today was supposed to be my day off! I had plans! I was going to make French toast and drink a bottle of wine and binge Game of Thrones! What the hell happened after I went to bed? I have never been more scared in my entire life! You two are giving me gray hair. Did you know that?!”
We both offered her a sheepish “Sorry” at the same time. Then Jerry added, “Jinx. You owe me a Coke.”
She was now on the verge of angry tears. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
He took another swig, then announced, “Okay gather ‘round. Make some coffee and get comfortable. I’ve got a story to tell.”
Right then, the door opened and a customer stepped inside-- a young guy with thick red glasses. Jerry immediately screamed, “Hey! You! Get the fuck outta here! We’re closed!”
The guy turned and looked at the door, then back at us, “But the sign says-”
“I don’t care what the sign says! I said get the fuck out!” Jerry grabbed a handful of pralines and threw them all at the guy, who promptly turned and ran out the door.
I watched as he hurried to his car and sped away before I asked, “Did you know that guy?”
“Nope. I just didn’t feel like dealing with any customers.”
Oh man, we are going to go out of business so fast.
The story, if you were to believe Jerry’s account, was pretty crazy, even by our standards. However, this was Jerry talking, so take it with a pound of salt.
While I was battling to the death with Mrs. Sistrunk, Jerry was busy getting kidnapped by two mercenaries in body armor. They were both “six and a half feet tall, covered in face tattoos, and built like Stone-Cold Steve Austin’s angrier big brother.”
They ambushed him at the Mathmetist compound in the middle of his daily weapons training, (which consisted of cutting pumpkins in half with a katana). Unlucky for them, this meant he was already ready to defend himself. When he saw that they were both carrying machine guns, he used his sword to slice the weapons in half, then when the bigger guy tried to pull a can of mace on him, he chopped it with the katana, causing it to explode into a fireball. (I tried to explain to Jerry that neither of those things made any sense, but he calmly asked me to hold my questions until the end.)
After an epic battle where Jerry very nearly won, and probably would have if he wasn’t so tired from all the pumpkin-slicing, the bounty-hunters got lucky and managed to subdue him. Once he was tied up and on the ground, they took turns punching and kicking him into compliance before dragging him to their truck.
Once he’d regained consciousness, he realized that these men were obviously working for an old nemesis of his, and they were taking him to a torture-dungeon for experimenting. (I took this as code for “they were hired by my parents to take me back home,” but he didn’t want Rosa to know those details so I kept my mouth shut. Why not? What harm can one more secret do?)
Jerry proceeded to jiu-jitsu his way out of the situation, but after the truck crashed and sank into a swamp, Jerry went running into the everglades in an attempt to lose the men. (Quick note, we aren’t located anywhere near the everglades.) The drugs and alcohol must have really started to kick in at this point, because his story began taking some very weird twists and turns. Look, I’m not going to waste your time with all the details, but there were sharks and a ninja and several more explosions. In the end, the important takeaway from his story was this: the men weren’t going to be bothering him anymore, and there was a Waffle House somewhere out there that Jerry was no longer welcome at.
He ended his tale with, “And that’s exactly how it all happened. Feel free to applaud now.”
Rosa clapped, but I wasn’t in the mood. This account of events may would have been entertaining under other circumstances, but all I wanted to know was if Jerry was really okay, and if the danger had passed, or if there was something else for me to stay on the lookout for.
I pointed at the line of blood trailing down from the gash above his brow and told him, “Your head wound is bleeding.”
He looked at me with a drunken eyes and a confused expression and asked, “I have a head wound?”
Rosa exhaled loudly in annoyance before announcing to the room, “I guess I’ll do what I do now. Let me go get the med kit. It’s not like there are any hospitals or emergency rooms in this stupid town, no, let me just be the designated gas station nurse. It’s not like I-” she continued talking to herself the whole way out of the building to the car.
Now that I had a moment alone with Jerry, I needed to ask him a few things. And in a hurry, too, because Rosa was surprisingly time-efficient when she was distressed.
“Level with me, dude. What really happened last night?”
“What I said.” He looked away and trailed off with “Basically…”
“You fought a ninja using a shark as a weapon?”
“Oh, no. I guess that part might not have actually happened. Or maybe it did. Who’s to say?”
“I think the men who nabbed you came into the store first. Stingy bounty hunters. They may have bugged the place to try and find you. How did you really get away?”
“It was easy. Once I realized that they were doing all of that for the money and not for honor or sport, all I had to do was pay them more than my parents so that they’d leave me alone. They actually turned out to be pretty cool. They even dropped me off here on their way out of town. I didn’t want to tell you guys the truth because I didn’t want Rosa to know that I was rich.”
“Why not?”
He said this next part like I was stupid for even asking, “Because it’s embarrassing.” Wow. I finally discovered something that can embarrass Jerry, and of course it was the last thing I’d ever have expected. “What about you? What really happened to your face? Because I know you didn’t get into a fight. You wouldn’t fight a fly, you pacifistic little cupcake.”
“I was attacked by Agatha Sistrunk. I had to beat her to death with a fire extinguisher. Then again with a Louisville slugger.”
“Nice. Go on.”
“Well, this guy from town saw me do it and got the wrong idea because the next thing I know he’s shooting at me. But then she came back from the dead as a freaky slug-monster and ate him. And now he’s back, too.”
“Man. Isn’t that just the worst?”
“And they both got away, too. I thought she was coming for you next. We went out to your place and-”
“Wait!” he interrupted. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“Was Milton Friedman okay? That’s what I named my attack boar.”
“It’s an attack sow. And it’s a mom now.”
“Whoa. This is a lot of info coming at me, and I’m either drunker than I am high, or higher than I am drunk, but I’m not sure. Did you see the just-in-case-I-die-note I left behind?”
“Yes. I wanted to ask you about that.”
“Did you find my porn stash?”
“No.”
“Really? It was right there in the open. Did you even look?”
“I listened to most of the tape, but I need to know. Has Rosa been replaced?”
The doors opened and Rosa walked back inside, carrying the Mathmetist med kit. Jerry laughed and said to me, “Anyway, I think that’s what Jean Paul Sartre meant when he said the ‘Agony of Existentialism.’ Hey Rosa, welcome back. We missed you.”
She put the kit on the counter and snapped it open. “What were you two talking about?”
Jerry blurted out “Sports,” at the same time I said “Philosophy.” Jerry quickly covered by announcing “The philosophy of sports.”
She peeled off Jerry’s band aids with a doubtful, “Uh huh.”
“Anyway, Jack, to answer your question. No, I don’t think that sportsball team has replaced any of its players. Or at least they haven’t announced it yet.”
I felt like a weight had been lifted. Rosa hadn’t been replaced. (Yet.) Now I could move down the list to the next most pressing concern. “Jerry, if those guys were looking for you at the gas station, surely there are more where they came from.”
“We’ll just have to burn that bridge when we get to it, then. Won’t we? In the meantime, do you guys mind if I take a little nap? I’m feeling a little worn out from all the heroics and alcohol and drugs. I’m just gonna curl up right here and…” He slid out of his chair and fell underneath the counter without finishing his sentence. Rosa looked to me with eyes opened wide.
“What do we do now?”
“Now we get him the hell out of here.”
We tried to wake him up, but once it became clear that reviving him wasn’t an option, she and I both took an arm and dragged him outside to her car and stuffed him inside. She tried to talk me into going with them back to her place, but I told her that I couldn’t leave. Somebody had to stay behind and watch the gas station.
After they’d driven off, I picked up the store phone and tried O’Brien’s number one last time, but it went straight to voicemail.
An entire month passed before the next encounter.
That month was easily the longest of my life up to that point. Each day dragged worse than the last. Every customer that came through those doors could have been one of them, and I knew it. Howard never let up his pressure, either. Any time I started to think I was getting a handle on the situation, he’d send another goon to the store (always when I was alone) to steal and break things.
O’Brien wasn’t much help. She wasn’t much of anything. Now that I was able to drive myself around again, we barely even saw one another, except for those moments when she’d stop by to check on me and drink a cup of free coffee. But even those visits were getting noticeably shorter and colder. I tried asking her what she was working on, but she let me know that she wasn’t able to talk about it and that I needed to leave it alone for my own good.
Once upon a time, I would have been happy to leave it alone. The old Jack wouldn’t have even needed to have been told. But not anymore. Now I was fighting old women-monsters and listening to the Russian radio tapes on repeat, searching for clues. The thought hit me one cold and lonely night that I was different, and maybe--just maybe--I had been replaced. But that’s pretty crazy, right?
“Amelia O’Brien has been targeted. Jeremy Pascal has been targeted. Jack Townsend has been targeted. Leland Cruz has been replaced. Rosa Vasquez has been targeted.”
I listened to the tapes a thousand times, but nothing ever changed. On one particularly desperate night, I even attempted to rebuild the radio, but whatever providence possessed Jerry that time he put it together in the first place, it wasn’t reproducible. Maybe that was for the best.
Suspiciously, nothing unexplainable happened during that month. No new phone calls from the dead. No more slug-monsters. No creepy visitors or cameos from my long-dead friends. It was terrifyingly dull, like the calm before the storm, as if every terrible thing that ever wanted to hurt us was rallying, readying to attack all at once the second we let our guard down.
I tried to occupy my mind with things other than the impending doom. I read a couple books about how to run a small business and quickly realized how much we were doing wrong (turns out, a lot!). Apparently, we’re supposed to be filing state sales tax reports every month, and there’s something really confusing about payroll deductions required by the IRS. To get around that, I started paying all of the remaining employees in cash.
But soon we started hitting other financial snags. The credit card processing companies were first to send final notices. As a result, we had to stop accepting credit and debit cards altogether. For a business like a gas station, that’s what you might call a major inconvenience.
Our supply vendors were the next to complain about what I was attempting to pass off as a “small payment hiccup.” The old owners’ accounts were drained and now they weren’t able to automatically draft their expenses. They put up a big fuss until I told them I’d pay them all in cash, too.
And just like that, the gas station was a cash-only establishment, which would have been fine except that we had more going out than coming in, and once we ran out of real money, I had to try handing out IOU’s.
Somehow, that worked for way longer than it should have. But then Doctor Ass-head moved on to threatening my suppliers. Very soon, word got out that our business was far less trouble than the worth, and the vendors stopped vending. Just one more nail in the coffin full of nails, and in no time we were running on the ghosts of fumes.
I had to start purging the payroll of all non-vital employees. Most of our part timers were very understanding, only a couple death threats. Even Jerry didn’t seem to mind the fact that I couldn’t pay him anymore. I fired so many people. And at the end that first month, I was the only one still working there.
You’d think that Rosa would have packed it in and left around this point, but no; she stuck around. Of course, she had to get another job waitressing in the next town over, but after her shifts, she’d stop by and bring me and Jerry some food or help us clean or do whatever else there was to do.
When I wasn’t on the lookout for monsters or driving the business into the ground, I was planning that birthday party for Jerry. It was a welcome distraction in this trying time, but I still did a piss-poor job of it. I’d done my best to track down and invite everybody on his guest list--which included, among others: The Bathroom Cowboy, The Rat King (whoever the hell that is), all of the clowns from the carnival, Rocco, Arnold (the retired deputy turned falconer), Gregg Walton (my one-time attempted kidnapper), any remaining Kieffers, and Chris Pratt.
In the end, I had exactly two RSVP’s not including myself: Rosa and O’Brien. All in all, I considered that a success.
On the morning of Jerry’s birthday, Doctor Howard decided to come back to the store in person for a one-on-one chat.
I was by myself behind the counter trying to figure out how to log in to the state tax website (spoiler: I never figured it out) when he mosied up to my counter. He slowly took it all in, then used that annoyingly smug Foghorn-Leghorn impersonation he called a voice, “What are we doing, Jack? What’s the point of all this? You’re clearly in over your head. You’re not just hurting yourself anymore. Your friends are worried about you, you know? And this? This dick measuring contest? It’s ruining their lives. Now is the time to get over your pride and do the right thing.”
He put a contract in front of me, little yellow post-its marking the places where I should sign to legally hand the business over to him. He’d made a point to highlight and even circle the proposed sale price: more money than I’ve ever earned in my entire life combined. Sure, that’s not saying much, but this was truly an absurd amount.
“I’m doing just fine. In fact, business is booming.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows and slowly turned in a complete circle, looking the entire place over again with a smile before saying, “Is that why all the shelves are empty?”
“Yep,” I answered. “We just had a huge rush of college kids. They’re our biggest new demographic. I sold a million fidget spinners this week. We’re swimming in financial liquidity here.”
He shook his head like a disappointed father. “This is sad, Jack. And pointless, I might add. You’re going to lose the business sooner or later. The question is, will it be under a mountain of debt, or will it be with a golden parachute? Because if you don’t take my offer, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
I think he was surprised to see me grab the sheets and pull them closer to me. I read them over quickly, then took my pen and scribbled a signature onto each page where it was marked and handed them all back to him.
He looked where I had signed the name, “Go Fuck Yourself.” (I even initialed each of the pages with a nice, cursive little “GFY.”)
“I don’t need your help or your money. I love being poor. It’s awesome to me. It’s my favorite.”
The doctor tossed the pages back onto the counter. “Broke ain’t always so easy. You know that. Say, what ever happened to them crutches you were using, anyway?”
I smiled, “Don’t need them anymore. I got a super cool new prosthetic leg. I am now more cyborg than you’ll ever be.”
“That sure sounds like it was expensive.”
“No, actually. In fact, I didn’t have to pay a penny. The whole thing was covered by some anonymous wealthy donor who wanted to-” I stopped as the realization abruptly hit me. “Nooooooo-”
He laughed in my face.
“You son of a bitch! How?! No, forget that. Why?! Is there a tracking device or something embedded in it? You know what? Nevermind! I don’t even care. You want it back? Take it! I’ll take it off right now and give it back to you and let you know exactly where you can put it!”
“Please, please, don’t. I’m not sure what would happen if I felt any more sorry for you. I might just blow a fuse.”
I tried to come up with a good comeback, but he didn’t give me enough time. He just laughed and kept laughing until he had left the building.
Rosa came by early that afternoon to help decorate the gas station while I made the effort to do some cleaning. It had been three whole days since I’d seen O’Brien, and to be honest, I was really looking forward to being able to talk to her for more than a couple minutes.
I wanted to make things look a little more presentable for the occasion, and even took the liberty of sweeping up around the cash register. There were a few shreds of paper in the dustpan when I finished, which were probably the least interesting bits of garbage I’d collected, but as I went to toss it, something caught my eye. A circled word written on one of the strips of paper, in my own handwriting.
“Jack.”
It took me a second to remember where this had come from, but then it clicked. A month earlier, that night I tore the page of random words from the radio into a thousand pieces of confetti paper and tossed them into the air. As usual, I had done a lousy job of cleaning up my mess. But now I could correct that mistake. All I had to do was dump it into the trash where it belonged. Why wouldn’t I? Right? It simply wouldn’t make any sense to do anything else.
For some reason, I felt compelled to put the dustpan on the counter and pick through all of the shreds of paper, which I then laid out side-by-side. Some pieces had whole words written on them. Some were less. And some had only a letter before being torn off.
“L” “ends die” “fig” “et” “your” “fri” “h” “don” “Jack” “t” “tit”
It took me a second to arrange them properly. All together, the message was clear enough. “Let your friends die, Jack. Don’t fight it.”
“Hey, how are you with blowing up balloons?” Rosa called to me from the top of a step ladder. She was hanging streamer paper with a big, dumb smile on her face. I swept the pieces of paper off the counter and stuffed them into my pocket, then went to help with the rest of the decorations.
My wife keeps saying the word "adjusting" which is her way of trying to be nice. The harsh reality is I have been coming apart at the seams, and it all started when we moved to a small plot of land about an hour away from the city I was born and raised in. We decided this seven months ago when I found out I was going to be a father of two little boys when we discovered my wife was pregnant with twins. When my wife's body began to swell it became clear that our tiny our two bedroom condo on the east side of the city would not work.
While we both welcome the extra living space and the yard for our future family, I find myself having trouble sleeping in the new house. I never realized how much I missed the noises of the city until I found myself in this house on the tiny road surrounded by the woods, it leaves a feeling of eerie and disquiet. The silence leaves me restless at night where I can't sleep, and the shade from the trees makes me uneasy. The entire idea of being miles away from any police might be comforting for the tweakers and those that preach self-reliance, but to me, it leaves me fearful.
After some internal debate, I decided to order some Wifi security cameras to put around the property to help put my mind at ease, but so far it has done the opposite when I checked them for the first time.
Monday, November 9th 3:15 PM
The cameras had been up a full week at this point when I sat down at my computer. I scanned that entire week fast forwarding until I noticed around 3:15 PM a car stopped outside of my driveway. At first, I didn't think much of it just someone pulling off the road possibly lost. The strange thing was when the man left his car and began walking down our gravel driveway. He walked slowly minding every step as he looked around.
He was an average looking man wearing dark jeans and a denim jacket with what looked like wool lining on the inside. He wore a black trucker hat that covered the top his head, and it helped conceal his face as he got closer to the house. The man stopped for a moment and looked around the yard one more time after a brief pause he turned around walking back to his car driving off.
When my wife and I sat down for dinner night, I couldn't help but wonder if she might have noticed anything.
"Honey, did you happen to see anyone earlier today while I was at work?"
"Like who?" She responded.
"Well I was checking the cameras, I saw a guy get out of his car and come close to the house"
"No, I didn't see anyone."
November 19th 3:05 AM
I started to sleep with a mask and a loud fan hoping to try to soothe myself to sleep like a baby. Even in total darkness, and the large fan blowing at me I can't get my mind to be at ease to allow me to sleep. The silence of our home, my longing for the sounds of the city, and my wife not even noticing a stranger came to our house bothers me. The tossing and turning struggling to get comfortable but it doesn't work. Another night of no sleep, this marks day ten.
I lift myself out of the bed and start a pot of coffee making my way towards my office afterward. The computer still on with two feeds coming from the wifi cameras. I sit down and start watching them, quickly fast forwarding through hours of footage that show nothing out of the ordinary. My mind starts to feel at peace, and I walk back to retrieve a cup of coffee.
When I come back into the room with my coffee, I notice a flash of light for a brief second. I immediately run to my computer and begin to rewind the footage. Mostly through trial and error when trying to find the right speed, I come across the source. Outside of my house, there is a motion sensor that causes the light to turn on around 1:00 AM two days ago.
I rewind the footage and take a sip of coffee. It's dark and grainy in the video, but in the background, in the shadows, a figure moves slowly away from the light. Rewatching the footage, again and again, to see if I can distinguish it. The shape looks the height of a person and immediately I begin to feel panic.
I lost count of how many times I watched the footage when my wife finally wakes up. She stirs around in the kitchen, the sound of toaster tells me she is working on making breakfast as the sun begins to rise and the light beams into my window.
"Can you come in here for a minute, babe?"
After she watched the footage a couple of times, she furrows her brow and shrugs.
"It was most likely a deer, sweetie."
November 25th 5:15 PM.
They arrived a couple of days ago from UPS four new cameras, better quality and capable of seeing at night. Ever since I saw the shape on the feed my nights have become even more restless. My wife keeps pushing for me to see a doctor about my sleep deprivation, as she has become concerned with my late nights obsessing. Just something tells me in my gut that something isn't right and I would do anything to protect my family.
After a brief ninety-minute power nap, which is the longest I have slept since I saw the shape days ago. My usual Sunday ritual is watching football and drinking a beer has been replaced by drinking coffee and watching the camera feeds on my computer. I scour the recorded feeds until I stumble across a familiar sight.
The car from before creeps slowly down the road and takes a brief pause at my house. My heart begins to beat fast, and my legs begin to twitch underneath my desk.
Someone is scoping out my house.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"It's morning you fell asleep on your desk."
I look at my cell phone it says 6:30 AM, I must have fallen asleep while watching the feeds sometime throughout the night. My wife caresses my face rubbing my shaggy beard for a moment.
"You really need to shave."
November 26h 10:00 PM
I've gone through three tonight as my body aches from exhaustion. Three red bulls to keep my mind sharp and to push through the fatigue that I am feeling. Even after last nights long nap I still feel the dull ache of my body begging me for a semblance of a normal sleep. It's all I can do to keep my mind sharp chugging the blue cans of red bull as I press play on my computer.
I watch the feed from the night before as I open my fourth red bull. I fast forward through the day to see nothing out of the ordinary. I fast forward to the night when I see someone standing in my yard looking directly at a camera that I had placed. He walks closer revealing his denim jacket and black trucker hat, but with his face concealed behind a bandanna.
He just stares for a moment as if he looking right through the camera and mocking me as I sit here with red eyes in terror.
He begins to move towards another camera, after a minute he walked to another one. Each time he stared right at the lens, it felt if this person was mocking me by showing me he knew where each camera was placed. I started to shake with fear. How did he know where these cameras were? The only way he could of know was if he watched me place them and made me wonder how long he had been watching us.
After a staring at the last camera, he walks into the woods setting off the motion light from the other night and slowly disappears into the darkness. I rewatch the footage, again and again, to see if I can see any clues that would tell me who he is.
November 27th 3:02 AM
I look for my cell phone and see it is now 3:00 AM almost a full day later. Had I fallen asleep again? The last I checked it was 10:00 PM when I first began to watch the camera feeds.
'Check The Footage'
A crudely scribbled note taped to my monitor in dark ink as I jump out my computer chair. Did he come again? How could he of gotten in without anyone hearing him? Even I did not hear him surely my wife did. That's when I run to the bedroom and quickly turn on the lights
The sheets are stained red as I see my wife lying lifelessly on the bed. Her throat cut and her stomach punctured numerous times. When I grab her cold body, I notice something in her hand. A blood-soaked black bandanna crumpled in her hand. I fight back to the tears and the fear as I run back to my office to grab my cell phone.
I call 911 quickly.
I scream "My wife has been murdered."
The dispatcher tries to calm me on the other end as I stare at the scribbled note. She assures me that someone will be to me as soon as possible, which means I have 25 minutes before someone even gets here from the town nearby.
I hit play on the computer, and rewind the footage back to 1:00 AM. The man stares directly at the lens as he did before. He walks towards my house and enters easily. He doesn't kick the door down, nor does he do anything strange to the lock. The man just casually enters the door as if we forgot to lock it.
After about five minutes he exits the house and looks at the camera again to mock me, but this time is different his face no longer concealed. I look in horror as I realize who it was.
It was me.
I’m writing this from a Motel room in Cape Breton. Curtains drawn, doors locked, barricaded, and my handgun in my waist. I’m shaken as fuck right now.
2018 has been shaping up to be an absolute shite year. People I love and admire dropping left and right. First Hawking kicks the bucket. Aunt Kat wasn’t far behind. Then it’s Stan Lee. And now? Just the other day, I learnt that it was my grandfather’s turn to shake hands with the Grim Reaper.
I remember dropping the phone in my cats’ milk dish upon learning the news from my Cousin Pete.
“Yup... Doctor says he’s got another week at best.”
“Christ, man. Gramps is really going then.”
“From what Aunt Natalie is telling me, Lily, he took a tumble the other day. Was trying to use the washroom in the middle of the night. Worse than the one back in April.”
I gritted my teeth. We’d told the hospital time and time again that he couldn’t be left alone. But hey; that’s Nova Scotia healthcare for you. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Dixie started pulling at my leg with her paw. I leaned over, and gave my furry black friend a scratch between her ears. An exacerbated sigh escaped my mouth, and I set my glasses onto the mahogany table in front of me.
“Look, I’ll be down on Wednesday.” I tapped the speaker-phone icon, and set my cell next to my Morels. “I’m gonna see if I can’t get someone to take my shifts, and I’ll try to postpone finals.”
So, that’s how I wound up blazing down the Trans-Canada Highway after twilight. The five hour trek from Halifax to Sydney is gruelling, even more so when there’s no one but yourself to keep you company. The only saving grace of the journey is a nice little steakhouse in Antigonish called Mother Webb’s. I rolled into the parking lot around 9:00 PM.
Battered by the wind and cold, shitty weather every Nova Scotian dreads, I dragged my sorry ass in, and took a seat. The waitress brought me a menu, and I ordered a Pepsi to quench my thirst and some onion rings to tide me over.
Usually, the place is packed. But tonight, it was nearly empty. The only other patron was some Clint Eastwood-looking chap. No children screaming. No tourists gawking at the replica firearms strapped to the walls. I gazed out the window at the parking lot of the motel across the way. Red, neon tubes stretched into the shapes of letters glowed, spelling, VAC_NCY as usual. In the complex itself, not a single light was on. The idea of sleeping in there crossed my mind, but I flung it aside. If the owners couldn’t afford to change a single light on their sign - one that had been out for a year or more, at that... Then who knows what shape the rooms were in.
My eyes lit up with delight as I heard the click-clack of the waitress’s high heels and smelled the onion rings. The blonde lass, probably only a few years older than I, set down my drink and snack. “I’ll take the Jr. Rancher. Fries, and no coleslaw.” My host scribbled down my order, and returned to the kitchen.
My hand grabbed an onion ring from the basket, and popped it in my mouth. Greasy, salty, and hotter than the surface of the sun... Just the way I like it. I sipped on my pop to recover from the branding of my tongue, and let the onions cool a little, before resuming. As I looked out the roadside window, munching on onions, my attention turned from the drone of the overhead fan to the jingle of the door opening.
A forty-something man, donning clothes that were gently-worn at best. His skin was pale, and I mean pale. His grey eyes darted all over the room, as he jogged to a table. Something was... Off about him.
I shook him off. Probably a hobo or a hitch-hiker who’d wound up in the wrong part of the prov-
“You saw it, right?”
Me and the other guy looked each at other, shrugged, and shifted our attention to the new guy. “... Uh, what?” The haggard old man asked, raising an eyebrow.
“C’mon! You guys must’ve saw it!”
“Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I piped up, unnerved by the guy’s... I dunno how to describe it? Aura? Vibe? Things weren’t right. Hobo-hiker stood up from his seat, and stretched his arms out. “It was bigger than a 747! Lit up the whole highway!” Oh my Gods, would he just shut up...
“You gotta believe me!” He urged as the waitress came and told him to get back in his seat. “Son,” The older gent spoke up. “You probably just had a bad trip or one too many beers-“
“I’m not on drugs!”
“... So please, sit down, and calm yourself.”
My worries melted away when my steak was placed in front of me. I began sawing away at the medium-rare beauty, carving out a delictable, greasy, piece of fat, while Hobo-hiker continued rambling on about his “big thing.” But it became white noise with every fry I popped in my mouth.
At around 9:40, I finished up the last bit of the meal, as the garlic toast disappeared into my gullet. Never get between a girl and her garlic toast. I tipped the waitress generously, and got back on the road, continuing my North-bound voyage.
My windshield wipers could barely keep up with snowflakes landing on my screen. Like a frosty hydra, one was seemingly replaced with two. But I wasn’t about to let a bit of snow beat me. A promise was a promise. I said I’d get in town by Wednesday, and I’d be fucked if I didn’t make it.
Or so I thought.
I don’t quite know how to explain this next bit. It was just a little after Port Hawkesbury, by the Bras D’Or Lakes. I’d just refueled my car and had taken my well-needed dose of Hot Cocoa to stay in the land of the living. As I was cruising, I noticed a figure up ahead. Moose and dear are usually pretty common out this way, and to ram into one of those at 100 Kilometres an Hour is a recipe for disaster. I slowed my speed, but it wasn’t in time to evade the figure.
Everything happened in an instant.
My car slammed into it... Whatever it was. My nose nearly broke upon hitting the steering wheel. When I came to... Seconds? Minutes later? I don’t know. Time seemed to stop, or flow extremely slowly. The airbag deflated, and I let out a groan, while a rush of blood escaped my nose. My car had swerved and spun into the middle of the road. Everything hurt... Take the worst ache you can imagine. Now multiply it a hundredfold, and you’ll know a tenth of my pain. I gazed upon my bloodied hands, as though I were coming out of a dream. My radio was no longer playing cheery Christmas music, but static.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, forcing me to make the mistake of looking up.
I saw two entites... Their heads looked to be huge... The size of an extra-large watermelon. They pierced my soul with their glossy, black, almond-shaped eyes. I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t. I fought and fought against this paralysis that had taken over my body, but nothing worked. Walking on its’ spindly legs, one of the pudgy creatures went to my door, and opened it, even though it should’ve been locked. I could feel its weird, hands grasping me, and dragging me out of my car, which was becoming increasingly covered in snow.
The second creature came over to me, and set me flat on the road. As I looked up at the sky, I noticed a fantastic ripple in it... As though someone had skipped stones across a calm, black pond. A blinding light shone upon me directly from above. I lost my consciousness, coming back to reality at random.
I wish it hadn’t.
I honestly don’t know what I woke up to. Every time was so brief, but so... Vividly horrific. One moment I felt suffocated by some... skin-like blanket. Other times I’d see more of the creatures probing my nose and eyes... I get chills from just writing that. But the worst of it was when they must’ve cut me open. It was horrible.I could feel their long, protruding fingers move around my intestines and what was probably my liver... I can’t describe all the horrors I felt. And then...
I awoke back in the car. But I was four kilometres down the road from where I had crashed, already driving. Eventually, I saw the telltale lights of a village ahead, so I pulled into the First Nations’ Reserve, and broke down crying. Fuck the Marriott, fuck Sydney.
As I entered the Reserve’s Motel, the young woman at the counter gave me a weird nod as she passed me my keys. Like she knew something.
I’m not sure what happened. But all I know for sure is I can cross “Driving across the Province at night” off my list of travel options. I’ll be sure to update y’all tomorrow.
I was sitting at a dinner table in upstate New York at a weeklong getaway when one of my new acquaintances said what we were all thinking, “So we’re here to fuck some robots, huh?”
It was crass, and had the rest of us holding our wine glasses, frozen.
Elliot, the NY Irish looking fellow wasn’t wrong though. Him, me, and 4 others had been invited to most exclusive beta in the world, and we were in fact beta testing some sort of sex robots.
We 6 were to spend a week in this luxurious upstate New York home to test this astronomically expensive project made by a company none of us had ever heard of before, Cozy Co.
It’s not clear how Cozy Co came to pick the 6 us. We ranged in age, sex, race, and sexual orientation. The one commonality we could find is that we were all single.
There was Elliot, the brash fellow who formally broke the ice. Sandra, the lesbian who wore her orientation in her haircut. James, the shy and reserved black skinned fellow. Freddy the blond daint. Alice, the cute 20-something short girl. And me, a recently divorced 43 year-old bachelor.
After Elliot broke the ice, the 6 of us shared our experiences about getting invited in the beta. The invites were in person, and were only handed out after we agreed to do interviews. We shared thoughts that we found we all had, like that we all thought we were signing up for something else, like maybe testing out a VR headset or new type of television. No one expected it to be a weeklong vacation in a nice house in upstate New York testing sexbots.
It was an embarrassing situation, but we were all surprisingly candid with each other. I think it was Elliot that really helped move things along.
“Well for me, I’m into women and I like them to be big and busty,” said Elliot, proudly.
“Eww,” Sandra said. “You realize you sound like 15 years-old when you say that.”
Elliot didn’t look insulted.
“It’s crude, but he’s right,” Freddy said. “We’ve met each other but we haven’t met these ‘robots’ yet. I never mentioned my sexual orientation during any of these interviews. How do we know we’ll get assigned the righ robots? I would like to say for the record that I’m into men.”
“You didn’t have to tell us that,” said Elliot.
“Why, does it gross you out?” said Freddy, indignantly.
“No, it just isn’t so hard to figure out that you needed to say it,” said Elliot. “I look at this table and I see we got 3 straight men, a gay man, a straight woman, and a lesbo. Myself, James, crazyguzz1, and Alice are straight. Freddy and Sandra are gay. Is that right?”
We all nodded. None of us were surprised that Elliot would rattle that off, but we were a little surprised he got it all right.
“It looks like they predominantly expect straight men to use this product,” said Alice, in the highest pitch voice at the table.
“You don’t think that will be true?” said James.
“I just think it’s interesting in this group of 6, half of us are straight men,” said Alice.
“Maybe they just want to sell it to men because they get paid more than women,” said Sandra, a smirk on her face like she wanted to start a spat.
“Yea… maybe...” I said. "But anyway, we’ve been in this house for a few hours now. We’ve had this nice meal, some glasses of wine, but have any of you actually seen anyone here? I didn’t see the cook. I didn’t see any staff. I think we’re the only ones in this house. Even the car ride up here in the limo - the front glass was blackened. I didn’t even see the driver.”
We agreed we all had the same experience and that it was strange.
“Now that you mention it, I feel even weirder here. It would be nice if we could meet someone that could explain exactly what’s going on,” Alice said.
“Well, you did get the phone call this morning, right?” asked Freddy. “They called me before the limo came.”
“Yes, they called me too,” Alice said.
“That was a fun phone call,” Sandra said. “‘Yes, hello, we just want to inform you that you’re actually testing sex robots this week, not televisions or VR. You can back out now but the limo is already on its way.’ It’s like they pressured us into accepting getting fucked by robots by telling us at the last minute.”
“Even if they told me up front, I would’ve said yes,” said Elliot. “I’ve been hearing about these bots for a while, and I wanna see em up and close, if you know what I mean.”
“Eww,” Sandra said for the second time.
“Yea, probably me too,” said James. “I hear these bots are getting better all the time. Besides, you guys are getting paid for this too, right? For $10K, I could deal with feeling dirty for a week.”
“What about Cozy Co?” I said. “Does anyone know anything about them?”
No one at the table had.
“They’re probably a subsidiary of Google or Facebook,” said Freddy. “Who else is going to spend this much money to keep secret that they’re testing sex bots?”
We agreed that whoever was paying for this probably had deep pockets. We all agreed too that Freddy was onto something - an ultra limited beta with ironclad NDAs meant that whoever is paying for this, they don’t want the public to know that they’re developing sex robots, or at least not yet.
“Do you know how close to the vest Apple keeps new models of the iPhone?” said Freddy. “And that’s a product people already knew about. They want to keep it secret because they want to make sure they want to control the messaging on their product. Besides, public hears about sex bots, maybe they’ll be facing government regulation before the product even rolls out. They definitely don't want that.”
“So what do we do now?” said James. “I think it’s time Mark Zuckerberg showed up and explained exactly what this week is going to be about.”
James was joking, but his guess wasn’t way off. Out of the corner of the room, a man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie walked in. He had a head as bald as the moon.
“I’m sorry that you’ve been kept waiting. I was running a little late, and well this house isn’t the easiest to get to,” said the bald man.
“You’ve got to be…” I said.
“...fucking kidding me,” James finished my sentence.
We all just sat in shock as Jeff Bezos walked in.
“I guess I’m quite recognizable, huh? One of my assistants played back the phone calls we gave you this morning. The one that uh, informed you of the true purpose of this beta. I felt we haven’t done a good job of stressing the importance of this project, or the sincerity of our intentions. You 6 are here to test a product line that we have been developing for the last five years. I think you will be quite surprised by how ahead of your expectations the product actually is. We feel that it is nearly ready to be sold to consumers, and you lucky 6 are the first real-world testers we’ve invited.”
Bezos continued, “I will not be here all week. I will in fact be leaving in just a few minutes, but I did want to talk to you about the testing week and what we hope to achieve out of it. We simply want you to get to know these robots, and don't’ worry there will be one for each of you. If you wish to have sexual relations with them, that’s all the better for testing, but please don’t feel the need that you have to. The point of this test is really just to see what the general public reaction will be to our product line, and if it is indeed ready for regular customers. I hope that my being here has squashed any worry that you may have about this week, and know that these products have undergone thousands of hours of development and they are without doubt, the most exciting thing we’ve ever created. Now, if there are no questions, I will leave, the robots will join you, and you can properly start your week-long vacation. You will find your rooms down the hall - they have your names on the front of the door.”
“I have a question,” said Elliot.
“Yes,” Bezos answered.
“Are they all named Alexa?” Elliot asked.
Bezos merely blinked. “If there are no further questions, I will be on my way. I hope you all have a pleasant week and use your assigned product much like you would if you were at home. Thank you.”
Bezos walked out of the room as we all just sat in shock at what just happened - Jeff Bezos, the CEO of Amazon just said hello and explained his company’s mission of providing sex bots to Americans. It was quite surreal.
The silence was broken by laugher, at first by Sandra, then James, then the rest of us.
“‘Are they all named Alexa’? Sandra mimed, laughing with tears in her eyes.
After we managed to stop cracking up we walked into the foyer. There, 6 robots walked, yes walked, into the room. They were stunning. 4 female and 2 male, they looked real, very real. You could see them breathing. You could feel their eyes look over everyone in the room. It was like a scene before prom where couples line up to dance. It was the oddest fucking thing I had ever seen.
The robots apparently knew who they were assigned to, and as mine walked over to me, I couldn't help but marvel. It wasn’t her dark hair, beautiful facial features, or cut and curved body, but just the simple act of walking that marveled me. I was completely unaware that robot technology had gotten to this point. This was light years ahead of anything I had ever seen before.
Looking around the room, I saw my human acquaintances meeting their robots for the first time. They were just as shocked as I was. No one had guessed that this was the type of bot that we would be meeting.
“I’m going to my room!” said Elliot. “Goodnight” He picked up his robot, and whisked her away.
I glanced over to see Alice, who was struck by how handsome her bot looked. He whispered into her ear and they too left the room.
Sandra saw her athletic female bot and just continued to stare. I saw her trying to figure out what to do as she looked around the room at James and me. I glanced for Freddy, but he must’ve been the first one to leave cause he was already gone.
After a few minutes, the foyer was empty and I found myself walking my robot to my room alone.
“Your luggage is still in the main hall. Would you like me to grab it?” she asked, along the way.
I turned around and stared at her beautiful complexion. “Yes, I guess. I could grab them too...” But before I could finish the sentence she jogged back to the hall and was walking towards me with my things.
When we went into my room, things went from awkward to a level of strange usually reserved for finding out you're adopted.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“You can call me whatever you wish. What do you want my name to be?” she answered. Her response was well intonated, nearly human sounding. Still, there was an uneasy vibration to her voice that echoed from the uncanny valley.
I stared at her. I couldn’t bear give her a regular name. I thought for a moment about maybe using my ex-wife’s name (she sort of looked her, but with larger breasts, younger face, trimmer waist), but that seemed doubly wrong.
“Alexa,” I said, with a smirk. “You’ll be named Alexa.”
“OK,” she said. “I am Alexa.”
[What do you really want to know about this first night? Do you want to hear about this? Do want to know what she was capable of saying? Do you want to know if she was convincing as a person in other ways? Well, maybe I’ve given the wrong impression with this story. I’m posting this to /r/nosleep not to titalize. I’m posting this because I’ve signed NDAs up my ass and I can’t tell anyone else about the fucked up shit that happened next]
The next morning I walked to the same room we had dinner in the night before. Alice, Elliot, and Freddy were already seated. Alice and Freddy were eating cereal while Elliot was having steak, eggs, and on a side plate, a Belgium waffle.
I said ‘good morning’ and looked around the cupboards for a bowl for cereal.
“Ah, you don’t have to eat that,” said Elliot. “These robots won’t just fuck you; they’ll cook for you too. I’ll have mine whip up another one of these breakfasts!”
“What?” I said, half a in a stupor from just waking up. I didn’t see any of the robots in the room. “No, that’s ok, I’ll have the cereal. I just want to eat something quick.”
“Your loss,” Elliot said.
We sat in silence for a moment. Freddy, Alice, and myself were eating our cereal slowly. Elliot was digging in like a man on the Appalachian Trail. He was coating his waffle in syrup when Sandra walked in.
“Hey, morning,” Sandra said. “Where’d the steak and eggs come from… and why is only he eating it?”
“My bot made it,” Elliot said. “Have yours cook something up. She’s a female bot so she should be able to cook too.”
“Jackass,” Sandra muttered. “I’m fine with cereal. Where’s uh...”
“James?” I said. “He hasn’t come out.”
“It’s almost 11,” said Alice. “Should we get him?”
“Nah, it’s vacation. Let him fuck and sleep,” said Elliot.
“Is that all we’re supposed to do here?” Freddy said, almost with agitation. “Fuck, sleep, and eat for a week? I feel gross near my bot.”
“What, why?” said Elliot. “I can’t barely tell she ain’t human. I’d have to start looking at her bits up close to see that.”
“You wasted a good pun,” said Sandra. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, but I think that’s pretty much the idea. I think seeing if we get them to cook for us is part of it too. They’re probably collecting everything we say to them, how we treat them.”
“You’re right,” said Freddy. “It looks like Bezos and Cozy Co have a product that’s about ready to be sold. I think we’re just here to see how they market these things, like see how well humans interact with them, what we’d use them for.”
“Well after this delicious food,” said Elliot, “I’m going back to banging. You all can all use yours however you want.”
True to his word, Elliot shoved a few more bites of food in his mouth, took his plate to the sink, and left in a hurry back to his room.
“I feel so happy and terrible for him at the same time,” Sandra said. “He is the perfect customer for one of these robots. I mean what real human being would want to be around him?”
Sandra’s comment seemed to direct the conversation for the next two hours. Alice, Freddy, her and me talked about the implications of having such a realistic servant in the home. We debated why the phone call before the limo came in describing this as a sex bot beta, when really it seemed like so much more.
“Having sex with these thing is just such a small part of it,” Freddy said. “These are as-capable-as-human slaves, but with none of the feelings or self motivation. This is going to fundamentally change the world.”
“Marketing,” Alice said, high pitched voice but deflated. “They probably figure the best way to get this thing out to the public is to sell it to people that really want one, and that’s going to be perverts and deviants. No one is going to buy a slave, but buy a sex bot that’s as real as a human? I bet the people interested in that would save up, take out loans, do whatever they have to get one. Families that just want a worker bot later on - they’ll worry about that later.”
“Well this is fucking depressing,” I said, as I stood up from the dining table. “Look on the bright side, we’re all getting ten thousand dollars out of this. It’s almost 1 o’clock, I’m going to make sure James didn’t have a heart attack with that bot.”
By the fourth knock I knew something wasn’t right.
“Hey!” I shouted close to the door. “I’m not coming in, but can you just answer me and let me know you’re alright?!”
There was no response.
I quickly walked back to the kitchen, told Alice, Sandra and Freddy, and we walked back to the James’ door.
“Have you tried opening the door?” Sandra asked.
“No,” I said, “I wanted everyone here before I tried to enter his room. Should we grab Elliot?”
“No,” said Sandra, “fuck that. We can’t wait. If he’s not answering, we have to go in.”
She proceeded to twist the door knob, but no avail.
“What the fuck. Do these doors even fucking lock?” she said.
“Yea,” said Freddy, “there’s a push lock on the inside. You can lock yourself out.”
“Well fuck,” said Sandra, “He’s probably in there."
Sandra walked across the hall to her room, went inside, and a second later came out with her robot trailing her. “Catherine...” she said.
“You named it?” Alice interrupted.
“Yes, I named it,” Sandra said as she stared down Alice. “Catherine, can you get this door open?”
The athletic female robot didn’t answer. She merely looked the door up and down, grabbed the door handle, and started shaking it. It was weird. It was like a blender - a constant motion with no gradual startup or slowdown. She stopped shaking it after a second and said, “Is it OK if I break the door down?”
“Yes, for fucks sake,” Sandra said. “Break the door down!”
Catherine put her shoulder forward to the door and hit it three times in rapid succession. You could see the door wood splinter around the knob.
“It is open Sandra,” Catherine said.
Sandra pushed the door open as the four of us rushed inside. The room was dim, blinds covered over the small high windows on the far side of the room. James lay on his bed on the left side of the room. He was covered, completely in blood.
Alice screamed and folded into Freddy’s arms. I took a closer step with Sandra and looked at James’ body. He had been stabbed, maybe a dozen times or more. His wrists and top of his hands too covered with wounds. The knife that must’ve been used lay next to his body, blood congealing around the edge of the blade.
“He’s dead,” I said.
I looked around the room and on the opposite side was James’ robot. She was slumped back against the wall, completely still. She didn’t even have the breathing motion that the other robots had.
“I think it’s important we leave this room right now,” I said, staring at James’ bot.
Freddy took Alice out of the room with her still crying on his shoulders. Sandra was fixated on James’ bloodied body. I had to take her hand and pull her out of the room.
Stepping into the hall, Alice’s weeping grew louder, and across I saw Elliot's bedroom door open.
“What the hell is going on out here?” said Elliot. He stood shirtless with a towel around his waist. “I was just in the shower with, you know, and I hear a banging and crying and…”
“James is dead you idiot,” Sandra said, frustrated.
“What!?” Elliot replied. He reached for the broken door handle and walked into James’ room. From the hall we heard Elliot yell, “What the fuck!!! Why is there so much fucking blood!?”
Elliot walked back into the hall. “Alright, who the fuck killed James?”
“Who do you think killed James?” said Freddy.
The blank expression on Elliot’s face was sad, like he really couldn't figure it out.
“It was his robot,” I said. “It must’ve been. The door was locked and she was the only one in there.”
Elliot’s face turned red and fear seeped into his eyes as he glanced back into James’ room.
“It’s off now,” I said. “At least it looks like she’s off.”
“We should grab our phones, meet in the kitchen, and come up with a plan,” said Freddy, still holding Alice.
A few minutes later the 5 of us sat around the dinner table where there had been 6 of us the night before.
“I have no bars,” I said.
“That makes no sense,” said Alice, “I had signal yesterday.”
The rest of the table looked at their phones and came to the same conclusion.
“We should just leave,” said Elliot. “There’s a killer robot. We need to just leave.”
“I already tried the door this morning,” said Sandra. “I wanted to go for a run, but the main door is locked. The back door too. As far as I can tell, we can’t even get into the garage.”
“Well we fucking smash it,” said Elliot.
He got up and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and walked to the front of the house. None of us got up from our seats - we just sat and watched Elliot bang his chair against a large window that took the force like concrete.
“Fucking ASSHOLES! Fuck you Jeff Bezos,” Elliot screamed as he threw his chair a last time and it bounced back at it, hitting his knee cap and making him wince.
“Right, does anyone have any real ideas?” said Sandra.
“We can wait for Bezos, or whoever to show up,” said Freddy.
“I don’t think any of us are willing to do that,” I said. “These robots are dangerous. We need to get out of here.”
“Are we sure they’re dangerous?” Alice said.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“Well, did anyone take a look at James’ bot?” Alice continued. “It didn’t look the same as it did yesterday. It looked very different.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” said Elliot, holding his knee from the pain.
“I mean… oh come on,” said Alice. “Did none of you make your bots look different after yesterday? Mine told me I could make him a little bit taller, or look thinner or fatter, change their hair…. Did none of you notice? Did really no one do that?”
“No,” I said. “I never got asked by my bot.”
“Me either,” said Freddy.
“I didn’t know shit about that,” said Elliot.
“I did,” said Sandra, with a hint of timidness she hadn’t shown before. “Catherine… my bot, asked me if I wanted her to be more tone.”
“Alice, what does this have to do with James?” I said.
“Because… because James’ bot is smaller than she was yesterday,” said Alice. “She’s younger looking too. And, I don’t know what happened during that fight - but James definitely hit her. Did no one notice half her face is a like purple mush?”
We considered what Alice was telling us and as a group went back to James’ room to look at his bot.
I opened the door to James’ room and saw the bot in the same spot she had been, but now I was noticing what Alice was talking about. She was shorter now, maybe just 5 feet tall. She looked younger too. Maybe not so young to raise red flags, but this was not the same appearance she did yesterday.
“Her face,” Alice said. “Look at what he did to her face.”
The bot’s face was bruised. We didn’t know how these things worked - they certainly had no blood or human tissue, but it looked like a human that had been repeatedly hit on the left side of her face.
“So James was into beating up his partner,” Sandra said.
“Wait a second,” I said. “We have no idea what happened. Her face could be from self defense.”
Alice said nothing but walked over to the slumped robot on the ground. She removed the blankets that had been hiding her legs and part of the toros. The robot skin revealed purple blotches on her thighs, stomach, and lower legs.
“There’s no way that small robot started this,” said Alice. “There’s too many wounds all over the place for this to have been a fight. This was a fucking beating. This was a fucking beating and she had enough and she fought back using the only thing a small thing like her could, a fucking knife!”
Maybe it was because Alice is quite small herself, but she was taking this personally.
“If these bots can change their external appearance a little bit,” said Freddy, “that doesn’t change their internal parts - it doesn’t change their mass. James’ bot would be just as strong as you saw her yesterday.”
“It’s still kind of fucked up he would make her look small and do that though,” said Elliot.
“It is,” said Freddy, “but we can’t judge these things based on their appearance. They’re all probably as strong as one another. Whether the bot is female or male looking, or small or big, assume it can hit you just as hard.”
“Alright, so they’re all dangerous?” said Elliot.
“Yea,” said Freddy, “regardless of what they look like, they’re all just as dangerous.”
“Then let’s get the fuck out of this room,” respond Elliott.
We moved the remaining 5 robots into James’ room and did the best we could to block the door.
The plan was simple. We decided we’d abandon the bedrooms and all sleep together in the foyer. We wanted to put as much distance between the robots and us as possible, and we figured if we could just make it another 6 nights we’d be able to leave.
At first we were all feeling tense, but after a couple of days and no rumblings from the robots and we were all starting to feel better. Some of us were even looking on the bright side.
“I bet you we get a lot more than $10K out of this,” said Freddy, one evening during dinner. “I mean they’d have to. Someone died here. I assume they’ll call law enforcement and treat this like a driverless car accidentally hitting someone. It’ll sting but it won't stop them from eventually releasing these robots. For us though, I bet they give us new NDAs and pay us something in the millions.”
“No shit?” said Elliot.
“I’m serious,” replied Freddy. “Think about how much damage we could do to this program if we talk to the press about what happened here. I think they’re going to be very willing to open their wallets to minimize the damage.”
“Let’s keep in mind someone died here,” said Sandra.
“You’re right,” I said, “but also come on, this has been pretty awful for us too. I’m not going to complain about somebody giving me a bunch of money to forget this.”
“That assumes we’re OK not talking about this. I mean somebody fucking died here and I think we might owe some responsibility to him to talk about it,” said Sandra.
“Owe him?” chimed in Alice, her high pitched voice clearly irritated.
“Well yea,” said Sandra. “He has family. They deserve to know…”
“That he beats small girls and got stabbed because of it?” quipped Alice.
“We still don’t know exactly what happened,” I said.
“No, you don’t know what happened,” Alice said. “Some guys like small girls cause they want to pick on them - they want to dominate them. I’ve seen this before. James hit a fucking robot this time, but there were others. I bet he hit other defenseless girls like that.”
“Defenseless?” Elliot chimed in. “Bitch fucking stabbed her. Don’t seem so defenseless.”
“Yea,” said Freddy, “I mean we’re all sleeping in the same room out of fear of that girl.”
“She was defending herself, and this time he got what he deserved,” replied Alice. She got up from her seat, not interested what we had to say on it, and went back to the foyer.
While Alice was noticeably upset, the rest of evening went on without any more arguments. Elliot, Freddy and myself were pretty openly OK about receiving a bunch of money out of this. And Sandra, while she had some moral issues with not talking about James, it wasn’t long after dinner that she started to come around.
“I don’t like it,” Sandra said, later that evening, “but if everyone is on board, I’ll sign whatever they give us. I’m not going to go against the group on this”
“Money can make a lot of awful things tolerable,” I said.
“No," she replied, "but it helps."
The next few days went as well as one could hope when 5 strangers are forced to sleep in the same room out of fear of killer robots. The foyer had a television with a media center full of movies. We spent the time eating, watching TV, and talking about the one thing that was making the week tolerable - the thought of a major pay off at the end of this shit.
We were also clearly becoming groups of 4 and 1 as Alice seemed to not want anything to do with us. Sandra tried to talk to her a couple of times but couldn't patch things up. We assumed since she had nothing but contempt for James that she would keep quiet after this whole thing was over; she’d take the money like the rest of us were planning to do. But really, we weren’t sure.
Things came to a head on our last night. Freddy, Elliot, Sandra and myself had been drinking for a few hours. We were really happy about the prospect of finally going home. I had started to grow close to Sandra and hadn’t been paying as much attention to Elliot and Freddy. They too had become friendly over the week and Elliot had been drinking more than I initially realized.
“Hey Alice - we need to talk to you!” Elliot shouted, from the kitchen to Alice in the foyer. He had been drinking with Freddy, and while Freddy was pretty non-confrontational, I had the feeling he had been giving Elliot some ideas about what would happen if Alice didn’t go along with signing papers and getting paid.
“I’m just saying she might ruin the whole thing,” I heard Freddy whisper to Elliot before Alice walked in.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Alice said in her high pitched voice.
“Yea, yea,” said Elliot, clearly inebriated. “We were just thinking that we never had a talk about what happens tomorrow. You know they’re gonna come and we're just wondering what you’re gonna say.”
“Say about what?” Alice responded.
“We wanna know if you want the money or if you’re gonna tell em.”
“And what would I tell them?”
“We just wanna know if you’re with us Alice?” Freddy interjected.
“James got what he deserved,” she said.
“So you’ll take the money?” said Elliot.
“Of course, and I will them exactly what happened,” said Alice. “I’ll tell them that James is a monster and that Cozy Co is selling a product that lets other people be monsters too.”
“Hey look we just don’t want you to ruin.” began Freddy, mildly.
“Ruin what!?” yelled Alice. “The plan for a company to sell realistic dolls that bruise when you hit them? How fucked up does someone have to be to make a robot that bruises when you fucking hit it! They are fucking teaching people to fucking hurt others! Do you want me to not ruin that!?”
“No,” said Elliot, irritably. “We wanna know if we’re gonna ruin us getting rich.”
“That,” Alice said, “I just don’t know.”
Elliot and Freddy looked at each, but before either could say another word Alice had left.
There was definitely some tension, but I remember just being happy that In a few hours we’d be able to leave this place. It was starting to make us crazy.
“Psh, you up?” Freddy whispered, waking me. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I followed him, half awake, to the bathroom. Inside, I saw Elliot and Sandra. Freddy closed the bathroom door and moved to turn on the shower for background noise.
“We need to talk,” Freddy said.
“Yea, we have a fucking problem,” continued Elliot.
“What are you guys on about?” said Sandra, looking only a little more awake than I was.
“I’m talking about how in 8 hours we could have a few million dollars, or we could have fucking nothing.” Elliot sounded disgusted.
“What?” I muttered.
“She’s going to fucking ruin this thing for us, and I didn’t fucking spend a week up here and deal with a fucking murder to walk away with with nothing,” said Elliot.
“We don’t even know if they’re going to give us any money,” I said, “and we don’t know what Alice is going to do. She fucking hates James anyway.”
“Are you willing to risk millions of dollars for that?” said Freddy.
“What are you suggesting we do?” asked Sandra.
“We kill that little bitch,” snapped Elliot.
It was a moment of shock between Sandra and me. It was pretty clear to us that Elliot was still kind of drunk, like maybe he’d been up all night drinking. It was clear that Elliot and Freddy were one mind that the most important thing was removing any roadblocks to Cozy Co potentially giving us payouts for this week.
“I know it sounds drastic,” said Freddy, “but she’s been pretty clear that she doesn’t want to let this go. She is not OK with the idea of these bots, even if she’s ok with James being dead. If we want to make sure we get this money, she needs to die.”
“So then we don’t get the money,” said Sandra.
“What the fuck?” Elliot was angry. “We have a fucking chance at millions and you’re OK throwing that way?”
“I’m actually not OK throwing that away,” Sandra replied, “but I’m not about to fucking kill someone for it either.”
“What if you didn’t have to?” said Freddy. “What about if tomorrow you wake up and find out she’s dead. Would you tell Cozy Co you thought we did it?”
“Who else would have done it?” I asked.
“A robot already murdered one of us,” said Freddy. “Who’s to say another one of us didn't have an accident?”
“The robots are locked and boarded up,” I said.
“That’s right,” replied Freddy, “and perhaps Alice is worried Cozy Co is going to destroy the evidence of what James did to his bot. Maybe she’ll break in there tonight and take some pictures on her phone. And maybe when does, one of the robots freaks and kills her.”
“They’d probably have to pay us even more money,” said Elliot.
“He’s right,” said Freddy, “they would probably bump up the cost of our NDA considerably.”
“I’m not doing that,” said Sandra.
“Me either,” I said. “I’m not going to participate in a murder.”
“You are both morons,” said Elliot, with a spit of anger.
Freddy was unfazed by our response though. “Alright,” he said, “you won’t help us, but will you stop us?”
“We need to wake her up,” said Sandra. “Once they’re done clearing the door, you know what’s going to happen. They’re going to drag her in there and kill her. We have to do something”
Sandra was partially right. We should do something, but it wasn’t clear to me what we actually could do. Freddy didn’t look like much of a fighter, but I couldn’t say the same about Elliot, and at 43, divorced, and after six months of self loathing at home - I wasn’t in any shape to fight. Alice looked like she could be knocked over by a strong wind. And Sandra, while athletic, looked far more into cardio than weight training. Realistically, we would never be able to put up a fight against Freddy and Elliot.
“OK, let’s say that we wake her up. Then what do we do?” I asked Sandra. “Where are we going to take her? We can’t leave this place.”
“We hide in the bathroom then,” she replied.
“We can’t do that Sandra…” I said. “If the 3 of us hide in the bathroom, they’ll just break the door down. If we help Alice, you and me are just putting our lives at risk.”
“So what do you suggest we fucking do, huh? We just let two manics fucking kill Alice?”
I was still thinking about what to say when I heard Elliot say to Freddy that he got the door to the robots open. It would only be a minute before they came for Alice.
“Fuck you man. I’m not letting her fucking die,” Sandra said.
Sandra went to Alice and woke her. I saw her say something inaudible to her, then they whisked past me and towards the bathroom. I’ll never forget the look Sandra gave me as she walked by - it was one of absolute disgust, like at the moment of truth I fucking folded like a coward. I don’t think she was wrong.
Elliot and Freddy were only a few seconds behind when they stepped into the foyer.
“Where the fuck is she?” Elliot said, sweaty and belligerent.
“I’m not sure”, I said, lying and unconvincing.
“Yo, where the fuck are they!?” Elliot shouted, moving his body only a few inches away from me.
“She couldn't have gone anywhere,” I said. “Let’s just calm down and wait for her to get back.”
Elliot scanned the room, holding a mostly empty beer bottle in one hand. He turned back at me, stared at my scared expression, and took a swing with his beer bottle at me, hitting my left arm. The hit was enough for the bottle to crack and break. It felt like I had cracked a rib.
Holding the top of the bottle and the bottom functioning as an impromptu blade, Elliot asked me again, “where the fuck did Alice go?”
“What about Sandra?” Freddy stepped in. “Did Sandra warn Alice?”
I had fear in my eyes as I glanced from Elliot to Freddy. I really though Elliot might kill me, or at least really fuck me up.
“I think they’re in the bathroom.” I cracked.
Elliott shoved me away and Freddy and him went towards the hall. I kept a few paces away but followed them.
Elliott began turning the knob to one of the one of the bathrooms, but the door wouldn’t budge.
“Are they in this one?” Elliot asked me, red faced and angry.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
Freddy checked the other bathrooms as Elliot kept fiddling with the door.
“Yea they must be in that one,” said Freddy.
Elliot started using his shoulder to charge at the door. He got in 5 or 6 solid hits before Freddy stopped him.
“Wait,” Freddy said, as he walked down the hall and to the kitchen.
A few seconds later Freddy returned with a large knife in his hand.
“When you break the lock, back away from the door,” Freddy said to Elliot. “They might just be waiting for us with knives so when we rush in they slash us.”
Elliot resumed bashing the door with his shoulder, and I just stood there in the hallway, watching him.
As the wood frame of the door began to splinter near the knob, I could hear the cries of Alice and Sandra behind the door.
Sandra was yelling, “Stop! You fucking assholes, fucking stop!”
I had resigned myself to being a coward. I just fucking stood there.
As the girls’ screaming grew more frantic and Elliot got closer to breaking open the door, I kept expecting some sort of courage to rush through me, but that never came.
Just then, I thought I saw Alice. A small girl approached Freddy and Elliot as they had their attention still to the door.
As she got closer, I realized it was James’ bot.
She effortlessly pushed Freddy, who slammed into Elliot, as they both came crashing to the floor, and the knife Freddy was holding slipped across the hallway and near my feet.
Freddy and Elliot just looked at the badly beaten robot in horror. She walked past them and to the knife at my feet. She picked up the knife and turned around. By that time, Elliot was back up on his feet. He looked scared, as in a single fluid motion the bot extended the knife in an arc that cut across Elliot’s throat. As the blood poured out, Elliot took a step back and slid down the wall next to the bathroom door.
Freddy, too on his feet now, saw the robot with the knife walking towards him and said, “No, please don’t!”, but just like with Elliot, a single motion and an arc was made that passed through his neck. He too began bleeding, and soon fell to the ground.
James’ bot never looked at me and never acknowledged me. She just walked back down the hallway and to the room with the rest of the robots. After she entered, she closed the bedroom door behind her.
The girls in the bathroom were still crying when I said, “I think you can come out now.”
Note: The last little bit can be found in the comments, here.
There are nine of them in total. Nine massive concrete chimneys sticking out of the landscape like candles on a birthday cake. Up until my last week, the scariest thing about them was the deep booming noise they sometimes produced, which shook the ground with the ferocity of a subwoofer cranked up all the way. They’d spout out one at a time, like geysers releasing pressure. I’d walk the perimeter, and there went Chimney 3, followed by Chimney 5, and then suddenly Chimney 8 and 9 would go together. That’s as weird as it got, before I noticed the thing in Chimney 7.
I want to make it clear from the get-go, I have no idea what the chimneys do or why they’re here. They’re alone in a fenced-off field with no buildings in sight. There are three padlocked doors on opposing ends of the property with roads made only from the flattening effect of tires on grass, with the one nearest to Chimney 7 being overgrown. I think there must be bunkers beneath my feet, although I suppose the doors could also lead to storage sheds. It’s hard to tell, and I’ve been told not to ask. Why are the chimneys there? Is this some sort of nuclear power plant? Are they testing sound cannons? Are they part of an experiment? Pressure valves for a dormant super volcano? I don’t have answers to those questions. I wish I did, but I’m just a temp. Any time I’ve tried asking, I’ve been told the answers were on a need-to-know basis, and all I needed to know was that the chimneys needed patrolling, and that patrolling them was my job. That, and reporting anything unusual.
The first few weeks were fine. It took a bit of adjusting, especially to the noise. The first time I heard the boom, I was so scared, I nearly peed myself. I thought something had gone wrong, and that the whole field was about to collapse. I know, it sounds like I’m exaggerating, but really, put yourself in my shoes. You’re minding your own business when your temp agency calls in the middle of the night. There’s an employer offering twice your hourly rate, on condition that you leave immediately. It’s the new moon, so you drive thirty miles out of town in complete darkness. You get there, and there’s only one guy there to greet you. He tells you their patrolman never showed up for his shift tonight. Gives you the job. Makes you sign a non-disclosure agreement. Tells you to walk around the field, climb the chimneys, radio in anything strange. That’s it. He leaves you there. You start to walk, it’s the dead of night, no traffic, complete and utter silence. And then…
BOOM.
It’s terrifying.
I tried to radio it in, but it took half an hour to find a spot where the connection was strong enough to hear the reply.
“That’s normal. Keep patrolling.”
That’s what they told me. Cold, clinical, straightforward.
Each subsequent boom made me less and less nervous, but I never quite got over the split-second of dread they caused. I think it’s because they came at random, so there was no way to brace myself. If you approach a garbage bin and know someone’s about to jump out at you, your heartrate might quicken a bit when they do, but it won’t be that bad. If you know every single garbage bin might have someone in it waiting to jump out at you but you don’t know which or when, that spike in your heartrate will be a little higher.
But I’m not here to tell you about the booming noises. I’m here to tell you about Chimney 7.
Chimney 7 was just like all the others. I’d say it was approximately nine…maybe ten storeys high. There was a grated – and, in places, rusty – spiral staircase circling around it all the way to the top. I couldn’t tell you the exact circumference, but it was wide enough that you’d be able to drop a car into the hole without hitting the sides. It took approximately 6 minutes to climb stairs, and only 5 to get back down, and that’s without resting.
Up until my last week, Chimney 7 was no different from the others.
And then came the night where everything changed.
It was cold enough that I could see my breath. Halfway through my shift, I’d grabbed an old baseball cap from the back of my truck to keep my head warm. Nothing special, just a green cap with Fido Dido printed on it. Yeah, I know, I’m showing my age.
Although I’d never seen smoke coming from the chimneys – despite me calling them chimneys – that evening, as I approached Chimney 7, I spotted a small wisp of smoke billowing through the air. Since it was my job to report anything unusual, I tried radioing out, but all I heard was static. I couldn’t have been farther from the spot my signal normally got through if I’d been actively trying to avoid it, so I decided that if I was going to make the effort to walk all the way back, I better make damn sure I had something to report. I began climbing the steps around Chimney 7, and as I did, I heard a low growl that stopped me dead in my tracks.
I closed my eyes and listened, but I couldn’t pinpoint the source. I figured it was the sound of the grate buckling in the cold or maybe scraping against the concrete wall, but the closer I got to the top, the louder it got. Once I reached the topmost platform, I realized it was coming from the chimney. Something mechanical, I figured. Probably malfunctioning, to boot. I figured I’d have to look into he chimney, but I was reluctant. See, I’d never tried before, nor had I been instructed to do so. I suppose I could have, but those damn sonic-like booms made me nervous. All those nights in the dark made my imagination run wild, and I had this vivid, unshakable mental image that if I craned my neck and looked into the hole, the chimney would boom, and my head would be blasted straight off my neck. With that fear very much at the forefront of my mind, I gripped the edge of the chimney and shyly poked my head over JUST enough to be able to see.
There was nothing but blackness beyond the top few storeys. Blackness, and a symphony of wind howling through the tunnel with the growl that seemed to cycle from low to high to low again, as though the chimney were a sleeping, snoring giant. No sooner had I popped my head in, did I pull it back out. That was enough bravery for one night. I climbed down and hurried to the radio spot, giving my report, but while it did sound like the signal went through, I never got a reply.
The next night, I wasn’t quite as reluctant to look into Chimney 7. All evening, I’d kept tabs of which chimneys had been booming, and good ‘ol seven hadn’t done it once. I figured it really was defective, and therefore, safe. I climbed the stairs to the same growly tune and then peered inside, pushing my head in farther than the night before. A gust of wind coming from deep below flung my cap in the air and out of reach. It spiralled its way down the chimney like a helicopter seed and disappeared from sight. I wasn’t fond enough of the cap to contact the employer and beg for it back, but I wished I had something to stay warm. I flicked my flashlight on and moved the beam in circles, if only to see what had become of it, but the light couldn’t penetrate far enough to see the bottom. Oh well.
Again, I went back to the radio hotspot, and again, I mentioned the dysfunctional chimney. Still no reply.
Something told me to steer clear of Chimney 7, and I listened to my guts for as long as I could. I’d circle close but not too close to it, examining it from the vantage points of Chimneys 6 and 8. I did this for three nights until I received my direct deposit paycheck and felt guilty about not doing my job. Before my next shift, I bought a heavy-duty flashlight, and then headed straight for Chimney 7.
The light reached considerably farther. Down to ground level, I think? But even so, I still couldn’t see the bottom. What I could see, however, was that at about three storeys down – just below where my original flashlight stopped working – I discovered scratch marks. I mean, I guess they could have been anything. Even with 20/20 vision, it’s hard to tell a scratch from, say, a scratch-shaped graffiti. All I know is there was something marking up the walls all along the circumference.
I was already spooked from the scratches, so I don’t know if what I saw next was my mind playing tricks on me, but as I panned the halo around, I caught something on the farthest side. It was some sort of long black shape, but as soon as my light hit it, two bright spots reflected back at me and momentarily blinded me. By the time my vision finally cleared and I looked again, there was nothing but concrete below.
It took all my strength to finish my shift. I just had to remember the dollar signs that came with the mounting terror. They somehow convinced me I was imagining things.
The last night was the worst. All of the chimneys were quiet, and I found myself dreading the silence more than I dreaded the booms. It was raining hard, which might explain why, as I walked by Chimney 7, I couldn’t hear the growl I’d become accustom to. I didn’t want to go up, but I couldn’t neglect my rounds again. It wouldn’t be right.
I was careful the whole way, hand clinging to the guard rail as I navigated the slippery circular staircase. Every step seemed to make the whole thing shake and I was afraid the rusted metal would break once and for all. I was suddenly very aware of my added weight, what with the water having seeped into my clothes. Fortunately, the structure held, even though its integrity was in question. As I reached the platform at the top, I thought I could breathe a sigh of relief, but something caught my eye while I was trying to catch my breath. The rim of the chimney was broken. Large pieces of concrete littered the platform. I didn’t need a flashlight to see the scratches this time. As I glanced into the chimney, I found deep gouges scratched up the wall, all the way to the top. Three on each side, with a fourth that seemed to come from a different angle. The cuts were deep and purposeful, like desperate fingers raking a cliffside as a hiker clung for dear life. Whatever had clawed its way up, machine, animal, or…I don’t even want to think of the alternatives, it was now somewhere out there in the dark, and its grip was strong enough to break concrete.
I had had enough. Everything about this damn job put me on edge, and even though there was a reasonable explanation – maybe the gouges had been made by grappling hooks or a device to slide down the chimney from the top like the ones window cleaners use – I was done. D.O.N.E.
As much as I wanted to run down the staircase and back to my truck, the rain was still coming down in sheets, and the last thing I needed was to slip and crack my head open. I went slowly and methodically. Suddenly, my worst nightmare came true. The stairs shook violently. I don’t mean there was a gust of wind that made them jitter, I mean they were SHAKING. My stomach dropped to my feet as I imagined whatever had created those deep cuts in the chimney was now climbing up and towards me. The metal screeched as it bent, a sound far more unsettling than growling coming from a chimney. A sound more grounded in reality, and in danger. I screamed and hung onto the railing for dear life, and then I felt a pop. Not in my body, not against my body, but through the metal. Pop. Pop. Pop. The bolts connecting the hinges to the chimney were falling out one by one.
Through the heavy rain, I could have sworn I heard a scream like a coyote, and then the staircase went still.
I was out of breath, on my knees, arms wrapped around the railing and paralyzed with fear. I could tell the structure was no longer safely fastened to the tower, as it was swinging in the wind, but I couldn’t see the extent of the damage. It took me a few minutes to gather the courage to start moving, my white knuckles stiffly releasing my death grip. It should have taken 5 minutes to get back down, but I spent 15. The longest 15 minutes of my life. I could hear the staircase shifting as I slowly made my way from step to step, hoping it would hold and trying not to shift my weight and throw everything off-kilter. I didn’t know how many bolts were left, or if my weight could cause the others to come out.
As I neared the bottom, I saw the final flight had been pulled from the chimney and was now suspended in the air. The handrail was warped outwards and undulated in parts, like a bent twist tie. It was still too high to jump off, so I had to climb down as the stairs rocked like a ship in a storm. Solid ground never felt more solid, until I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and then the bottom seemed to drop from under me. Between Chimney 6 and 7, I found a baseball cap. It was shredded, but there was no mistaking the Fido Dido logo on it. It was mine. Around it were long, narrow footprints about the length of my arm, with branches stretching out in four different directions like talons. I didn’t wait around to see what had left them.
It’s been two months since that night. I haven’t gone back. I keep receiving paychecks. Like clockwork, every two weeks, there’s another direct deposit in my bank account. I don’t know if it’s to buy my silence, or if there’s no one left to take me off the payroll.
This was my last week living at Lake Blackshear, Georgia. My wife Holly had recently had our son, so rather than living out in the boondocks, I went ahead and bought us a cozy home on St. Simon's Island. We were moving Thursday, and she couldn't wait. For me though... well, there were some aspects of our house I was gonna miss.
For one thing, having the lake out back was glorious. Shit, I never even owned a boat or went swimming, but waking up to the sight of Blackshear felt exhilarating. A true snapshot of the serene beauty of rural Georgia.
And for living in such a wealthy neighborhood, no one ever bothered us. You see, most of the houses here were vacation homes. During the winter, River Road was basically a ghost town. Not to mention most of these houses had been abandoned since the Recession. I even had my realtor try to dupe me into buying another one, but I wasn't falling for that shit. Dr. Alan Brooks may have just been a jack-of-all trades/master-of-none at Albany Memorial Hospital, but bad investing wasn't one of them.
Overall, to say Holly and me were isolated would be an understatement. Lake Blackshear was like a haven for the wealthy and elderly. The closest "city" we had was Warwick which is one of the most notorious speed traps in the southeast. I guess they needed more than Stripling's sausages to support their local economy.
Of course, there were more reasons for the move than just family and location. My job was getting worse. Much worse. Nothing that I did was wrong, but the stress and drama was getting to me. My co-workers had turned the place into fucking Grey's Anatomy minus the show's warm jokes and sentimental side plots. Goddamn, Albany Memorial was a mess. At just forty-six, I'd felt like the last fifteen years of my life I'd aged in dog years. I had to get off this sinking ship and sooner rather than later.
Tomorrow was my last day of work there. My last day to report to our asylum-like emergency room. I was overcome with anticipation for the move. An excitement I hadn't felt since Holly had our son Michael. I felt rejuvenated. Such was the relief of having the burden that was the hospital lifted off my shoulders.
Yet here I was on my off-day. Up at 6 A.M. like a solder who'd never got over their morning routine. Dressed in my sweats and SuperJew hoodie, I was ready to get back in session with Mother Nature.
I always loved my morning runs. You can call it fun or healthy, but for me, it's therapeutic. Even on these frigid November mornings, there's nothing like finishing off a can of Monster before running out into the cold.
Bracing myself for the wind sweeping off the lake like spirits emerging from the water, I looked out a kitchen window. I had maybe an hour until daylight.
Reflective, I realized St. Simon's would only be fucking colder when I made my mark on their roads next week. But oh well. At least, there'd be people around me. At least, we'd be near a community. And near the beach. And most importantly, Holly would be happy. That's what mattered most.
Using my phone as a flashlight, I made my way out into the darkness. The cold breeze hit me like bullets fired by an opposing army. But I fought back and took off in a steady jog. Right down my driveway and onto River Road.
The neighborhood was usually dead and today (tonight?) was no different. There wasn't a car in sight. No lights on in any of the huge houses. With the stars still out, I felt like I was jogging through outer space. A sea of darkness.
Right now, it was just Alan and nature. And the cold. All while Big Country's "In A Big Country" played through my earbuds.
Soon, my shivering gave way to pumping adrenaline. Heavy breathing. I could even feel sweat in this forty-degree temperature.
The further I got down River Road, the houses began to morph into overgrown undeveloped properties. Properties that'd suffered deteriorating conditions and prices over the last ten years. No one was buying this shit...
I saw the cul-de-sac up ahead. Well, if you wanna call it that. A cul-de-sac as in the developers just said fuck it and abandoned River Road by no longer building the actual road. Like an incomplete section at the top of a skyscraper.
Beyond the dead end was just woods. A burgeoning forest complete with lakefront property that would likely never be settled. Basically, the perfect spot for Holly's dogs to piss and shit during our afternoon walks. I guess the realtors could always pitch it as a perk. Live on River Road and live adjacent to a park! ... More like live next to a fucking jungle.
Thinking it was time for a breather, I strolled up to the end of the cul-de-sac. I paused Billy Joel's "Big Shot." Panting like an exasperated dog, I breathed heavy. I could see my air escape my lips in constant bursts. Lowering my phone, I looked off at the woods. The can of Monster had caught up to me. Maybe I could imitate my dogs and go take a piss out in the woods myself...
I took a few steps into the collection of wet tall grass. Then I came to a nervous stop. About twenty feet away, down a dirt path, was a pair of lights. Tail lights that cut through the darkness like torches.
Uneasy, I yanked out my earbuds and turned off my phone's light. In the rural silence, I heard the steady hum of an engine. What would a fucking car be doing back here...
I looked all around me. I was all alone with nothing but derelict properties for company. But something was odd... it wasn't even dawn and someone besides the Brooks family was here on River Road.
Clinging to my cell, I approached the car with cautious steps. I could see the vehicle's headlights were facing to the right. Straight on at the majestic lake.
I was going so slow, the cold had returned with a vengeance. Trembling, I pulled my hoodie in tighter.
Right when I got ten feet away, a ferocious splash startled me.
I stopped and looked down toward the lake. Straining through the darkness, I could see outlines on the ground. Shapes. A man stood by the shoreline. A large flashlight lied on the ground next to him.
Focusing, I watched the tall man cry out as he threw something into the lake.
Another loud splash echoed through the forest. It sounded like the guy was tossing boulders into the water. Only they were too big to be boulders...
Like a factory worker, the man got to work lifting another one of these oblong objects. I saw there was one more left on the shore. A small stack that the man must've been working on all morning.
Holding the object, the man stepped closer toward the flashlight.
And then I saw what he was holding. A large white sheet. Ropes tied all around it. Like the man had kidnapped a ghost.
Maybe they were ghosts, I realized in horror. All those stains on the white cloth sure looked dark. Like splashes of red paint...
I felt my face go whiter than those sheets. In the cold, I struggled to keep myself from breaking down into a shivering mess. Covering my mouth, I tried to stifle my chattering teeth.
With ferocity, the man hurled this "bundle" into Lake Blackshear. The splashes sounded louder. And they were always followed by the man's gruff breathing.
The man let out another cry as he grabbed the final load.
This last one was the smallest. Yet another tied-up white sheet... this one with even more red stains than the others.
To my horror, I saw an unmistakable foot dangling out the bottom of that makeshift bodybag. A small Batman sneaker. Velcro for shoestrings. The shoe of a young child.
I couldn't be certain, but I thought I saw a substance constantly dripping off the shoe. A dark liquid... as a doctor, I've seen that color all off often. That tinge of dark red.
Growling, the man threw this lightest load straight into the lake. As if he were hurling a javelin.
This splash was the weakest yet. And with a sickening sensation in my gut, I knew a child would probably be the lightest of the bunch.
Horrified, I staggered back. I was fucking quiet until I tripped over an object hiding in the grass.
The hard ground greeted the back of my head. I shook off my dazed state. This up close and personal, I saw what I'd tripped over.
A human hand stuck out of the dirt like a morbid plant. The hand was pale and still. Completely dead. But judging by those scratches and cuts on its fingers, I knew it'd still been quite active when it was buried alive.
Ready to leap off the ground, my hands scurried back. Until I felt something sticky. Something wet.
Full of dread, I turned to see an abundance of fresh blood covering the grass like a red rain had fallen.
And like a variety of planted crops, there were more than just hands sticking up out of the ground. There were fingers, feet, even strands of bloodied blonde hair. Bits of flesh and bones were all strewn about in this... this fucking burial ground.
I moved my hand away and felt it hit another lodged object. I was hoping it was a rock. But that was delusional wishful thinking.
Instead, I made eye contact with a brown eyeball buried in the dirt. One that was forever wide open.
I let out a panicked cry. I couldn't hold my fear any longer. Not when I was this cold and terrified.
A beam of light brighter than the sun hit me.
"Hey!" I heard a nasty Southern accent growl.
Alarmed, I staggered to my feet and turned to see the man in all his frightening glory.
There he was less than fifteen feet away from me. Right next to what I presumed was his vehicle.
The man's flashlight illuminated his appearance for my eyes to see. He was close to my age. Piercing blue eyes. An executioner's scowl. A hollow face that could never be mistaken for warm and friendly.
His short curly hair must've been messy from his night's "work." A trash stache that'd have been hilarious in any other situation was now nothing more than a menacing attribute on this canvas of evil. The man's undershirt was covered in more red stains than those white sheets.
He stood lean and tall. And with that huge flashlight, he resembled an eerie caretaker holding a lantern.
"Get over here, Goddammit!" he barked at me, spit flying out of his mouth.
Nervous, I just stared at him. I was quiet. Dead still. Only the cold air seeping from my heavy breaths let me know I was still alive.
Glowering, the man marched toward me. "C'mere, you son-of-a-bitch!"
Like a gunshot to start a race, his first move was the only signal I'd need. I sprinted off for that dirt path. And thankfully, I avoided all the protruding skulls and hands along the way.
I heard the man give chase.
"Come back, Goddammit!" he yelled, his voice more brutal than a Pit Bull's growl.
But he couldn't catch me. Not a chance. I hauled ass down that path. And soon enough, both the man and his cries faded away into the dark wilderness.
Clutching my phone, I stepped foot onto the cul-de-sac. I'd never felt more relieved to be on this junk side of River Road. I glanced back real quick but saw nothing. No sign of the man. I slowed to a steady jog.
As I continued my trek past the overgrown "yards," I raised my phone to call the police.
But then like a roaring beast, I heard an engine erupt right behind me.
Terrified, I whirled around. The beast's beaming eyes blinded me. And those two large headlights were careening straight toward me. The tall man had given up on going after me by foot. Now he was hunting me by car.
Picking up speed, I ran as fast as I could. Like a heroic long distance runner. My adrenaline and fear melted all the cold I felt. My breath poured out in front of me like smoke coming from the engine that was my soul.
I could hear the car bellow through the quiet night. And it was only getting closer... like a manic crop duster swooping down upon me. North By Northwest on steroids. Only this was happening in reality. To me. In my own neighborhood.
Like an out-of-control winged monster, the car glided back-and-forth in both lanes. The headlights a crosshairs for the man.
Up ahead, I saw houses. All of them with their lights off.
The closest one was to my left. And through the darkness, I could see the Daniels's mailbox. At least, I thought that was their name... shit, Daniels or David, whatever the Hell their name was! If anyone else was home in this fucking neighborhood, it was them!
My heavy breathing intensified. My legs felt empty. At this rate, my sweat could freeze to me and I wouldn't feel it. Nothing but hope and caffeine kept me going.
With gusto, the car snarled and got even closer. I could feel its lights bearing down on me. But right before that monster of a vehicle could pounce, I jumped to the left.
I landed in the Daniels's/David's wet front lawn. Not the most graceful move, but hey, I was just thankful I hadn't landed on any blood or buried hands.
Exhausted, I looked up to see the car make a quick swerve. A maneuver I'd only ever seen in video games, but I'll be damned if the man didn't make it look effortless. Before I knew it, those irate headlight eyes zeroed in on me once more. In the cool November night, the vehicle resembled an oversized bat. One with a lust for blood.
"Shit," I muttered. Time to run.
As I heard the revving engine, I got on my feet and took off for the house's front door. I moved so fast I didn't even flinch when I stepped in a huge pile of dogshit. I was used to that anyway...
I could feel the headlights. I could hear the tires snarl. I could hear that motor heading right toward the driveway.
My knees wobbly, I climbed up the porch steps. "Open the door!" I yelled.
With desperate strength, I banged on that front door. My hands like hammers smashing into it. "Open the door! Please!" I begged. "It's Alan! Open the door!"
I heard nothing. Nothing at all. For that matter, I saw no more light in this staunch darkness.
Nervous, I turned. The car was gone. The son-of-a-bitch never came hurtling down that driveway. I was all alone.
Before my relief got carried away, a chorus of barks scared me back to reality. I looked over at a window and saw two Dobermans scratching at the glass. Their saliva flew all over the window like scattered rain. Their eyes glowering at me with the same vile hatred of the tall man.
I thought maybe my luck had started to change. Maybe the Daniels or whoever they were might still be home after all.
Cautious, I leaned in a little closer toward the window. Then my heart sank further than my hopes.
There wasn't just dogs in the family's entryway. Mr. Daniels himself was sprawled out on the floor. A huge bullet in his head. His bloodied gray matter exposed for all the world to see. His blue bathrobe brandished in redness.
I could even see where his own dogs had gotten to him. Chunks of Mr. Daniels's head had been ripped out by the Dobermans' hungry fangs. His pool of blood a grisly substitute for their empty water bowls.
I couldn't help but wonder where the rest of his family was? But honestly, I didn't wanna know. Not now... and I sure as Hell wasn't gonna tangle with those mutts to find out.
As the dogs kept snarling, I stumbled off the porch. My steps weary and weak. I'd felt like I completed a marathon. And in many respects, I had. Only I wasn't competing for money or glory. I was competing for my life.
Wiping sweat off my brow, I scraped the dogshit off on the final porch step. Then I stopped on the front lawn. I could still hear the Goddamn Dobermans through the serene silence.
I looked up at the sky. Dawn was upon us. Soon, the sunlight would shatter through this cold November night.
Tired, I lifted my phone. At this point, my cell really did feel frozen to my flesh.
I began mashing 911 when I felt a quick whiz zoom right past me. I stopped, confused. Another gush of wind brushed by my ear. Like the force you feel when someone just misses punching you. Only this was much more dangerous... these were bullets.
Frightened, I turned. And off in the distance, I could see the outline of the car parked in another yard. The headlights were off, and the man stood right outside the door on the driver's side. Total stealth mode.
To my horror, I realized he wasn't pointing a flashlight at me either.
Another shot rang out, and this one did signal a race.
I took off like a frightened juvenile delinquent. Through all my neighbors' yards. I didn't care since most of these assholes weren't home anyway. They never were. Then it dawned on me that some of them were probably dead... just like Mr. Daniels.
All around me, the bullets just missed. Like I was the world's most evasive target. Thank God, this asshole wasn't a great shot...
Behind me, I heard the car's engine roar to life. The tires screeched into hyperdrive.
I got closer and closer to my house. Stumbling through all the shrubs and bushes, I could see it up ahead like a gorgeous mirage. My wife's most hated place had become my dream destination.
Another bullet made me duck. But I kept going. I'd gone out-of-breath at this point. All the exhaustion made me hot in the chilly weather. Sweat drenched my clothes like I'd run through a rainstorm.
Powering through, I continued on the journey through this seemingly-abandoned rich neighborhood. The houses may as well have been decoys. I didn't see a single light on, much less any of my "neighbors" out and about.
I noticed the headlights grow brighter behind me. I knew the car was just a few feet away.
A violent honk made me jump. And right when I sensed the car aligning with me, I leaped down into my neighbor's ugly bushes.
Above me, I saw a bullet blast a tree limb off one of my neighbor's oaks. Like a broken statue, the branch landed right by me, smashing into several pieces.
I laid there on my chest for what seemed an eternity. I covered my mouth to suppress my exhaustive breaths. For several intense seconds, I just stayed right there. But I never heard those tires skirting to come back. I saw no gleaming headlights. There was nothing.
I dialed 911. Something I should've done a longass time ago. That poor operator got an earful. I know I must've sounded like a delusional methhead. But the message was pretty fucking clear: SEND SOMEBODY TO RIVER ROAD, GODDAMMIT! SOMEBODY'S SHOOTING AT ME!
Cautious, I stood up. No one was around. Even the car was gone. Still paranoid, I ran into my yard.
Like I'd reached a finish line, I leaned against my garage wall. The garden hose alleviated my depleted energy. With this break from the battle, I finally had the time to brush all the dirt and debris off my clothes.
Faint sunshine was out by the time a cop car pulled in. Relieved, I staggered up to the vehicle. The cool wind made me pull my hoodie in a little closer.
I felt a wave of comfort just seeing the siren sitting on top of the car. Even more relief when I saw a logo I never thought I'd be overjoyed to see: Warwick Police Department.
Like a beaming schoolboy, I waved at the officer sitting inside.
As the car got closer, I noticed how large the headlights were. How loud its engine was.
The tires came to a screeching stop.
Unease struck me. In the daylight, what I saw before me was a regular squad car. But at night... this car was no different than the beast that had been hunting me down since 6 A.M.
Dread smashed into me with the ferocity of those missed bullets.
The door on the driver's side swung open. And out stepped a tall, skinny man. No longer in his blood-stained undershirt but an ironed police uniform.
His blue-eyed glare was unmistakable. As was that fucking trash stache.
Confident, he slammed the door right behind him. A smirk appeared on his face. "What seems to be the problem?" he quipped.
Frozen in horror, I watched him approach me. "I think one of my neighbors is hurt," I said in an uneasy tone.
The cop stopped right in front of me. "Oh." His hand grabbed his holster. "Is that so?"
"Yeah." Trembling, I pointed down the road. Toward the Daniels's house. "It's the brick house right down there."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cop undo his holster.
"I think he needs an ambulance," I went on, doing my best to feign naive calmness. I'm a terrible actor...
The man gripped his firearm. "We'll take care of it," he told me with cold detachment.
"Hey, Tom!" a voice interrupted our staredown.
Both of us turned to see an older cop step out of the passenger's seat and lean against the door. He was pot-bellied with a weathered face. Definitely the elder of the partners.
"Let's go check it out," the older cop said. His commanding eyes looked over at me. "We'll let you know if we find anything."
I lost my voice for a moment. Both from nerves and the cold. "Than you," I finally forced out.
I felt "Tom"'s dagger of blue eyes stay on me. But I avoided eye contact. Even if I noticed his hand kept staying on that gun.
The older cop tapped on the door. "Come on, Tom! Let's go!"
But Tom wasn't ready to leave.
Finally, I turned and looked into his angry eyes. He was studying me like a scientist. Like he wanted to remember me for later.
I held my ground. But not in very convincing fashion. This fucker was well over six feet tall. And oh yeah, he was a cop. With a fucking gun.
Agitated, the older cop got between us. Literally. "Goddammit, Tom!" he grumbled.
Using all his might, the veteran policeman forced his partner back toward the car.
I couldn't hear much of their ensuing conversation. They kept whispering. And most of their chat featured the two of them flashing glances at me.
"We'll do it later," I thought I heard the older cop reassure Tom.
Awkward, I took a few steps back. I can't say I felt too safe out here in the cold.
The older guy shoved Tom back into the driver's seat. "Alright, let's go!" he hurled at the young cop.
Right before he got into the passenger's seat, the older man faced me. A stoic expression on his haggard face. "You'll hear from us later," he said. Not in obligatory-bullshit fashion either... this man was promising it.
Before I could even say anything, the two men were back in the squad car.
Through the windshield, I could see them arguing. I could see them turn their glares on me from time to time. And I knew they didn't care I saw them either.
After what felt like a tense decade, the cop car finally backed out my driveway and drove off toward Mr. Daniel's house.
All I knew was I wasn't sticking around. Panicking more than a cornered crook, I burst inside the house. I told Holly everything. With the aid of coffee, I tried to stay calm and focused. We're getting the fuck out of here! I stated.
We packed up our main shit and left the house in less than an hour. Before the Warwick Police Department could ever give me a neighborhood update.
I took us to my brother's house in Moultrie. At Holly's insistence, I had a moving van go get most of the rest of our other stuff. We were going to St. Simon's Island earlier than expected. But I knew it was worth it. Honestly, I think we had to.
Of course, I never what happened to Mr. Daniels. Just like I never knew what happened to that burial ground out on River Road either.
Less than a month later, I had my brother-in-law go out to our old home and check on it. He made his living as a horror writer... well, if you wanna call it "making a living." I think he just writes all day and posts on forums like this.
Anyway, not to my surprise, he told us our old house had been ransacked. The windows shattered, the front door busted in. He sounded more scared and surprised then I was. I was just relieved me, Holly, and Michael were nowhere near that place when Tom and his partner decided to come back...
I told Holly's brother not to worry about it. The realtors can handle that shit. I'm far away from that house now. Far away from that community.
Sure, St. Simon's Island is fucking cold for those morning jogs. But at least, I can still go running without fearing for my life. And this community is so vibrant and friendly! I suppose the rural seclusion was nice when I was younger and more adventurous... but when you raise a family, man, you just want safety. All I know is Holly's happy now. Her and Michael both.
By the way, if anyone's interested, our old house is still on the market. At an extreme discount, I might add. I'm basically giving it away at this point. The house is still a pretty place too. In a really pretty neighborhood. And from what I've seen, River Road also has quite the local police patrol.
Living in a big city isn't easy. If you're not in a cushy job, you have to work insane hours to afford a shack of an apartment. Sadly I'm one of those people.
I do have dreams and aspirations that drive me to stay here, but currently I'm stuck in a dead-end job to make ends meet.
I try to make the most of my evenings, but inevitably I have to sleep on a set schedule to make sure I can properly functions for a full weeks work.
This would be simple, if it wasn't for the fact that I some reason struggle to sleep. It was trying to discover why that lead me down the strangest rabbit hole I could possibly imagine.
For some reason, at just before 3 in the morning, I would always wake up in a start. After this I would be unable to sleep for around an hour, before resting for the remaining time before I had to be up for work.
I would talk to co-workers asking for advice, and got one recommendation that I straight away followed. They said they used a smart watch to track their sleep. I was told you can pick up older models for relatively cheap, so I went about second hand stores until I found the one they recommended.
This was great. I used it every night to track my sleep. More importantly, I used it to track how much deep sleep I got. And it was apparent that I was low in that department.
Tracking deep sleep is significantly important. You can sleep for 8 hours, but if you don't get much deep sleep, or REM, then you can still be exhausted when you wake. Some common factors to this can be lack of a schedule, or alcohol; none of which were factors that should have affected me.
I now had graphs and charts showing why I would sometimes wake up groggy, and it all lead to that mysterious hour of being awake. It would slice my deep sleep time in the middle, drastically lowering the consistent time I spend in REM.
The Smart Watch helped me track things, but never told me why I was being so restless, nor how to fix it.
I tried all means I could find to remedy this. I bought your basic over-the-counter sleep aids at the local pharmacy. My nights became a chemistry test to see what worked, and what didn't. Some helped me fall asleep faster, and feel amazing during my first cycle of sleep. But I'd inevitably wake up around 3, and struggle to pass out again until 4, no matter what.
I tried those sleep masks and ear plugs. But that only confirmed that it wasn't any sort of disturbance in the neighbourhood.
It got so bad that it started to affect my work. So I explained all this to my manager, and she agreed to let me see professional help. I booked a doctors appointment, and was allowed to take a day off work to try sort all this out.
It took a while of fully explaining all the troubleshooting I had done before hand to the doctor. They were puzzled by my case, as I guess hearing it out loud it did sound rather bizarre.
He clicked around on his computer for a few minutes, before settling on prescribing me the strongest sleep aid they had. I can't even begin to try pronounce its name, but in layman's terms he described them as basically 'minor tranquilliser'.
When I got home I stared at the little bag containing the box of pills. I was hesitant. I was more than happy to accept any solutions before leaving. But after hearing how powerful these things were, I started to get cold feet, contemplating whether this was going too far.
I psyched myself up that this was going to be for the best, and that I took precious time off work. So to reject these would be a slap in the face of my manager who allowed me to take an unbooked day off.
I readied myself for bed and took the correct dose at the right time as instructed. That night things were different.
I had the best nights sleep in the longest while. I hadn't slept through the night like that since moving to this apartment.
This went on every day. I would work, get home, relax, then take my prescription and sleep through the night. Only one thing bothered me. More often than not, I would still feel a bit exhausted each day, despite the extra sleep I was getting. I was starting to feel like the problem was one I could never fix. But I decided to see if I could investigate a bit more.
I checked my sleep app that my Smart Watch used. Each night I would get the full nights sleep. But despite not waking at 3am, my deep sleep would end around then, and resume not long after 4am. It showed activity as if I were rolling around and moving a lot in that hour.
I was baffled at this. Even while passed out, I was still restless in that hour.
This left me more confused than ever before. Despite my intense investigation, I suddenly had more questions than I did answers.
I decided to take a step in a different direction, and investigate the physical side of things.
I bought the cheapest security camera I could with a night-vision mode, set it up at the right side of my bed, and left it recording all night.
When I woke I remembered to run it off. After that I got ready for work as normal and carried on with my day.
While on break, I checked my sleep app in case things were different. But no, again at around 3am, I was apparently moving around while sleeping, which continued for about an hour, before abruptly ending.
Work finally finished and I got home, ready to see if I could find something definitive. I popped the SD card in my computer and played the file. It started time stamped at about 10pm, around when I was getting ready for bed.
I could see me click the camera on, stare at it for a moment, before knocking off the light, and making my way to bed. When the light flicked off, the infrared sensor kicked in, and everything was washed in a soft grey.
The software that accompanied the camera automatically scrubbed through the footage, switching between various speeds depending on if movement was picked up. Sometimes it would slow the footage as I switched positions in bed, which I'd study, seeing nothing noteworthy. Then it would speed back up. 11pm passed, and nothing much changed. Then midnight. Then 1am.
At 2am I noticed a bit more stirring, but other than that, everything was fine. Until the end of the hour hit.
Suddenly I watched as I first started moving erratically, like I was having an intense nightmare. Then I started thrashing about.
It's surreal watching yourself do something you don't ever remember doing. Especially when it's something you feel you'd never do in any context. You feel a loss on control, despite it being in the past.
I could see my body flailing around in a panic, my chest raising rapidly, almost hyperventilating. I felt sympathy watching my lifeless body suffering, which created a strange emotion knowing it was me. By then I was watching intensely as the playback locked to a normal speed.
I leaned forward in anticipation as I studied to see if I could spot what was causing this panic. If I were to hazard a guess at that moment, it looked like I was trying my hardest to wake up. However all movements seemed to give up most of the way through. My arms would lift up, only to fall limp soon after. Visible evidence that the mild tranquilliser was doing its job.
I watched as my body rag-dolled and limply rolled to the right side of the bed, towards the camera. My eye were closed peacefully, but my face was wearing signs of distress.
Then I started to see why.
The closet door on the far side of the shot slowly swung open. The hollow black entryway lingered for a few moments, my mind trying to piece together how the door opened.
Something long and thin slowly poked out of the closet, placing itself delicately on the floor. Followed by another long appendage reaching out and gripping the door-frame. This limb pulled out a figure that sent me reeling back in shock.
A strange being emerged from the closet, looking around as if a bit confused. Before it was even fully out I could see how long it was simply from how bent the limbs were as it pulled itself out the small space.
Once it locked on to my sleeping form, it crept its way to the side of my bed. I could see my face in the video stirring as it approached.
When the creature was closer, I could not compare any feature it had to anything in the animal kingdom. Everything about it looked off. Unnatural pieces forming a living, natural being.
It stood still on the left side of the bed, opposite the camera, most of its frame hanging out of shot. Unblinking, I watched as it hunched over and put its face eerily close to my helpless body. Even though I wasn't there now, I felt every ounce of fear I should have had in that moment.
Once it took position, it just stayed there, watching as my body struggled, then fell limp. I jumped a bit as the footage suddenly started scrolling forward, the lack of movement making the automatic fast-forward kick in.
There were moments my body lashed out, causing the footage to stop to a crawl. Each time, the figure would flinch back, along with myself watching the footage. Then my sleeping body would fall still, and the creature would resume its observant position. As it did, the fast forward would click back on.
The time rolled by, until it neared 4am. As it did so, my body started rolling around in another state of panic. As I did, the creature took its leave, slowly creeping back to the closet. As soon as the door clicked shut, my sleeping form fell peaceful, almost looking relaxed. As it looked like I rested, the fast-forward clicked back on, and didn't stop until the footage ended with me waking up, and turning the camera off.
I hesitantly checked my phone app, and confirmed that each movement I made correlated to restless moments in my sleep. Any denial I had about the footage was quickly out the window at that point, and I knew this was serious.
My mind was going a mile a minute. Fear consumed me as I soaked in everything I had seen. My mind soon turned to the closet. I weighed up whether that creature only emerged in the witching hour of the morning, or if it was there as I stared.
I was pulled out of this trance when a loud bang sounded in the room, emanating from the closet door. I didn't take any chances. I took off as fast as I could. I didn't even look back, nor did I grab anything important. I just ran.
I made it to the apartment lobby completely out of breath. I barked at the first person I saw to give me their phone so I could call the police. When they saw me in the panicked state I was in, they saw no other choice than to comply.
I reported that someone was hiding in my closet, and that I caught it on camera. I eluded that it was a person, as I wanted them to take me 100% seriously.
The police hastily arrived, and I directed them to my apartment.
They promptly turned the place over, looking for any sign of a break in, or unwanted residence. Sadly, they found nothing.
I asked them to follow me to my computer, where I clicked around frantically, trying to pull up the file.
I clicked on my storage devices, but saw nothing except the normal C: drive. I furrowed my brow trying to see where the folder went. Once it hit me, I snapped my neck to look in the SD card slot. It was empty.
Because of this, along with no evidence found of foul play, the police informed me they couldn't help me. They left, giving me a half-baked assurance that they'd possibly send a spare patrol in the area that night.
I was soon left alone, contemplating my options.
I can't leave, because I have no where to go, but I can't stay here because I'm terrified of what lurks in the closet. For the first time in my life, I truly have no idea what to do.
Andrea are you there? This is Janice. Please don’t be scared, don’t panic. I’ve been trying to contact you for so long but now I finally feel that I’m succeeding.
please don’t let it be just wishful thinking oh my god I am so scared please let her get my message
it’s so cold in here or is it because I'm wearing just dress everyone else is surely wearing sweaters and coats
Oh god, it’s hard for me to focus. Let me try again.
This is Janice. I’m not dead. I know everybody thinks I am, you can probably see my body now, unmoving – but I am still here. And I know you must be somewhere close, because I can tell it’s obviously my funeral. I know you are here and I must try to let you know this because I won’t get another chance.
I hear the music they’re playing that song I always loved did you pick it you must have you know how I love it
Are you receiving my message, Andrea? Or anyone else? God, I don’t even know if this works.
why doesn’t anybody do anything
I don’t know what I’m doing – I’m not sure if I’m even sending anything, if I’m even able to send it, it just feels like I’m doing it. I have no idea how this works – it feels as if it were something like telepathy, sending my thoughts somewhere else – to reach you, but I don’t know if it really works or if I’m just imagining things.
please help me there’s not much time left oh god what if this doesn’t work
I can’t move, but I can feel everything that’s going on around me. I am not dead. I can’t move, can’t shout, can’t give you a sign that I am still alive, but I am.
can she really get this please I’m so scared
I still can’t understand what happened to me – I remember when the people (doctor? The nurses? My eyes were closed I only heard voices) came into my room. I was too tired to move and my throat was so sore I couldn’t speak. Or at least that’s what I thought at that time. And then they said I was dead. I didn’t understand what was going on. I wanted to scream but couldn’t do anything. I heard them, I felt their touches as they were taking me somewhere else, I remember the cold… it was freezing. I tried to give somebody some kind of sign but I didn’t have any luck. They all thought I was dead – and I think they were almost right. My body is dead, but somehow my mind is still here. Is this what happens to everybody after their death? Or did something go terribly wrong with me? I don't know but I'm terrified.
This is my last chance, I know it. I’m trying to focus to tell you everything but I fear it’s no use. And I’m so tired. Everything hurts as if I still was sick. I’m trying to be calm because if I don’t focus, then I’ll lose this chance, but I’m so scared. You don’t seem to be getting my message – am I sending it? I really don’t know…
I heard what you said when you were alone with me today I love you too Andrea please Andrea help me I love you I need to tell you this I love you I love you I miss you I know you miss me oh god I want to talk to you so much want to hug you please do something
I can’t focus for much longer, I feel so weird, so tired – if anybody gets this message, help me. I am not dead. I can’t move, can’t even open my eyes but I am still here. This is Janice. Please, help me. I don’t know what’s going on with me, with my body, but I am still here.
nobody is receiving anything are they
oh god please help me
stop this you need to stop this I’m not dead I am still here
Andrea please why aren’t you doing anything I love you help me please love help
it doesn’t work it doesn’t work it’s hopeless
no please no somebody do something
help me help me help me help me
no don’t put me in there don’t do it please no I beg you please no
this is going to hurt please no don’t oh my god I can already feel it it’s so hot in here please stop it
the heat oh my god the heat the pain it hurts it hurts so much make it stop help me please
pain pain pain it burns it burns help me it burns
please no
----
This is Andrea. Janice was my girlfriend who passed away ten days ago from pneumonia. Today she was cremated. I had my phone in my pocket but it was turned off during the service. When I turned it off, it had around 70 % battery. When I turned it on after I came home, the battery was at 17 %, the Word app was open, a new document was created – and this is what was written in it.
At first I thought it was some kind of a sick joke – but I don’t see how that would be possible. I had my phone with me the whole time and would’ve noticed if it was missing. Before somebody suggests that I could’ve been in some weird mental state due to my girlfriend’s death and wrote it myself, that would be an excellent explanation – except my mother was sitting next to me the whole time. If she ever saw me being on my phone during the service, I’d never hear the end of it.
I never believed in anything supernatural and this is the first time in my life when I can’t think of any normal explanation for what just happened to me. Even though that can be because I’m still shaken and in shock from this whole thing – I can’t think normally. Was it really message from Janice? I desperately hope it wasn’t. Having her die from pneumonia was bad enough – I cried for the whole week – but to think she felt everything during her cremation and was basically burned alive and I could’ve helped her if my phone was turned on… I can’t even think about it. That thought makes me sick.
Please, if anyone can think of a normal explanation or if there's anyone with a similar experience, I would really like to hear it. I don’t want to think my Janice went through all of this. It has to be some kind of joke.
Hey, guys. It's been a while but I'm back with more strange stories with my demon roommate, Hector. Lately I've been wondering if this is all a weird fever dream or if I've finally lost it from the stress of college debt, but I've decided to just let it all go and go with the flow. If you're curious as to what I'm talking about, you can brush up on my previous misadventures here and here. Hector also says hello, and mentioned our door is always open if you want to send him a fried chicken delivery; he's been hooked on Korean fried chicken lately.
That being said, living with Hector hasn’t been so bad. I had to admit, Hector was really quick in picking up human customs and what was acceptable and unacceptable of him as a roommate. Even though there was a lot he still had to learn, once he was corrected for his behavior he never made the same mistake twice. And overall, he tried his best- even if his best wasn’t exactly the greatest. He didn’t leave half-eaten fried chicken lying around anymore, and he went out of his way to get me three new goldfish to replace the ones he had eaten. I kept up my end of the bargain and supplied with him fried chicken, even when it wasn’t on Fridays.
I also learned a lot about him. I learned that the physical form he currently inhabited belonged to an actual guy named Hector Sanchez who died in the 1920s. A few of you guys mentioned that a demon’s weakness was its real name, and that I should try and figure it out just in case Hector ever backstabbed me and tried to eat me. Luckily, I didn’t have to beat around the bush for it; Hector did tell me his real name, but I couldn’t pronounce it so we agreed to just keep it simple and continue calling him Hector. It turned out that he had a lot of limitations while in his human body. Although he was immortal, he was basically a walking shell of a zombie and had he been a real human, he would have died a long time ago from severe malnutrition and lack of sleep. That explained his increasingly awful-looking dark circles. The only reason he was alive was because he couldn’t physically die, but I bet if the body had a mind of its own, it would have really wanted Hector to end it all. The body was running on pure caffeine, fried chicken, and demonic essence. I tried to get him to eat more balanced meals, but he refused to eat vegetables because they had no soul.
Hector really liked R&B music. He stopped belting songs in the shower in the middle of the night, but I still caught him humming Beyonce’s classics while he reheated his chicken. He had a pretty good voice for a demon, and I wondered if the real Hector Sanchez liked to sing when he was alive. That being said, Hector was strangely into personal hygiene and our bathroom was stocked with various candles and hygiene products, including three different bottles of face wash and various brands of shampoo lying around. He got me into skincare routines. He also really liked watching TV, and that’s basically all he did when he wasn’t out and about looking for the next best fried chicken joint. Because he technically didn’t need sleep, he spent 24 hours at a time watching every single show on Netflix. I think he made a personal goal to finish every single show there was on Netflix before moving onto Hulu.
Despite living with him for a while, I never saw his full demon form. The closest I saw was his back in the subway incident. He’d always make me avert my eyes, saying I couldn’t see because it would shock me or whatever. It was stupid, but I agreed that I wouldn’t push the matter further. He mentioned it took a lot of energy to revert back, because his strength decreased considerably in my world, and it took a lot of fried chicken for the soul to replenish his strength.
The main problem I had with Hector now was his lack of an income. I kept my word and tried hooking him up with several jobs, but eventually accepted that he would be unemployed for a while due to his strange mannerisms and tendency to mess up everything he did. Hector had no papers, identification, or even a degree, so it was hard to find him a job that he could get hired at; I had to fabricate a resume for him. He got fired as a butcher because he kept eating the raw meat- all captured on security footage. The owner was not pleased and was disturbed to say in the least, and Hector was let go quickly after that. He got fired from the mattress store for loafing around, lying down on the mattresses, and watching Netflix shows on the phone I got him when I replaced my own. He couldn’t even hold down a job as a cashier at the nearest grocery store because he tried to take all the money from the cash register on his first day. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t entitled to taking the money; we had a long talk that night about the importance of following the law. So needless to say, it was very difficult trying to find Hector a job. I was also busy with my own schoolwork and my job at the startup, so I didn’t have much time to research for him. I also had to deal with managing my exorbitant student loans, so I was close to losing all hope of finding something for Hector.
But as luck would have it, I finally figured out a way Hector could make money and use his demonic backgrounds to his advantage. And it came in the form of a paid exorcism from Christopher Pollack.
A little backstory: Christopher Pollack is my ex. We went out briefly after matching on Christianmingle.com, an account I made as a joke a couple of years ago. I thought he was a decent enough person to go out with, and he was a good guy. But things just didn’t work out. He was deeply religious, to the point where he never missed a Sunday prayer session and his car had Bible verse bumper stickers plastered on the trunk. He was the altar boy for his local church until the age of 16 and was working on becoming a pastor for the same church; that was the kind of guy he was. I just wasn’t into the whole religion thing as much as he was, and that was a huge deal-breaker for him.
I never expected to run into him again. I also never expected to see a video of Chris’ sister, Mabel, go viral on the Internet, but a lot of weird things have happened to me in the past few weeks so it didn’t really surprise me. I followed a few Christian pages on Facebook after the brief religious phase with Chris, and by that morning, the video of a possessed little girl had at least two million views with the clickbait title, “YOU WON’T BELIEVE THE TERRIBLE GRIP OF SIN THAT SATAN HAS ON THIS TEN-YEAR-OLD.”
Curious, I clicked on the video, only to see Mabel Pollack tied down to her bed with a bunch of restraints, screaming profanities in a foreign language and thrashing around. I only recognized her from her room layout; whenever I went to Chris’ house I had always made sure to visit Mabel and bring her some treats, and her room looked to be the exact same as it was when I broke up with Chris. Mabel, on the other hand, looked like a different person. The video looked like it was filmed with a camera from 1995, but through all the pixels you could see the bare gist of what was going on. She was malnourished like she hadn’t eaten in days, and her entire body was bruised and bloody. Her face had scratches all over, almost as if she had scratched herself; her eyes had blood coming out of the sockets. She looked like a mess. I could have sworn I heard her screaming, “DEATH TO ALL HUMANS” in the middle of her furious rant in tongues. The video cut to her crawling on the floor and the walls, throwing herself at her bookshelf, threatening to slit her own throat, until she was finally put in a straitjacket for her own safety.
I managed to track down the video to Chris’ original Facebook post. He claimed he had planted a hidden camera in the bookshelf which recorded his sister during a failed exorcism and posted the video to Facebook and Youtube in hopes of someone reaching out and finally being able to cure his sister. The original post was posted two weeks ago, and since then people had been trying to help her to no avail. Priests called her possessed beyond help, psychiatrists called her psychotic, skeptics accused the video of using special effects to mimic a possession, and some asshole Facebook users made some really fucked up memes about her with a particularly bad screenshot of her possessed face. It was terrible.
But as terrible as it was, I saw a gleaming opportunity. Chris’ caption included all the gory details about his sister’s situation, and also included hefty monetary compensation for anyone who could help his family out. And that’s where Hector came in.
-
“Oh yeah, she’s totally possessed. No doubt about it.” Hector said, distracted by his Popeye’s and the latest rerun of How I Met Your Mother. I showed him the video in hopes of inspiring him, but I clearly needed to coax him into my plan a little more.
“So…would you be able to do something about it?” I asked, re-watching the video of Chris’ sister screaming and wailing in her bed, thrashing against her restraints and speaking in tongues. It gave me chills. “Not like an exorcism, but maybe you can fight the demon within her or something?”
“Uh, I probably could after this episode. Why do you care so much, though? People get possessed all the time. It’s not a big deal.” Hector shrugged, still fixated on the screen.
“Alright, so I have a confession.” I sighed. Hector raised his eyebrows, interested. “The girl in the video is my ex’s little sister. You remember Chris, I think I remember mentioning him once in a conversation. I kind of messaged him and told him that you were an priest-slash-exorcist and that you could get rid of demons, and he’s super religious so he really believes in that kind of stuff. His sister’s a good kid but she’s been pulled from school. She spray-painted dicks on the school playground and on all of the faculty’s cars, lit someone’s hair on fire, and wrote ‘HAIL SATAN’ all over the chalkboards and bathroom walls.”
“Haha, that’s funny.” Hector said, gnawing on his bone thoughtfully. “Satan’s ego probably inflated from that. Y’know, his ego’s already big enough ‘cause he has a bunch of cults dedicated to him and the only thing he did was backstab God or whatever, like that doesn’t happen all the time. But God doesn’t even care anymore ‘cause it happened like centuries ago. They golf together now.”
“Okay, not the point I’m getting at. The point is, Mabel’s a good kid, and this has been going on for two whole weeks, maybe more, The possession is really taking a toll on her and her family. They’re great people. And if she dies because of this demon, then they’ll be devastated. You’re a demon. Can’t you go and, I don’t know, talk to the demon inside her? Maybe even convince him to leave nicely?”
Hector shook his head. “Nah, if I were to do this then I’d have to go all out. Demons don’t listen to words. We have to take care of things physically if we want to settle things once and for all.”
I pushed my phone in his face, trying to get him to see the gravity of the situation. “Are you willing to fight this thing? Whatever’s possessed her is literally destroying her from the inside. It would be morally shitty for us to just ignore it knowing we can do something about it.”
Hector grabbed the remote and muted the TV as soon as ads came on. He swallowed his bone whole and nodded. “Alright, sure. Sounds fun. But what’s in it for me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do I get anything out of it? I don’t wanna waste my time if there’s nothing in it for me.” Hector’s eyes had a greedy glint to them.
I pondered for a moment. “You’ll get the satisfaction of doing something good for someone else?”
Hector looked unconvinced. I rolled my eyes; clearly he needed something more motivating than that.
“Chris’ family is filthy rich and will pay you enough money to pay rent and supply you with fried chicken for a month.” I deadpanned.
Hector shot up ecstatically. “Start talking.”
-
Hector didn’t enjoy his priest getup very much. He thought it was itchy and unnecessary, but we had to make this as convincing as possible. I found a priest costume on Amazon for $30, complete with an iron cross, black robe, white collar, clergy stole- everything a person needed to look like a priest. I was worried the iron cross would hurt him, but he brushed it off, saying that was just another gimmick humans made up to feel like they could ward off demons when in reality it did nothing. When he donned the outfit, he really did look like a priest- maybe a great value priest, but a priest nonetheless.
“Alright, Father Sanchez.” I emphasized Hector’s newfound priestly identity as we got on the train. “Let’s go over how to act like a priest one more time.”
“Right. Use big words, sound like a good person, and reference the Bible every other sentence. Got it.” Hector replied.
I grilled Hector on his priest persona until we got it down to a tee. Shockingly enough, Hector told me he had been to church before for the free food back in the 1900s. I was surprised he didn’t spontaneously combust into flames upon entrance, but he told me that was just a myth that humans made up to feel more secure against the evils of demons or whatever. I learned that there were a lot of common misconceptions humans had of demons and angels. Demons simply avoided religion because it had a tendency to make people overzealous, but humans believed it was because religion and holy objects were their weakness. In reality, demons just didn’t want to want to bother with all the crazy shit that came with religion, including witch hunts, crusades, and the stereotypical pedophilia. I reminded Hector not all religious people were like the ones he saw on the media, but he stuck by his beliefs nonetheless. We went over his act a few more times as we took the train down to the suburbs where Chris lived. Chris greeted us at the train station.
“Finn.” Chris said stoically, shaking my hand and giving me a curt nod. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Chris.” I nodded back and returned his stoicism with my own brand of stoicism. Hector looked amused by our tense exchange. “You look good.” I lied. He looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in days.
Chris turned to Hector and shook his hand, enclosing Hector’s hand with both of his in a grateful manner. “And you must be Father Sanchez. Thank you so much for coming. My family truly appreciates you taking the time out of your busy life to come and help us in this time of need.”
Hector had to stop himself from snorting. “Yes. Nice to meet you, Christopher. I am so sorry to hear about your sister. That truly…sucks.”
I elbowed Hector, reminding him to sound professional and holy. “I mean, it sucks in that it’s horrible that your sister was possessed and hopefully I will be able to, uh, exorcise the sins out of her.”
“Bible quote,” I whisper-reminded through my teeth. Hector glanced at his palm quickly, where he wrote down some random motivational Bible quotes. They were all smudged. He had to wing it.
“The Bible says that the holy spirit will always triumph the Devil. Isaiah 4:13.” He gave Chris an awkward thumbs up for reassurance, even though he completely misquoted the Bible. Chris raised an eyebrow but didn’t question Hector’s quirky mannerisms. I wanted to facepalm.
Chris then ushered us into his car, and we went for a short, tense car ride to Chris’ house. In the car, he explained the situation fully- This all began to happen three weeks ago when Mabel accidentally scraped her knee while playing hide-and-seek in the church’s graveyard with her friends. Why they were playing hide-and-seek in a graveyard, we didn’t know. Kids were weird. According to other priests, the blood from her knee and her proximity to evil spirits in the grave allowed the demon to enter her body without anyone noticing, and she began to truly act up a week after her knee healed. That sounded stupid, even to me. She probably just got unlucky and was at the wrong place at the wrong time when the possession occurred. Hector looked skeptical at such a shoddy explanation as well, but thankfully kept his mouth shut.
Chris pulled into in his gigantic driveway and we got out of the car. Hector looked awed at the sheer size of the house.
“Here we are. Just a warning, Father Sanchez, please don’t be too shocked when you see Mabel. I’m aware you’ve seen many possessions in your day, but her case is truly unique. Other priests have compared her to the likes of Anneliese Michel, or even worse. No one has been able to even approach her within 5 feet of her bed without getting something thrown at them. She’s escaped the straitjacket we got for her every single time, and we’re really at our wit’s end with her.” Chris said, opening the door to his six-bedroom house. Immediately, we heard screams of agony and pain, and I flinched. Hector merely blinked. Chris closed the door behind us as we walked in.
“Oh yeah, Anneliese Michel’s case was pretty bad. I think, like, five demons were fighting for possession over her body and they went way too far. Those demons got into a lot of trouble for that one.” Hector whisper-chuckled. I elbowed him again, reminding him that he couldn’t say those things in this ultra-religious household. We ascended the stairs, and the screams and slams got louder and louder. Chris looked like he was in pain hearing his sister’s wails, and I felt bad for him. I knew he cared a lot for his younger sister and seeing her like this must have been hard for him. In front of Mabel’s room were Chris’ parents, holding wooden crosses to their chests like it would protect them against this evil entity. They seemed to be whispering prayers under their breath, eyes closed shut.
“Mom, dad, Father Sanchez is here.” Chris gently prodded them from their prayers. His parents stopped praying, shot up, and profusely thanked Hector for his kindness and generosity.
Chris motioned for all of us to be quiet. He turned the knob hesitantly, and opened the door just wide enough for us to walk in. As soon as we walked in the room, we had to duck as a lamp flew over our heads and just missed hitting Hector. Hector looked extremely annoyed at that.
I couldn’t truly tell from the video, but Mabel looked like a completely different person. I remembered her as a slightly plump, happy blonde girl with the brightest blue eyes who always had something funny and sassy to say whenever I addressed her. Her cheeks were sunken in and her eyes were hollow and dead. Her hair was basically a bird’s nest and was tangled beyond saving. Her pajamas were ratty, torn, and soiled with bodily fluids and what I thought was excretion. She looked like she hadn’t showered or done laundry in weeks- which was probably accurate. A gross mix of drool and blood was coming out of her mouth in copious amounts, and she was muttering demonic chants under her breath. I heard the words “Hitler” and “Satan” spew out from her mouth in a nonsensical rant against society. Her hands were planted on the wall, and she was crawling through the walls like a spider and scratching herself until blood came out of her skin. She grabbed onto her headboard and banged her head against the frame of her bed, screaming in tongues, screeching in what I thought was a mix of German and English. Chris hung his head. Hector stood in awe. Mabel scurried her way back to her bed, where she began experiencing an epileptic seizure, wailing to the ceiling about wanting to die.
“Yup. Definitely a bad case of possession.” Hector remarked as he set down his suitcase filled with “holy” items. If he was going to play the part of a priest, he had to look, sound, and act the part 100%, and it would have been more believable if he had things that people usually used in exorcisms, like the Bible, incense, and bottles of holy water. He knew none of them would actually work, but it helped him look legitimate.
Mabel assumed a frog-like position, and her eyes were rolled back in her head, giving her an extremely disturbing look. Her jaw was now stuck in a perpetual screaming motion. She began to exclaim bloody murder at me and Hector, and I saw some veins in her neck ready to pop from the stress she was putting on her vocal cords. She grabbed a toothbrush with a sharpened end from her bed and held it to her neck, threatening to stab herself in her jugular vein if we didn’t leave the room this instant. She also said some things in some other foreign languages which I didn’t understand, but I’m pretty sure they were a slew of more expletives and profanities. She scratched at her cheeks, and I noticed all ten of her nails were ripped off somehow and bleeding profusely.
“Get out,” Mabel rasped. Her voice was grated and raw from so much strain on her vocal cords. “Get out NOW.”
“This is pretty bad,” I remarked. I made my way to Chris, trying to sound as serious and professional as possible. “Look Chris, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to leave this place. Take your parents out with you and drive at least 10 miles away from this house. Father Sanchez can only do his thing when there are less people in the area. Trust me; his methods are very different from what we’re used to, but they work.”
“What about you?” Chris asked. “Will you stay here?”
“Yeah. I, uh, trained with Father Sanchez and he needs me here with him for this to work.” I kept the wording vague; I didn’t want to go into too many details.
"I thought you were still working your IT job."
"Yeah, well, student loans aren't gonna pay themselves. Gotta work two jobs to make ends meet, y'know?"
Chris looked a little conflicted that I was essentially kicking him out of his own house but nodded reluctantly, knowing this was out of his expertise. “Alright. Are you sure you don’t need me here?”
“Positive.” I replied, ushering him out. “You’ll just be in the way.” I led Chris out of the room and walked him and his parents back to his car, instructing them to drive away as far and fast as possible.
-
Once I made sure Chris and his family vacated the house and drove away far enough, I ran back upstairs and shut and locked Mabel’s door. Hector loosened his collar, cracking his neck, and took his ponytail out of its elastic band.
“You can drop the act now.” Hector said to Demon-Mabel. Demon-Mabel stared back at him, still sitting like a frog on the bed. She then grinned, revealing teeth that were cracked and knocked out. I hoped it was her baby teeth and not her adult teeth, otherwise there was going to be a lot of money going into dental implants. The voice that came out of her throat was gravelly and satanic, and didn’t sound at all like the loveable ten-year-old I once knew.
“Ah, I knew it was you, brother. Nice to see you again. What the fuck are you doing here in that pathetic excuse of a human shell?” Demon-Mabel sneered. “And tell me, how is being kicked out of Hell?”
“Don’t you have better things to do than to possess little girls?” Hector asked, rolling his eyes as he unwrapped his fake clergy stole. He tossed it over to me. Demon-Mabel began to thrash again.
“This girl is almost ripe for the feasting. I have been…marinating her for weeks. And now she is ready. I will give you the option to leave now. If you do, I’ll share. And I might be able to put in a nice word for you to Father once we eat this little girl’s soul together.” She licked her lips. “Little girls are the best. So fresh. So…deliciously pure.”
Hector visibly cringed. “Way to sound like a sexual predator. Possessions aren’t cool anymore, man. And besides, you know I don’t do the whole ‘eating humans’ thing anymore.”
Demon-Mabel went through another demonic seizure-thrashing from Hector’s insults, and I used this opportunity to approach Hector. “Am I missing something, or did that demon just call you brother? Are you two related?” I hissed. Hector shrugged.
“Yeah, we’re all related. There’s only, like, seven ‘Fathers’ in Hell. We’re not made from moms and dads like you are. We’re just created whenever they feel like creating another entity to do their bidding. Now stop talking and do what we went over. It’s go time.” Hector whispered back quickly, pushing me away in the direction of Mabel.
“Right.” I began to side-step my way to Demon-Mabel’s side surreptitiously and tried my best to recount the plan Hector and I came up with in the train ride to Chris’ house.
Hector theorized that the demon residing within Mabel’s body was most likely a small and lowly demon, fresh out of the wombs of Hell. After all, the only demons who tried to possess humans, especially young children, were the ones that didn’t have enough strength on their own to venture out and fight other demons over other older, juicier human souls. Possession helped them grow bigger and stronger, and size was a huge thing in Hell. The bigger you were, the more powerful and wise you were in relation to the other demons. The smaller you were, the weaker and stupider you were. And every demon had to start somewhere. Hector told me that he himself was considered pretty big and taking out this lower demon wouldn’t be a problem- but we had to get the demon to physically come out of Mabel’s body. Hector hypothesized that the demon would try and inhabit Mabel no matter what because it knew that we wouldn’t want to hurt her. And that was our biggest obstacle.
That was why we had to get Chris’ family as far away from the house as possible. Hector was planning on reverting back to a half-demon entity to get the other demon out of Mabel once and for all, but if Chris and his family saw this, they would all probably have died from shock. And that was where I came in. I had to coax his family to leave, saying that the “holy incantations” or whatever only worked when less people were there. At that point, they were willing to believe anything and they went without a fuss.
The second part of the plan was for me to grab Mabel once Hector figured out the demon’s name. Hector would distract the demon with casual banter as I snuck near enough that I could jump when the time was right. Hector knew the name of each and every demon in Hell, not because he had a particularly good memory but because demons gossiped a lot and he used to be popular enough to be in-the-know about all the latest gossip. Apparently there were a lot of scandals in Hell that put our tabloids to shame. In any case, he just needed to get a good look at Mabel and he would have been able to tell who it was. A demon’s weakness was its name; and he knew that once he physically said the demon’s name, it would be rendered shocked and paralyzed for a split second. In that split second, I was to grab Mabel and hold her down while Hector physically extracted the demon from her soul. A demon needed some time before repossessing a body, so in that time, Hector would keep it away from us. Then he would kill the demon, consume it, and all would be well. Mabel would be fine and he would get the money.
Theoretically, it worked. But we never got to practice this in its execution and I was worried that in all my nervousness, I would mess up and hurt Mabel. She was already in such a fragile state as is, and I didn’t want to make it worse. We had no other choice, though. We were already so far in and it wasn’t like there was any better options out there.
Hector gave me the signal- he looked at me and nodded towards Mabel. It was time to put the plan into action. Hector uttered the demon’s name- I can’t even spell it because it was so long and incomprehensible- and Demon-Mabel froze in place from the seizure. Demon-Mabel then began to scream. I immediately lunged at her, wrapping her torso in the fake stole in one motion to keep her limbs from thrashing too much. Mabel’s jaw opened so much it looked as if it was unhinged, and her eyes rolled back in her head. From her mouth slowly emerged, in a mess of sticky saliva and blood, a smaller gray creature that looked like an undeveloped fetus. Its head was larger than its body, and it had three bulging eyes on its face, each eye a different size and shape. It had one oval-shaped mouth with small teeth lining the sides, and its body looked like a potbellied child. Its limbs looked scrawny in relation to its big stomach. It really was tiny, compared to what Hector was emerging into.
Hector’s half-demon form was scary in its own way. He already warned me that I would be shocked at what I saw, but I really wasn’t ready for this. He was easily three times the size of his human form and was really pushing the limits of what the room could hold without breaking apart. His top half somewhat looked like a human’s torso except it was impossibly large and covered in pitch-black, shaggy fur. His bottom half resembled a mutant horse; he had six hooved legs and a tail with a small flame at the end. His face was no longer that of a human’s, but more of an elongated, cracked and scarred skull with those large antlers that I saw in the subway. His neck stretched like a giraffe, and he had a gaping hole in his stomach area where smoke was coming out. He looked like something straight out of a horror movie. If this was only his half-demon form, I couldn’t imagine what he looked like as an actual demon.
“Sorry you have to see this,” Hector apologized, sounding somewhat genuine. “I kinda wanted to keep you from seeing me like this ‘cause I think I look pretty ugly.” His mouth kind of resembled that of a dog’s, with gigantic teeth and a long, forked gray tongue. I shook my head, assuring him it was fine. I’ve lived with him for too long for something like this to faze me. Besides, there were bigger problems at the moment.
“Don’t worry about that now, he’s-”
The demon wasted no time in lunging at Hector, even though it was greatly outmatched in size. The demon was smaller than me, which was funny considering the circumstances. It could have probably still mauled me, though. Hector just casually swatted the demon away with his gigantic hand, and the demon tumbled outside of Mabel’s room. Hector followed suit, and because he couldn’t fit through the doorway he ended up breaking the wall to get through. I groaned; that was going to be a bitch to explain to the Pollacks.
“Hey, can you be more careful? We can’t destroy their house if we want to get paid.” I yelled, worried about the monetary compensation.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll be sure to keep our demonic conflict to a minimum because trying to get rid of this guy isn’t difficult enough already!” Hector called sarcastically. I winced; I kind of deserved that.
I heard a high-pitched screech coming from the hallway, and hoisted Mabel into a fireman hold as I ran out to see what was going on. I arrived just in time to see Hector kick the smaller demon down the stairs, then jump on top of the demon, crushing it with his weight. However, the smaller demon managed to grab a kitchen knife at some point, and he buried it into Hector’s leg.
“Oww!” Hector howled in pain, and the demon used that as an opportunity to frantically scurry away. Hector swiped at his leg and at the demon at the same time, but lost balance and fell over to his side. He crashed into the Pollacks’ intricate display of china plates, and they all cracked under Hector’s weight.
I held onto Mabel tightly as the demon glanced at us. It gave a shit-eating grin and swiftly ran in our direction. It probably figured out that he could repossess either one of us and make it harder for Hector to fight it. I ran back as far as I could, but realized the hallway was at a dead-end. Determined to protect Mabel, I turned my back to the demon so it would knock into me instead of her; she’d already suffered enough and if the demon was going to target someone, it was going to be me.
But the demon never made it far enough. Hector had caught up to the demon, swiftly brought out his claws, and slammed his hand through the demon’s stomach area. I heard a gross squelch as the demon’s three eyes widened and it let out a shriek. What I could only describe as demon guts came spurting out of the demon in large quantities, and it went limp almost immediately after Hector shoved his hand back out. I could feel the demon guts splatter on me and I groaned in disgust. Once everything seemed settled, I turned back to face the demon and Hector. Inside Hector’s hand was a pulsating, stomach-looking organ that he tipped his head back and swallowed. I heard an audible gulp, and dark smoke fizzled out of Hector’s dog-like mouth. He then swallowed the demon whole; the small demon slid down Hector’s esophagus easily.
Almost immediately after he swallowed the demon, Hector’s fur began to shed at an alarming rate. I watched as all the fur and large body melted away to reveal Hector’s human form underneath it all. He looked tipsy, teetering from side to side. Hector did mention that it took a lot of energy to do this, and he was probably extremely tired. I propped Mabel up against the wall, ran behind Hector, and caught him just as he lost balance.
“I’ve got you,” I reassured him. Hector looked dazed and mumbled in confusion. “Get a hold of yourself.”
“Why is fried chicken talking to me?” Hector asked, head swaying from side to side. I sighed; he was probably seeing things from exhaustion.
I dragged him over to where Mabel was and propped him up next to her. I grabbed his stole and shoved it into his arms so he could put it on again to look presentable for the family. Hector didn’t look like he was in explicit pain, just fatigued and maybe suffering from the demon equivalent of indigestion. He did mention before that eating a fellow demon wasn’t pleasant. It was akin to a lactose intolerant person ingesting dairy even though they knew it was bad for them. In fact, his dark circles looked worse and his normally tan skin looked grayish. I checked his leg for the stab wound from the smaller demon but saw nothing, to my relief. Hopefully he was just tired and nothing more.
“Are you okay? Is it all over now?” I asked cautiously. Hector burped loudly and refocused, eyes rolling back in his head a few times before he could finally fixate his gaze on me.
“Yup. ‘S all good. But that was the nastiest-tasting thing I’ve had in my life, and I’ve eaten cow intestines before.” Hector said. “My stomach hurts. I think I threw up in my mouth.” Hector pulled on the fake clergy stole. I scoffed. He was fine.
“Wait. Does this violate anything for you? Does eating a fellow demon break any rules of yours?” I asked, genuinely curious. I should have asked this earlier but it didn’t occur to me that this could have been a violation of Hector’s world’s laws. I felt like Hector was breaking a lot of rules in this world and wondered if there would be serious repercussions back home. And though it wasn’t really my problem, I was also a little concerned.
“Uh, yes, obviously. You humans throw cannibals in jail when you catch them eating other humans. What I did was basically cannibalism but even worse. It’s kinda looked down upon for bigger demons to bully smaller demons.”
“You didn’t bully it. You saved someone’s life.”
“Yeah, also against the rules. Demons don’t save peoples’ lives unless we’re contractually bound to them, we torture them and eat them. Saving them’s for the angels.”
“Shit.” I rubbed the back of my neck nervously. “So are you going to get in trouble?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve always been good at finding loopholes so I guess I’ll have to figure something out.”
“And is Mabel…” We both looked over to Mabel, who still seemed unconscious. Her body was still bruised and battered, but she was breathing softly and was probably just knocked out from exhaustion; the sleep deprivation and thrashing the demon forced her to go through definitely took a toll on her little body.
“She’s fine.” Hector said, waving her off. “I mean, she’ll be fine physically. She’s probably gonna need a lot of therapy after what she just went through, though.”
-
The Pollacks could not thank “Father Sanchez” enough for his “unorthodox methods” of “exorcising” the demon. Even though he created a huge mess in their house, they were grateful when Mabel woke up and wasn’t speaking in tongues, throwing books, and spinning her head 360 degrees every five minutes. Besides, they chalked the damage up to demonic activity and didn’t blame Hector like I thought they would. As promised, they provided the $10,000 in cash installments for helping their daughter. The local church even threw in a couple packs of rotisserie chicken after hearing Hector loved chicken. They coupled it with a self-fryer and a bucket of frying oil, all wrapped up nicely with a bow and everything. Hector was ecstatic; this was more than he had bargained for. It made up for him being forced to eat the demon and suffer a week of indigestion.
Mabel woke up confused and bound to a hospital bed. She still suffered from severe malnutrition and various other physical ailments, including an unhinged jaw that they had to bolt back together. It was a miracle she was still alive, considering her neck did suffer through a lot of 360 degree spinning while the demon possessed her. She didn’t remember anything from her time possessed, except a “large black deer monster fighting a smaller, baby monster” that her parents believed was a side effect from the possession. After a few days, her bruises and cuts began to heal up, and she was able to stomach light soups and soft bread without throwing it all up. The doctors said she would be just fine, which was a miracle in itself. They still couldn’t figure out why she was so injured and refused to accept that it was a “possession”. I couldn’t blame them; I used to believe in cold, hard science, too, but now I knew better. On a positive note, Mabel really liked Hector, and Hector seemed to like Mabel back. He straight-up told her about how he fought the demon, and she ate it all up, asking copious amounts of questions and demanding the gruesome details. Her parents thought he was just humoring her. Little did they know.
Chris and I remained amicable. From his perspective, he was just glad his sister was safe, but also had small reservations about Hector. He said that he felt a “weird energy” from Father Sanchez. I shrugged in response, saying Chris was probably just imagining things from being so unhinged by his possessed sister. He left it at that.
Hector’s successful “exorcism” in curing the impossible reached the ears of the church community quickly, and he was immediately extended invitations and pleas to travel across the country to heal others. But Hector refused, saying he had enough to survive off for a few months and told me he would take jobs on a case-by-case basis. I agreed and left him alone; he now had a source of income and though it wasn’t exactly steady or orthodox, we didn’t have to worry about rent. In fact, I set up a website for him, putting my degree to work. I titled it “Father Sanchez’s Exorcism Hotline”, where people could input their requests and write out the details of why they needed Hector to visit and bless them with an exorcism. This allowed us to keep track of the requests easily, and we had received a lot of requests in a matter of weeks. Now I had a new problem- my apartment reeked of fried meats from him throwing just about anything he could physically eat into the fryer. The smell of oil was disgusting and stuck to my clothes. Hector seemed to have grown a strange affinity for it, but this was yet another entry I had to add to my ever-growing list of things roommates shouldn’t do.
(So sorry for the slow update. Been a bit busy with things personal, and school related. I also ran into a problem with creativity with this story. I have an idea for the next two chapters, which will be the last. Thanks for your continued Patience)
After about spending seven months in Hell, I have changed radically. It’s comfortable to say that I have lost all shred of my humanity. I also had picked up the torch that Lucy had been carrying and taken over her duties of tormenting the damned. I also had found my parents and my sister, it seems they were thrown into a boundary zone between Heaven and Hell. But, that didn’t stop me from ripping into them just as I did to the many before them. I kind of find it humorous, though, that after all this time. After all this time they had just been drowning in the river of Styx. After all my months of relentless study, I managed to locate them by using my mastery of dark magic.
Nonetheless, I did feel a bit empathetic to their positions. The poor bastards ended up getting killed by the God that they had all loved, and now, their son. I showed them a little mercy— unlike I would to others— by throwing them into that desert where everyone was battling. In my opinion, that is a lot less boring than sitting in a fire pit for the rest of eternity.
Lucy has been showing me the ropes to torturing as of late. She has become a bit weak and moody though, considering we are about three months away from our first child. The one thing I’ve learned the most from her, the one extremely critical thing is how to get into the mind of your victim. Psychological torment is the most effective way of breaking someone down in spirit and in body. Their screams are so much more pleasurable when they finally break.
The first step into doing so, is getting inside their heads. Looking for vulnerabilities such as family or loved ones. Or even perhaps something they deeply regret. The second part is to bring that fear to life and torment them. I remember slicing my way through this one guy’s daughter as she laid on the table. Of course, it was a demon who had taken form of her. If the thing they care for most is a loved one, you force them to continue where you left off. You’ll of course want to mention you’ll fix them and send them back after. However, if they refuse… well they go into the ‘soul shredder.’ Forever erasing their existence.
Lucy had been progressing a little fast with the pregnancy, and gave birth to a boy we named Beliya'al. His heart has shown to be pure, but, overtime we will change that. Hell changes everything, and everyone, over time. The flames break you down and forge you into something else. Something more sinister, with a heart of obsidian for my fellow mankind.
Lucy had come up behind me as I worked my craft in the basement of our home. The basement was dark, with little light. Only the flicker of a few candles lit the room. The poor souls I would drag back here, would only see the silhouette of their dungeon master.
“Have you decided to join in on this one dear?” I point the dull end of the knife towards her.
“Not really, I was wondering when you were going to finally start invading Earth?” Lucy crosses her arms.
“Well, I need to be sure I’m up to it, as well as our son.” I go back into cutting the younger man in front of me.
A symphony of screams and yelps fill the room. The man convulsing and twitching in pain from the swift and crude movements of my craft. It took a while for me to cut through his thick neck detaching his head. With the blood still dripping from the neck, I lifted his head and drank from the stream that came from under it.
“That is a bit of overkill in my personal opinion,” Lucy snickered, “Even I wouldn’t go that far.”
“We gotta break them a bit more,” I toss the head down the hole at the side of my table. The hole leads to a lava stream that goes back to the river. “Plus look at all this food I secured for the week. Gives you less work, dear.”
Lucy shook her head and wrapped her arms around me and gives me a kiss. It seems that we had gotten a bit closer over our time together. I feel in love with her, and she with me.
“About Earth though, I have bigger plans than that rotting rock,” I pick the knife back up at the table and begin to clean and polish it, “Wouldn’t it be more fun to go after the big man himself?”
“You’re seriously thinking about gutting my Father still?” Her eyes widen. “There is no way you can go against my Father. He will completely obliterate you!” Lucy shouts a bit agitated.
“Alone, absolutely. But with you, and Beliya'al, we might actually stand a chance.” I explain. Lucy crosses her arms and lets out a gasp.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to go down, Jay!” She pushed herself away from me and turned around, “Father promised to leave us alone if you were to just follow his damned wished.”
“I bow to no man or God! I will make sure he rots with maggots in his torn brain.” Trying to console her I reach over and wrap my arms around her from behind, “Just teach me and our son more. Everything must be able to die. Gods included, Lucy.”
She lets out a sigh and lays her hands on my arms while swinging us both gently.
“This is really stupid you know?” Lucy says as she lets out another sigh.
“I wasn’t always the brightest bulb.” I say jokingly.
At this point Lucy pulled me by the hand up the stairs after asking for Karris to store the freshly carved carcase I had left. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves up in the living room where Abaddon was watching Beliya’al. He has been growing so quickly, and has the appearance of a seven year-old. Our boy has a slender build, auburn colored hair, and freckles. He honestly looks a lot like I did growing up. Abaddon had him learning about darker magics as well as summoning spells. All of which he has been excelling at an unbelievable pace. I hope he is able to help us slay God.
Hello, Reddit.
I fear this may be my final update. I fear that I’m running out of time. I’ve spent the last few hours with tears in my eyes, but those seem to be running low as well.
I’m just going to try to tell my story as quickly as I can. While I can.
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After posting my update last night, I went downstairs to my living room to take a nap on the couch. I didn’t want to wake Oliver, who was still asleep in my bed.
I didn’t get to sleep for very long. Trevor walked through the front door a short twenty minutes after I shut my eyes, tapping his hands on the kitchen table. “C’mon, guys. The truck is loaded,” he called, standing in the living room doorway.
I sat up quickly, too quickly perhaps, as my vision began to blur. I shook my head, hearing Oliver walking heavily upstairs, every other step a bit slower than the other. “What took you so long?” I asked, standing and stretching my arms behind me.
“Well, you know, I did just sneak into my father’s room, alone,” he said, giving me a look. “Speaking of, I managed to grab two shotguns and the automatic.”
I sighed. “Fantastic.”
“Look, man. You saw what was out there. Something pulled Danny out into the swamp and out of sight within seconds. That’s gotta be a huge gator.”
I shrugged. “Gators don’t typically carry their meals very far…” I said, trailing off as Oliver turned the corner into the kitchen. Most of his weight was set on his good leg.
“I’m ready to go, guys,” he said, leaning on one of the kitchen chairs.
Trevor frowned. “Are you sure you’re up for this, man? I don’t think you should be walking on that leg.”
Oliver scoffed. “What, and miss out on all the fun?”
I shook my head. “Come on, guys. Dan is in trouble. Can we please take this seriously? Please?”
Oliver cleared his throat. “Yeah… yeah, sorry.”
Trevor nodded, heading for the front door. “Alright, then. Let’s head on out.”
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The drive to the swamp, yet again, was quieter than it had been the night before. So much so that I could hear Oliver’s light breathing in the backseat. My eyes remained glued to the window, watching the trees go by, but I couldn’t help but look away as our surrounding became swampier.
Sooner than I’d hoped, we were all back in the canoe, rowing slowly into the Everglades. Constant chills caused the hairs on my arms to stand, but it wasn’t cold out. Something was already beginning to feel off.
Trevor looked back from the front of the canoe. “Alright, guys. This shouldn’t take long at all. We just find Dan and get him out of here. It’ll be easy.”
Oliver and I shared a look. “Trevor, what will we do if…” Oliver started, trailing off.
Trevor returned his eyes forward. “Danny is fine. You two just need to have faith. I know him, okay?”
I looked out into the swamp. It had been dark out for a few hours at this point, so our flashlights were the only source of light in the entire swamp.
I could feel my heartrate increase the further we moved into the swamp. Minutes passed with almost no sounds in the air, save for the oars entering and exiting the water.
“Our campsite should be a couple minutes ahead,” Trevor said, looking back to me. “So Danny should be somewhere around here.”
I nodded, looking out into the swamp. None of the surroundings looked familiar, as the entire area had been foggy the night before. “If you say so, Trevor.”
Trevor steered the point off the path and into the swamp, maneuvering between the occasional trees as he did so. Something inside of me felt anxious about being off the path. In reality, our “path” was only the route we’d taken the previous two nights. This area of the swamp was no safer than the rest of it, but no amount of calming myself could clear my mind.
“Let’s get out here,” Trevor said, rowing the boat up the edge of the water. He hopped out, water at his ankles as he waded to the back of the canoe. I hopped out of the boat and onto land as Trevor pushed the canoe up onto the shore.
My flashlight shined out into the trees, my brain expecting to see someone, or something, looking back at me. There was nothing.
Oliver walked past me and aimed his flashlight into the woods. “Where do we even start?”
Trevor sat crouched next to the boat, reaching into it. “I think we should just try to look for him at first. We could call out to him, but there could a panther or a gator or something nearby. I don’t want to take any chances,” he said, standing up. A shotgun sat in his hands.
Oliver groaned. “Do I really need to take one of these? I hate guns, dude.”
Trevor held out his arm. “You won’t when there’s an alligator at your feet. Take it.”
Oliver glanced to me, taking the shotgun in his hands. “Is it loaded?”
“Of course it’s loaded,” Trevor said, handing me the other shotgun. He knelt down once more, taking the automatic rifle in his hands. “Only use these if you have to. And keep your fingers off the triggers.”
I looked down at my weapon, the barrel pointing out into the trees. “Is this really necessary?”
Trevor looked to me, a look of disbelief on his face. “Matt, you were with me last night. You saw what happened to Danny.”
I nodded, moving the weapon to my right hand, the flashlight in my left. The shotgun was heavy, and was difficult to hold with one hand, but I quickly found the angle at which it was most balanced.
The three of us walked out into the woods, our flashlights scanning every square inch of the ground we covered. Oliver stood atop a fallen tree, shining his light behind it. He caught my eyes as he turned back to us, a frown crossing his face as he shook his head.
“Damnit,” Trevor said, looking up into the trees. “He couldn’t have gone far.”
Oliver began to respond, but a familiar sound to my right caught my attention. I turned quickly, looking for the origin of the whistle. “Did you hear that?”
Trevor looked to me, confusion on his face. “Hear what, Matt?”
The beam of my flashlight illuminated the trees to my right. I shifted left and right, looking for anything behind them. “Do you see that back there?”
Oliver followed my gaze and shined his own light out into the trees. “You know what… yeah, I see it too,” he said, turning to Trevor. “It looks like a house.”
Trevor scoffed. “A house? Out here?”
I nodded. “I think Oliver is right,” I said, looking back towards the wooden home. “Danny has to be in there.”
The three of us made our way through the trees, quickly reaching the house. It was a small wooden shack, smaller than your average gas station. The windows on the front appeared to be shattered, one missing the glass entirely.
Trevor cleared his throat, anxiety in his voice. “Maybe your theory of people living out here is right, Matt.”
I sighed. “Let’s just look inside.”
Oliver and I stepped up to the door, my hand reaching for it. There was no handle on the door, so I laid my palm across its face, prepared to push. I looked back to the others for confirmation before pushing. The door swung open slowly, Oliver’s light slipping in as the crack of an opening became larger.
A small table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by two wooden chairs. Shelves lined the walls, and a short bed sat in the corner, its sheets in a pile at the foot of it.
Trevor stepped in, shining his light into every corner of the shack. “Jesus, it doesn’t look like anyone has been here in years.”
I felt my hopes begin to fall. If Danny hadn’t come here, where else would he have gone?
I stepped in behind the others, shining my light onto the bed in the corner. A small chest sat underneath the bed’s frame. I approached the box, kneeling down beside it and pulling it out onto the floor. The top was made out of some type of metal, and the top was covered in dust. I pushed hard on the latch, the old lock finally giving and flipping up, unlocking the chest. I opened the lid, shining my light inside.
All that sat inside the box was a sweater. I frowned, taking it out of the box. A heard a tiny clatter beneath me as I investigated the gray shirt. I looked to me feet, a small red card laying upright on the floor. A white logo was imprinted over the red background, a simplistic hollow circle with an “x” going across it. I frowned, flipping the card in my hands. The other side was completely blank. Oddly, it felt as if I’d seen the card before. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Guys,” Trevor’s voice said behind me. I turned, hope filling my body.
“Is it Danny?” I asked, beginning to stand.
Trevor shook his head. “No, it’s not. But look at this thing!” He said, holding up his hands. It was a small statue of a duck, likely made of some type of stone. “Who the hell would buy this?”
I opened my mouth to yell, but my brain stopped my mouth from saying the words it wanted to. “Is this a fucking joke to you?”
Trevor lowered his hands. “Come on, man. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
“We can ‘lighten the mood’ when we get Danny back,” I said, ignoring Oliver’s look of confusion.
Trevor groaned. “You need to calm down, Matt. He’s fine.”
“And how are you so sure?” I asked, crossing my arms. “What if he’s not? What then? What if he’s at the bottom of the swamp? Let alone, oh, I don’t know, inside of a fucking alligator?”
“Guys, what the hell is that smell?” Oliver said, looking around at the floor beneath him.
Trevor groaned. “You realize we’re in a swamp, right?”
I frowned. “No…” I said, stepping closer to Oliver. “He’s right.”
Trevor tilted his head, moving towards us. He frowned, looking out the window. A look crossed his face. “What the hell…?” He said, heading towards the front door.
Oliver and I were practically on his heels. Trevor turned around the corner of the house with me close behind, hoping my fears weren’t about to be answered.
“Damn…” Trevor said, his hands on his hips. I looked past him, a wave of relief flooding over me. An alligator, probably twelve feet long, sat sprawled out on the ground. Tiny flies buzzed around its head, which had practically no meat or skin on it anymore. A large gash sat on the creature’s belly, what remained of its inside laying in a pile in the mud beside it.
Oliver cleared his throat, openly nauseous. “Jesus, that thing looks like it’s been dead for weeks.”
Trevor grunted. “Smells like it too. I don’t blame Danny for not coming this way.”
I frowned, something near the edge of the woods catching my eye. “You guys see that?”
Oliver looked in the direction I was pointing. “Is that… is that another one?”
The three of us walked slowly towards the lump on the ground, another alligator coming into view. This one was even more decomposed than the last, almost entirely just a skeleton.
“What the hell is this?” Trevor said, kneeling beside the skeleton.
“There’s another one,” Oliver called from ahead, his arm outstretched.
“Guys, this doesn’t feel right,” I said, looking back to Trevor.
Trevor squinted his eyes in thought. “We have to keep going,” he said, standing and brushing off his knees.
The next alligator wasn’t decomposed at all. Instead, its tail appeared to have been chewed on. We found the next one about a hundred feet away. The gator’s head had been taken off and was laying against the trunk of a tree a foot away from the rest of the corpse.
“Jesus…” Trevor said, shining his light on the animal. “Would a panther do this kind of thing?”
A loud whistle caused my head to turn. It sounded as if the source had been right next to my ear, nearly causing me to drop my flashlight. The beam of light peered into the woods, my eyes instantly meeting their target. A gigantic tree stood in the center of an otherwise empty clearing. It had to be at least a hundred and fifty feet tall, and was thick enough that I wouldn’t be able to wrap my arms completely around it.
“Look at that thing,” I said in an involuntary whisper. The others turned, looks of astonishment on their faces.
“Wow,” Oliver said, stepping in the direction of the tree. “Haven’t seen one this big yet.”
I looked to Trevor, who was again looking at the dismembered alligator on the ground. He turned to me, a look of disgust on his face. “What the hell is going on?”
I didn’t have an answer, so I instead turned back to Oliver. He was about halfway through the clearing, his flashlight pointed up into the branches of the tree.
Trevor and I began to walk towards the tree, my flashlight glued to the trees around us. I felt uneasy. Whatever had whistled wanted us to find this tree. Oliver stood before the tree, feeling the bark with his palm. He walked around the side of the tree, looking down at the roots as he did. He stepped up onto a large root that stuck from the ground on the other side, looking up. A scream tore through the air and Oliver fell back onto the ground, his flashlight hitting the ground, shattering the lightbulb.
Trevor and I began to sprint towards Oliver, who had now begun to frantically crawl away from the tree. Trevor ran to Oliver, sliding to a crouch beside him, as I stood before the tree.
I can’t make the image leave my head. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t. An adult man was sat in the tree, naked, about ten feet off of the ground. A branch stuck through his chest, the only thing keeping him from falling. Had we known the man before, we wouldn’t have been able to identify him now. His eyes appeared to have been gouged out of his head, and the spot where his nose once was now sat flat and bloodied. His lower jaw hung loosely from his face, a small hanging amount of skin its only support. The rest of the man had been brutally dismembered. His right arm was gone entirely, as was his left leg, and the right leg was missing below the knee. The only part of the man that remained intact was his left arm.
I can’t remember falling to my knees, but I apparently had. The sounds of Oliver vomiting behind me only caused my own nausea to increase. Trevor stood still, mouth wide open in fear. “Jesus fucking Christ...”
Something wouldn’t let me look away from the man. My flashlight seemed to light up the entirety of the tree, the trees in the distance behind it taking the peripheral light for themselves. It wasn’t the man’s face that made me sick, nor was it the missing limbs. No, my nausea came solely from the man’s left arm. The bright, silver ring that rested on his finger, seemingly absorbing all of the light before my eyes.
Trevor seemed to have noticed just as I had. “No…” he said, throwing his face into his hands. “NO. This can’t be fucking happening.”
Oliver had fallen over, crippled from fear, and had begun hugging his leg in a similar way that he had the first night we’d stayed in the woods. Dan’s naked, disfigured body hung unmoving in the tree. Movement behind the tree caught my eyes. Just barely in the light of the flashlight stood four massive gray legs, moving through the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.
“Guys,” I said, pushing myself sloppily from the ground. A shrill whistle sounded from somewhere behind the tree. “Guys, we need to leave, right fucking now.”
Oliver sobbed behind me. “We can’t leave him here.”
I spun, pulling him from the ground. “Now, Oliver.”
Oliver changed, then, sensing the urgency in my voice and choosing to adopt it for himself. Trevor remained motionless, staring at the cadaver’s untouched arm.
“Trevor, come on,” I pleaded. The whistling from the trees had become increasingly louder in volume.
Trevor finally turned to me, fear finally settling in his eyes. I turned and began to run in the direction we’d come. I heard the footsteps of my friends as they ran behind me, their breathing jagged and raw.
The beam of my flashlight passed over the wooden shack for a brief second as we got closer. Unspeaking, I began to run faster towards it. My brain was likely playing tricks on me, but I swore that I heard an extra set of footsteps somewhere behind us.
I spun around the corner of the house and practically fell through the door, Trevor and Oliver right behind me. I swung the door shut, my eyes moving to the shelf beside the door. Trevor and I placed our hands on either side, pushing until the old wooden shelf fell, blocking the door.
“What the fuck are we doing?” Oliver said as I began to push the table towards the door.
“There’s no way in hell that we’d be able to outrun that thing, Oli,” I said, pushing the table firmly against the shelf.
“What the fuck is it, anyways?” Trevor asked, frantically pacing the shack. “What the fuck do we do?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I shouted, turning to the others. “We have to wait it out for now. Maybe it will lose interest. Then we can run for the boat and get the fuck out of here.”
The others didn’t speak. Trevor paced over to one of the windows, peering outside into the darkness. Oliver crawled over to the bed in the corner and forced himself under it, beginning to sob. I remained next to the table, pressing my face into my arms. The whistling felt as if it were in my head.
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We’ve been here since last night. Trevor is currently sitting in front of the pile we’ve built by the door. Oliver still hasn’t come out from hiding underneath the bed. I write to you from my phone. We are just close enough to the rim of the park that I’m able to get a connection, but it keeps cutting in and out. I’ve attempted to call my mother, but calls aren’t going through. I have no idea why.
We don’t know what to do, and we’re running out of time to decide. I attempted to leave the shack at about eight this morning, but I heard something move in the trees. Trevor says that we should wait for morning then make a run for it, but I fear we won’t make it that long. I can still hear it whistling outside. It knows we’re in here. If it wanted to, it could easily break through our defenses, but that was exactly it. It doesn’t want to.
It wanted us to find Danny. It was smart enough to leave his arm, his ring, intact.
And this fucking whistling. Perhaps I’m starting to lose it, but it sounds so familiar. It feels like home. The others still claim that they’re unable to hear it. I’m not sure what to think anymore.
My phone is at 60% battery life. I’m going to shut it off and try to get some sleep before we attempt our escape tonight. I’ll update you once I return home.
If I don’t, well, then you know what happened.
Until then.
Ok so, I'm not exactly sure where to begin. Also, before i start, all names used in this will be fake for the sake of privacy. So anyways, a few years back, my friend and i were really into ghosts and things of paranormal sorts, so we always looked for new abandoned houses or haunted asylums and such to visit next. Kind of like ghost hunting, but since we weren't really too serious about it and we were young and naive, we didn't do a lot of research whenever we went out ghost hunting. That was probably the biggest mistake of our lives.
One lazy Sunday, my friend Dylan called me while i was lounging around in my basement watching T.V. I picked up. Dylan: "Hey, it's me, Dylan." Me: "I know it is dude, i can see your name on my phone when you call me, haha." Dylan: "Oh, right, haha. Anyways, so i called you to tell you about this super creepy abandoned shack i found out in the middle of the woods behind my house. I saw it while i was taking Miley for a walk." Me: "Oh, sweet! Wanna meet up at your place this Friday after school? We could probably just walk together." Dylan: "Yeah man! We'll grab some supplies before we leave, too." Me: "Alright, sounds good! See ya Friday." Dylan: "Yep, bye."
I hung up, eager for our spooky quest. Skip to that Friday, and i walked home with Dylan, and like he said, we gathered the essential supplies for our ghost hunting adventures. A oujia board, some candles and a lighter, a flashlight, and some snacks, of course. We also always brought Dylan's dog, Miley, with us. Miley was a big, beautiful husky dog, and wasn't afraid to get feisty. She almost acted like a body guard for us. Miley was also just really cute, and if things got a bit too unsettling or scary, she helped balance out the mood. So anyways, we walked out to the woods, and got to the shack in about 20 minutes or so. We saw it and immediately got hyped up. Now, we believed in ghosts, but we did this ghost hunting charade for a deal of thrills and chills, not anything too serious. We really had no idea how dangerous things can be, nor did we know what was in store for us.
As soon as we walked inside, Miley got a bit quiet. Miley is usually an outgoing, bouncy dog, and loves to sniff all of the furtniture and such in the places we go. But she seemed a bit anxious when we were in here. I brushed it off, assuming it wasn't a big deal. Dylan and I did our usual, looking around the house, making sure no one was squatting in it and that it was completely abandoned so that we could steal anything valuable. Hey, we were kids, we didn't know any better. However, this house almost seemed...new. From the outside, the shack looked completely horrid. The paint had lost its color and it was cracked and peeling, the wood was old and decaying, and it looked like half the door had been torn into a mess of splinters and termites. Looking back now, it probably wasn't the best idea to explore a house that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment, but we were too hyped up to turn back now. But from the inside, the shack looked in decent condition. The paint was still rich with color and the walls were in tact, the furniture looked brand new, and there wasn't a lot of dust and decay. It was like two completely different houses.
Dylan gave me a concerned look. "Hey.. This place seems in really good condition... Do you think someone is still living here?" I pushed aside my own doubts and tried to reassure both myself and him. "Pfft, no, of course not! Why would someone be living in such an old house in the middle of nowhere?" He still seemed suspicious, but he ignored his feelings and we kept on going. He was usually really chill whenever we did these types of things, so I found it a bit odd for him to be so worked up about something so little. Everything seemed to be going fairly ordinarily. Until we got to one specific room. This room had a really eerie feeling to it, and I'm pretty sure even Miley felt it. The whole place already seemed new and recently abandoned, but this room took it to another level. It's almost like whoever was living here just suddenly disappeared into thin air, just dropped everything and left. We started looking around, and then we saw it. Dylan and I gave each other a "what the fuck is this" look. There was a painting, right in the middle of the room. Two things about it creeped us out: 1. The paint on the canvas was still wet, as well as on the paint brush. It was even dripping onto the clean, white carpet. But, 2... The painting was of US. It even included Miley. The creepiest part about it, the painting was of the exact moment we met eyes with that painting. It captured every little detail, our terrified expressions, the exact same outfits we were wearing, where in the room we were standing, EVERYTHING. Dylan and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing.
We had to get out of that shack.
I’m a thirty-two year old male named Jeremy who recently divorced his wife for cheating. I just moved into this new home after all the time I had spent having to live with my parents in my hometown. It was somewhat nice because I had gotten to see a lot of my old friends, but I always found this place to be super creepy when night fell.
I remember I was just with my friend of twenty years, Johnny, watching Poltergeist at around twelve in the morning. Minutes into the movie I remember hearing a faint but noticeable scratching. It was coming from the front door. Johnny turned toward before looking back at me and asking, “You hear that too?”
“Yeah but it could just be a wild animal”, I’d replied.
Johnny got up and began walking towards the front door.
“Johnny, if it’s an animal it might attack or run freely in the home and my parents would be pissed”
“Oh shut up, Jay”.
Johnny opened the door and a large gust of cold air blew in even though it was closer to seventy degrees outside. Johnny closed the door and sat back down. We stayed quiet and avoided bringing up what had happened for the night. The scratching kept coming around every now and again, but we did our best to ignore it. After the movie Johnny went home, but got into a car accident along the way, a cause wasn’t determined, but he recovered quickly.
Soon after that night the scratching started again, but in the house and always getting louder. The scratching would come at night and only I could hear it, nobody else ever could. Not even Johnny could hear the scratching anymore. I felt like I was losing my mind until Katy came over and heard it too. She rushed quickly to leave the house horrified with how the scratching was there but nothing was ever there. On her way home she got hit by a car and died. The driver was arrested despite his shouting that something had been turning his wheel, not him.
After moving on from Katy’s death, I started dating this girl Jenna. She was so beautiful and kind and caring and loving. I thought it would’ve been time to take her home and let us get carried away while my parents weren’t home. I brought her home and while I had been doing some foreplay to her, the scratching started. At first we ignored it, but it kept getting louder and louder. I stopped and starting looking for a source for it despite not being able to find one all this time.
“You hear it too?”, she continued, “Thought I was going crazy.”
“Should we just ignore it?”
“Yeah I think that would be best so we can continue this fun”, she said waving me over.
We didn’t hear the scratching for the rest of the night. Jenna went home in the morning and in the afternoon around three Johnny called me frantically speaking and stuttering.
“J- J- Jay! Jenna is screaming at me and chasing me with a meat cleaver!”
“What?!”
“I don’t know she just flew open my door and started chasing me!”, he continued, “Wait, she stopped.” Johnny grabbed the gun in his drawer and went to see why.
“Johnny? What happened?”
“She’s not moving or breathing, Jay.”
I rushed to Johnny’s house and opened the door still on the phone with him. When I walked in I saw Jenna lifeless on the floor with a cleaver in her hand and multiple large slices on her body. Right next to her was Johnny’s lifeless body with a gun clinched in his right hand and a bullet hole in the temple of his head.
“Johnny? You still there?”, I asked.
“Yeah, where are you?”, He asked.
I hung up and called him back. The phone rang next to him, but someone else picked up.
“Why’d you hang up?”, Johnny asked, “Come into my room”, he continued with his voice getting deeper, “I’m waiting for you.”
I quickly left and called the cops.
With the call on my mind and everything I had just seen I was horrified. I saved up money as quickly as possible and rented a home in California by the beach. For months after moving in the scratching stopped and I even began dating this girl named Leslie. I was happy, but then the scratching started again. I’m writing this now to explain my death. Leslie’s heart stopped randomly today and someone’s knocking at my door. It’s Leslie.
Dear readers of r/nosleep,
I'm an independent journalist with the story of a lifetime, and I don’t have many places left to turn. I’ve been trying to get this thing published for over two years, and while I’ve gotten a lot of bites, most (read: all) tend to spit it out once they get to the meat of the story. It’s hard to blame them; the piece is pretty out-there, but I feel that this community would appreciate what I’ve written. You got a taste of radio reporting with u/NeonTempo’s jaw-dropping Left/Right Game series, so I’m hoping that whetted your appetite for, well, a dyed-in-the-wool slab of field journalism. I’ll be posting segments of it incrementally to avoid overwhelming your senses, but I urge you to stick around for the whole thing. Perhaps it’ll gain traction with actual outlets a few years down the line, once even a sliver of it is proven to be true. Until then, all I have is you. So, I’ll begin by asking you the following question:
Do you know why they really closed the Ventana Wilderness?
It’s a story of trauma and obsession set against a vast wild containing secrets both wondrous and horrible; of futility and perseverance; of infinite darkness and pockets of light locked in a struggle for dominance among a forest full of stars. It’s every story ever written, and yet it’s never been told. Simply put, it’s about two stepsiblings’ hunt for answers in a world with precious few. Hold on to that simplicity for now, because things are about to get a lot more complicated.
My name is Hyacinth Brune. I'd make more of an introduction, but this story will tell you more about me than I ever wanted anyone to know. But I can't keep it to myself any longer, not without breaking like the rest of them. This is Hartland. Take it. It's yours now.
Please let this be worth it.
^HARTLAND^
Inside the Hunt for the Deer-Man of the Ventana Wilderness
By Hyacinth Brune
There’s deer-men in the wood, my dear
There’s deer-men in the wood
Stags and does with arms and toes
Carousing ‘round the wood.
Darkly watched in dark of night
A cornered beast is bound to fight
They’ll come to give good folk a fright
Wherever shadow gnaws on light.
Hunt, and you’ll be hunted too
Run, and you’ll be chased
Stay where you are, they won’t be far
To grind your bones to paste.
So go not near the wood, my dear
Go never near the wood
Where window frames the wilder-peak
And evil hunts the good.
-Edith Eckard
Original source unknown
IN the summer of 2016, the Soberanes Fire reached the Ventana Wilderness. Authorities restricted access to affected sites in the inferno’s apocalyptic wake, isolating much of the 240,026-acre swath of land and cutting off the magnificent Pico Blanco, Ventana Double Cone, and countless other natural wonders from the rest of the world. The closures were inexplicably sweeping and prolonged – well into 2018, prospective visitors were still forbidden entry, and the region’s website remains inaccessible to this day. Headlines lamented the loss of over 50 homes and the untimely death of a bulldozer operator, as these casualties were written in ash. But there were other losses, ones that only two witnesses are equipped to describe. Their names are Maeve Williams and Norman Eckard, and I followed them into the dark.
While most visitors to the Ventana Wilderness look forward to scenic views, a rich variety of flora and fauna, and a world-class natural hot spring, stepsiblings Eckard and Williams sought only answers. Eckard’s trauma at the recent loss of his biological sister Lily consumed them both, pulling them inexorably toward that pristine wild where her decade-long descent into madness began. Before joining them on their journey, I asked Norman to revisit the terrifying and transformative night 11 years before that started it all. It began, as many tales of terror do, with a road trip.
^The Incident^
Summer, 2005. With David Eckard abroad for a work engagement, his wife Edith has found the perfect window to steal away to Big Sur with her border collie and two children – Lily, 5, and Norman, 8. At this age, Lily primarily responds to “Wiwee,” a moniker haplessly invented by her brother some years ago that has survived on novelty alone. Then again, the family is no stickler when it comes to naming conventions – the dog, for instance, is called Norma.
The drive to Big Sur Station from their northern California hometown is one of legend – spanning a modest stretch of Highway 1, Edith is familiar with its sweeping coastal vistas and unfailingly temperate weather. As they pull up to the station from which so many other families have embarked, she feels a pang of nostalgia for the countless times her father took her to this same spot. She doesn’t even need a map to find the campsite a few miles up the Pine Ridge Trail where she used to spend the waning hours of the day chasing fish through the river and scaring squirrels up trees.
Norman helps his mother set up their tent. As the local star-scape deigns to reveal its twinkling hand, the three wind down for the night on a handful of logs arranged around a campfire. Sitting next to his sister, Norman recalls her eyes falling on the tree-line behind Edith and resting there intently.
“Wiwee,” Edith says playfully. Silence. With growing concern, she waves a hand in front of her daughter. No response.
“Lily,” she demands, raising her voice. This breaks the girl from her trance just enough to extract an explanation for her reticence.
“Norma is gone,” she states with disarming bluntness.
Norman watches the expression on his mother’s face change from one of concern to outright fear. In her wrinkled brow is writ the wrenching recollection of countless little traumas from her childhood time in the woods that she had perhaps chosen to discredit or forget, now crystallized in a split-second revelation of their validity. She’s likely considered the possibility that Norma simply wandered off, but Edith Eckard is not about to take any chances.
“Bring your sister into the tent and don’t leave until I come back for you,” she tells Norman. Having rarely seen her this serious, he obeys the mandate without question, taking Lily by the hand and leading her to the rendezvous point as their mother calls for Norma at the tree-line.
Inside the tent, sleeping bags rustle with the weight of two lonely children. Norman lays Lily down and goes through the motions of putting her to sleep: to wit, a hushed performance of “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
“Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea…”
Outside, Edith’s cries come to a halt. All falls quiet in the forest – even the crackling of the campfire has slowed to a simmer.
“And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee…”
Slowly, Lily drifts off to sleep. Despite a creeping fear gnawing at the heart of him, her brother soon follows.
Norman isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep, but certainly long enough for him to stir disoriented. He must be dreaming – that’s the only explanation as to why he would still be hearing the chorus to “Puff.”
But the melody is wrong, and not simply in an off-key sense. No; they don’t seem to be coming from a normal throat. The notes are a grotesque parody, trailing off too early and accompanied by a high-pitched whine. With each one, he can feel the suggestion of hot breath against the back of his neck. Without an explanation nor the patience to stand by, Norman turns onto his back and tilts his head to appraise the source of the noise.
For just a moment, he finds himself staring at the face of a deer, its chin rested on Lily’s head. A hand resembling that of a human strokes her hair as any mother would. Though this memory is tinged with the flavor of a million nightmares, its core is unmistakable – and it was forged in this instant, as he locks eyes with something he can’t explain. But it’s only a moment, for he does what any little boy might in his position.
He punches it.
Instantly, it recoils. He grabs hold of Lily’s arm as her screams join the creature’s, and they fall backward out of the tent as the thing thrashes within, unable to find its way out. They watch in confused horror as the whole tent lifts, pitches away from them, and disappears into the trees. They sit there for hours, huddled together on that warm summer night in the Ventana Wilderness. When park rangers find them at dawn after reports of Lily’s screams, they haven’t moved an inch.
Edith Eckard is found days later at an anonymous spot in the forest, ranting incessantly about “deer-men in the woods.” Already, she has begun muttering the rhyme that will become her daily prayer.
“Never wrote a thing in her life, but there she was, reciting it like it was fucking Shakespeare,” Norman recalls, still baffled at the thought. “And that, kids, is what they call a mental break. Amazing it took them until now to commit her. Maybe I should've said something when things started getting bad. But I thought I could fix them. I really thought I could fix them.”
^July 21, 2016^
That night sent shockwaves through the emotional landscape of the Eckard household for the next decade. Friends of Lily’s will tell you in hushed tones of her paranoid obsession with an idea which planted itself that night and grew ever since: that her encounter in the woods was not supernatural, but wholly human in its confounding evil. The Deer-Man, as she termed him, was a rabid vagrant with a thirst for blood who imprinted on her that night in the wilderness and had been pursuing her ever since.
The disconnect between Lily and her mother’s interpretations of the Deer-Man’s nature carved an ever-widening fissure in their relationship that lasted right up until her untimely death at age 16. Their fights were unceasing and dramatic, imbued with the kind of fervent indignation that only years of internalized trauma could possibly muster. Norman did his best to mediate, but when his father fled just a year after Edith’s episode in the wilderness, he was left without the resources to develop his own emotional backbone.
This burden has sat on Norman’s meager shoulders for 10 years, but never has he felt its weight more than now. Sitting across from me in his new family’s living room for our preliminary interview, he can barely make eye contact without shrugging into a slouch. The Williams keep a tidy household, but it feels decidedly lived-in; casting a glance at their only daughter, Maeve, it’s clear why. Her gaze is unfaltering, never wandering – it lands on each new object of curiosity with carefully considered purpose, and more than a little bit of attitude.
If Maeve Williams has some sass, she’s earned it. Proud recipient of the Girl Scout Silver Award – one of the organization’s highest honors – she used her former only-child flexibility to turn the wilderness into her playground. She’s an expert at knife-throwing, bow-hunting, and shooting – “something about survival shit really gets me off” – and those are just her hobbies. The 25-year-old prodigy graduated from a top university with a BA in Biology, and has just returned from graduate school with an MA in same. It’s easy to see why her first response to her stepbrother’s predicament was one of proposed action.
“This wasn’t his idea, was it?” I ask her while Norman steps out of the room to get some fresh air.
“Going back? Of course not,” she replies. “He genuinely wants to, he just… needs to feel like he has enough support. I’ve got his back all the way, but having you here seems to help, too. So.”
Later in our conversation, we take a second break for some Earl Grey – Norman’s favorite drink. As we sip, I take out my phone and revisit the police report on Lily Eckard’s death. I find myself reading one line over and over:
FOUND IN BACKYARD OF FAMILY HOME WITH ANTLER THROUGH HEART.
Norman settles into his chair. I wonder if he’s read the report, but then I realize that he probably didn’t need to.
“-and we’re back,” I announce as I set my phone to record once again. “With some delicious Earl Grey in hand.”
In his seat, Norman takes a little mock-bow, eliciting a scoff from Maeve.
“This is gonna be my next week, isn’t it. Let’s just call the story ‘A Study in Flannel' and quit while we're ahead.”
I tell her I’m not going to rule it out, and set down my tea. Norman does the same.
“Now,” I begin, addressing Norman. “This is obviously very raw for you, so if you need to step out again at any time…”
“You know what, Hyacinth?” he juts in. “This is easier for me. It’s easier because… I mean, I’m pissed. I love Lily like hell and I’m scared and confused and miserable, but more than anything, I’m just so damn mad.”
“Why are you mad, Norman?” I ask softly.
“Because my sister wasn’t murdered by a serial killer,” he remarks bluntly. “She wasn’t killed by Mom. She didn’t even kill herself because she was depressed and couldn’t take it anymore.”
He looks me in the eye. “My sister killed herself because she thought she had to. And she…”
He recoils at whatever terrible image is running through his head. “She was wrong. She was dead fucking wrong. And now she’s just dead.”
“Why would Lily feel that she had to take her own life?” I inquire, knocked breathless by his honesty.
He wipes his nose and looks at me again, this time with a weary expression.
“Imagine having the same argument for 11 years. That’s 11 years spent pitting your reality against someone else’s. Against your mother’s. The one person you’ve got left because your dad couldn’t take it. You know, those were his words? ‘I can’t take it.’ But he could take me, if I wanted to go. I just couldn’t leave it. Them. Until college came around and I had to. And look what happened then.”
Norman leans back in his seat and shakes his head. “The minute I leave them alone, I come back and she has to end the argument once and for all. The final proof that the pair of antlers she’s been seeing in every crowd and the figure waving at her from the backyard in the middle of the night is an actual man out to kill her.”
“You don’t think she could have been right?”
He glares at me, knowing he’s about to erase my doubts.
“She couldn’t see the backyard from her bedroom. There wasn’t a window on that side.”
Norman pauses, gazing off into the middle distance beyond me.
“I’d hear her in the middle of the night, gasping and crying and clawing at the walls. I’d see her collect antlers she’d found in the woods and arrange them in all kinds of shapes that made no fucking sense. And then they’d show up everywhere – around the park, in the bushes around [Lily’s high school], in the backyard, on the porch – and she’d act all surprised whenever she saw one. As if her crazy ass hadn’t snuck out there the night before and put it there just so she could prove to us that all of it was real.”
His gaze turns back to me.
“Mom didn’t help, of course. Everyone knew she’d snapped just a little that night in the woods – I mean, she survived out there for days, and that does things to a person. I don’t blame her. She couldn’t help it. Whatever’s out there, she knows. She knows it’s not a killer. She knows it never followed us out. That didn’t stop her from ranting about deer-men, though. So when they found Lily…”
“It’s okay, Norman,” I half-whisper. “I'll take it from here. You’ve done better than anyone could possibly expect of you.”
He shakes his head once more.
“Well,” he says, sniffling. “It still isn’t enough.”
He looks at Maeve, who now has a hand on his shoulder, and nods.
“That’s why we’re doing this,” she tells me. “We’re going out there to prove Lily killed herself because of what happened that night. We’re doing it to prove Edith didn’t kill her daughter. She’s the only real family Norman’s got left.”
She sighs and looks at him with genuine affection, despite the short month he’s been in her life.
“Until he’s ready for us.”
To be continued.
Read my first part here....
Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/9ywu22/i_think_my_husband_wants_to_kill_our_baby/
I feel him standing over me. I kept my eyes closed, as I hear him pick up my empty cup and bring it to the sink. I listened as he busied himself in the kitchen, brewing coffee then finally going back upstairs. Ten minutes passed, and I finally opened my eyes. The clock on the wall said 7:17 AM. I go into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, when I noticed that Charlie was actually brewing tea in the machine, not coffee. I was frozen in that moment. "Good morning sweetheart," the voice came over my shoulder said. He hugs me from behind a little tighter than usual. He gives me a peck on the check and moves around to other side of the counter. He grabs the tea kettle and pours me a cup.
"Here you go babe," he hands me the cup. I take it from him, and blow on it a couple times before declaring out loud that it was too hot to drink right away. He looks at me and smiles. "Well, I'm off to work. I'll give you a call around lunch, maybe we can meet up?" He kisses me quick and heads out the door.
I watched him from the window, leaving the driveway and wave him off. He turns the corner and I'm already dumping the tea into the sink. My head is a fuzzy mess and I am at a lost. I dumped the whole pot of tea in the sink and go to take a long bath. When I get out, I get dressed and head out the door.
I needed answers.
It took me only 10 minutes to get to my mother in laws house. The house was a perfect size for just Mary. Charlie's dad died the day he was born and Mary never remarried or had any other kids. I pulled into the house and knocked on the door, and I see Mary peeking out the blinds before she comes and opens the door for me.
"Hi honey! It is so good to see you!" she hugs me and pats my belly. "Come in! Come in!" We go into the warm house and sit down on the couch. She looks at me, really looks at me and her face gets sad.
"How is he trying to do it?" She asked me quietly.
I looked at her with a mix of surprise, disgust and curiosity. "With tea.... I think." I said slowly. I shook my head in disbelief. Everything slowly coming together in my mind... Charlie's dad died before he was born. It was a home invasion and the guy was never caught. Mary was pregnant and hysterical when the police arrived.
Mary was staring at me while I was piecing this all together. She clears her throat, and starts to tell me everything.
"I had 2 miscarriages before I went to see a specialist. I thought it was me, I thought I was doing something to lose those babies I never got to hold.. But it wasn't me. I had dreams and nightmares telling me that it wasn't me. He was giving me vitamins and smoothies.. he acted like he knew what he was doing to help me and help us. But I was wrong.. He made me lose these babies.. because of what would happen if we had a boy." She wipes at her eyes, but I can how confident she is when she talks.
"It took me a while to catch on. When I found out I was pregnant again, I kept it a secret for awhile.. It wasn't too hard to hide until I found out that I was pregnant with another boy, Charlie. I was ready. I sat Charlie's dad down and told him I knew what he was doing, and that I wasn't going to let him to do it anymore. He broke down into tears and told me everything. His grandpa, made a deal. His wife kept having miscarriages, and they couldn't figure out why. She went into a deep depression because she really wanted to have children." She paused and looked at me.
She held my eyes.
"One day, when his grandpa was feeling defeated and on a late night walk, he came across an old woman who was walking alone. She made conversation with him and they walked around together for awhile. He ended up telling her how much he loved his wife, and told her of their problems of having a child. When they made it back to his block, she asked him if he would give his life for a baby for his wife. At that point, he finally look her in the eyes, and he said that they were so black, he felt hypnotized by them. He said yes, he would. He loved her that much. The old lady said okay, " I'll let you have the girls," and walked away. He turned his back to watch her and she was gone. He went home that night and told his wife the crazy story. She believed him. She was pregnant soon after with a girl and and carried all the way to term. They were so happy. She went on to have 2 more girls...
Then she got pregnant again, with a boy this time. Everything was well through out the pregnancy. She carried to term, went into labor while at work and an ambulance took her to the hospital. Charlie's dad was born that day. And when Charlie's grandpa went to meet his wife at the hospital, he got into a car crash and died before being able to meet the baby. His life was the agreement. He paid it."
I look at her, like shes telling me a cruel joke. "'So.. What happened to Charlies dad?"
She looked down, wipes her pants, stands up and said, "He killed my babies, so I killed him." and walked away to the kitchen.
My phone buzzes and its a text from Charlie on if I want to meet up for lunch. I texted him back that I was on my way, and grab my bag and left without even saying goodbye to Mary.
On the road, I can barely concentrate. My mind racing thinking about everything that Mary just told me. That mean Charlie knows the curse or whatever it is, and he has been killing our babies.. I scream.
I pull over and pull out my phone. I texted Charlie.
Me: Meet me at home instead? I have a surprise for you. <3 :)
Charlie texted back only a minute later.
Charlie: Okay!!!
I put the phone down and get back on to the road. See you soon Charlie.
The proudest moment of my life came on the day I bought my first car.
I know that sounds uninspiring. Most people claim the day they got married. Some folks say the day their child was born. Some people are more career focused, right, and they might say;
"The day I graduated university, of course, peasant."
Or some shit.
But nah. Not me. The proudest moment of my life came when I walked into the dealership with a pair of dirt stained jeans and an envelope worth $10,000 dollars sticking out of the pocket. I was twenty-five at the time. I had worked six years for that envelope. Six years on the bus. Six years on construction sites. Six years of eating shit, taking orders, and earning next to nothing pay. And that day... that day stood out as the first time in a long time where I could finally fucking treat myself.
So I marched myself up to the nearest sharp dressed salesman. I stuck out my hand. And with a shit eating voice soaked in false confidence and irritating bravado, I asked him to -
"Take me to your highest priced SUV, please."
The man rolled his eyes so hard that I thought they might pop back up at the bottom.
"Right this way, Sir."
I took heed of his annoyed attitude and quietly toned down the excitement. After one quick look up and down, the man did not seem very intrigued by the prospect of a big sale. I wondered why and found out two short minutes later.
Turns out the most expensive car in any dealership is worth a lot more than ten fucking thousand.
"You can put the money down, but your monthly payment might still be around $500," the salesman mused. "I might be able to get you down to $400 a month, if you forego some of the fancier features."
Ten minutes prior, I expected to walk out the dealership with a brand new car fully paid off. Blame my youth for that overwhelmingly stupid mistake. But the unfortunate reality was that I could hand that man my $10,000 and still be indebted to him for years to come. This revelation allowed one of the more embarrassing moments of my life to play out all over my face.
"Look, kid, we might have more cars in your price range. But they're used."
My problem did in fact remain. I was carless and could no longer commute to my job across the state. The early hours killed me. It had placed a strain on my relationship, made me late on multiple occasions, and altogether sucked something horrible. I swallowed the awesome pride I felt only a moment prior and followed the man sadly with a metaphorical tail tucked between my legs. I told him -
"Let's keep it under 10,000"
Because I still wanted to feel like I had accomplished something that day.
And the rest is history.
I got suckered into purchasing a white 2009 Honda CRV for $8k and change. I put the rest towards a warranty and the taxes on my purchase. I walked out of the building with the keys in hand an hour later. An owner. Finally, an owner of something. Fuck, that felt good.
I drove the car home to my shitty apartment in an even shittier part of the city. Luckily for me, there was an open parking spot only twenty feet from my bedroom window. I parked in it, put on the emergency brake, and locked the doors about thirty times. Then I walked up the steps to my apartment, got changed, and went to bed.
It had to be close to ten o'clock at night by that point. I made the mistake of making a big purchase on a week day. Work waited for me in approximately eight hours, and I knew I would be a zombie the next day if I stayed up much later. But sleep became hard to come bye. I stayed awake until eleven, then twelve, then one and two; just reading stories on the Internet and watching TV lazily. I checked my car in the street anxiously every few minutes. Something about the anxiety of my prized possession sitting outside in the wide awful world made me even more on edge. I couldn't let it go.
I checked the window for the last time at one thirty.
That is when I finally saw something to give me some actual concern.
The streetlight in my lot has a unique way of illuminating the cars. Sometimes you could see their entire contents. Some you could only see shadows. So, naturally, at first... I only saw a shadow sitting in the driver seat of my CRV. My completely empty Honda CRV.
I didn't think it could be anything supernatural. Not at first. I never really believed in ghosts, per say. And so my first reaction was to run outside and stop the asshole who might be trying to steal my car. I threw on basketball shorts and a sweatshirt in a panic and darted out of the building. By the time I made it back to the front porch, the time on my cell read 2:15 in the morning. I peeled out of the staircase in a panic and darted over to my CRV.
I could still see a shadow in the seat.
"Get the fuck out of my car," I screamed confidently. "The police are already on their way."
They weren't. But I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 in a panic as I stood there stupidly in the parking lot. I hoped the man inside would realize his situation and run.
But it didn't. The shadow in my driver seat turned to look at me slowly. It was still too dark, and I still could not see features, but I could tell it had to be a man. I could also tell that whomever was in that seat had to be looking right at me through the window.
And then somebody started screaming.
The shock of the scream sent me hurdling backwards towards the pavement. I looked around and wondered if anyone else heard it. But the parking lot was empty. And so I backed up about 10 more feet.
Something started to thrash around in my car.
I know that's a weird way to describe it. But I could still not see anything but a blur of motion dancing between the front and back seats. The screams started to get louder, more high pitched, and more angry. I ran away from the car and waited for the police, like a coward, by the staircase.
The sound stopped as soon as they arrived.
I gave the officers the key to my car. I followed them apprehensively as they walked up to the Honda and unlocked it with guns drawn.
But it was empty.
Not a soul or shadow inside.
The only thing that could provide evidence of my encounter was the horrible damage to the interior. Bites and scratch marks covered the seating. Pieces of cloth and upholstery floated around the air haphazardly like dust. After clearing the car, one of the officers asked,
"Did you have an animal in there?"
And I told him no.
They took a report. In the end, they told me, that there was not much else to do. They could share the report with the dealership, and I could try to get some money back, but it was far from a guarantee. Most of these sales are final. And we had nothing to prove that an animal could not have gotten inside.
Nevertheless, that morning I marched myself right back down to the dealership and shoved the police report in that same salesman's face. He offered a dubious look as he looked through the details. He paused for about ten minutes before actually answering my questions. Finally, he said, in a voice that sounded just as disappointed as shocked -
"I'll let you pick out another car. Truth be told, CRVs are popular, and that one will sell again in no time."
I felt relief wash over me like a warm gun.
"You know - that car does have some history to it. The last owner died in a wreck. We had to rebuild it from scratch."
Now he tells me.
I went through the entire process of signing over paperwork and signing new papers instead. I must have stayed there an additional 2-3 hours. But, in the end, I left the CRV at the dealership. I walked away with a nice, safe Honda Accord and tried to put the weird experience behind me.
I went home that night and parked just like I did before. I checked my car incessantly throughout the night, just like I did before. I was still on edge. But nothing happened. I woke up the next morning to the same little Accord sitting in the same spot.
I drove to work that morning fully prepared to put the weirdness behind me. New responsibilities and new issues quickly took over my mind's eye. I was focused on the road, but at the same time, I could have been a bit distracted. I only saw the CRV cut into my lane at the last moment.
Maybe that's why I was unable to avoid the accident.
I over-adjusted. My tires cut out and I skidded into the guardrail at sixty miles an hour.
The first thing I felt was rain dripping in through the cracks in my accord. The first thing I heard were police sirens and the concerned tones of passerbys. I looked around frantically for my partner in the accident, but blood quickly covered my face and got into my eyes. I only got one more look at the offending individual before he disappeared into the nearest exit.
The next day I woke up to my alarm. I felt like I had only just fallen asleep. I got up and as I was getting ready a part of me felt like I had dreamt the whole thing up. I guess I was trying to rationalize. After a brief moment though I adjusted my thinking and convinced myself I hadn’t imagined this.
The ride into work was quiet. I didn’t play anything. I sat in silence and deep thought. I had no idea what my next move was. I didn’t know who to go to with this or if I even had that option in the first place. Someone there knew something and plenty of people had reasons to try to keep the lid on this.
I pulled into the parking lot and finished my coffee. Per usual, I looked at my floor to scan lights and then the third floor. The third floor still had a light on. It was clearly coming from the other side but It crept through to the side I was parked on.
I got out of the car and went to the cafeteria. I needed more coffee and I wasn’t ready to go to my unit yet.
“Well good morning sweet pea! Want some breakfast?”
It was Miss Myrtle. She was the cafeteria manager and she was well past the point of retirement.
“No thank you Miss Myrtle. Just getting some coffee.”
I walked over close to her and in a hushed voice I asked.
“Can I ask you a question Miss Myrtle?”
“Well of course dear.” She said, a little distracted about my changed demeanor.
“You’ve worked here as long as this place has been running. Well pretty much right? What do you know about what happened on the third floor?”
The smile that was permanently etched into her face faded. In the two years I’ve worked here I’ve never seen her any other way. She was always cheerful and smiling.
“Cassie...I don’t think this is something we should talk about.”
“Please. I think people got hurt. Like a lot of people. I just want to help them.”
“You don’t know what you are up against, dear. This is a battle you won’t win. I would hate for something to happen to you.”
She placed her hand on my shoulder and gave me a look of concern. She walked away.
I hadn’t felt threatened by that at all. It was more like she was scared to talk. Someone had something on her. Or, rather, she knew what would happen if she spoke.
I placed $1.50 on the counter and walked out. When I got back to my unit Sheena was changing in the locker room. I walked up to her and told her I needed to talk to her.
“Something happened here Sheena. Something bad.”
Sheena laughed.
“Something bad happens here every day, Cass. It’s a hospital.”
“No! I mean I think several people were hurt. Like experimented on. Against their will.”
“Did you get any sleep last night? I know yesterday was hard but sometimes you just have to sit in the car and have a good cry after a shift. Let it out and try to move on Ya know?”
“I went to the third floor.”
“The third floor? Is this some kind of a joke? Who put you up to this? Mike?”
I stared at her. I wasn’t playing and I needed her to realize that.
“Cassie. What do you mean? How could you even get up there? You don’t have access.”
Her face was serious. I finally had her attention.
“Well I guess I do have clearance because I got up there! I heard something yesterday. After you had all gone. I had charting to finish so I stayed after. Second shift was so busy and I was changing in here and I heard something above me. Something loud. No one else was around. I thought that maybe I should go look.”
“Are you insane? Why would you do that? Do you know how much trouble you could get into? The third floor is forbidden! All else aside, at the very least, it is dangerous! It’s not up to code up there!”
“Listen to me Sheena. I found files. Lots of them. I looked at one. This patient was tortured. And not only that. It was documented. These people...whoever were in charge of this...they made it happen. It wasn’t something natural. They made her suffer...and her picture. She had words carved into her skin and...”
“Stop it! Cassie, stop it! You are going to get us fired!”
She looked at me and took my hand into hers.
“Look. I’m not saying you didn’t find that and I’m not saying I don’t believe you but whatever is up there needs to be left up there. Do you understand? It’s not our place.”
I looked down at my feet for sometime and as I looked back to meet her gaze I felt a warm tear run down my cheek.
“She was a little girl, Sheena.”
Her expression changed and now she seemed to understand the gravity of this issue.
Sheena was in her 60’s. She had 5 children and 3 grandchildren. She had moved over here when she was 16 from Mexico in search of a better life and she had made one. She was a devout catholic and she had a good soul. She had taken me under her wing when I got here and I saw her as a mentor. We even got together for dinners sometimes.
“What do you want to do, Cass?”
“I want to go back. I need to grab some of those files. Maybe take them and go somewhere where I can study them. I want to get to the bottom of this and I want justice for her and whoever else was subjected to this.”
She let my hand go and slid her hands into her pocket.
“Tonight. I’ll ride up with you and keep watch. I’m not getting out though, Cassie. I’m not.”
“You don’t have to. If you at least watch for me or help me cover my ass if I get caught that’s all I need.” I said with gratitude.
“Just meet me by the back elevator after report okay?” I asked.
She nodded and walked out.
A part of me felt bad. Bad for dragging her into this. Bad for sharing this trauma with her. But in the same aspect I felt like I could be more productive if I had someone to help me. I knew I could trust her.
The shift went by faster than any other shift I’ve ever worked. Maybe because I knew what was coming.
I waited at the back elevator for about 10 minutes. Just as I was beginning to get restless I saw Sheena shuffling around the corner.
“Where have you been?”
“Well David was my relief and you know he takes 45 minutes to receive report. Plus, I ran out to my car to grab these. You know. Just Incase.”
She held up her Rosary.
I started to say something but then I thought to myself. What the hell could it hurt?
“Let’s just get this over with Cassie.”
And we got in. I hit 3 and swiped. Ding. Green light. Up we went.
“I don’t understand how your card even works!” She said.
Before I could respond we were there. The door opened. We looked at each other and she said,
“Go!”
I ran down the hall. Towards the light.
I turned the corner so fast I almost tripped. The file and picture were still on the floor where I had dropped them. I grabbed them up and then opened the drawer and grabbed as many as I could hold.
“HURRY!” Yelled Sheena.
She sounded terrified.
I ran back down the hall and before I was even halfway back I could hear Sheena screaming in pain.
I got to the elevator and ran in hitting the close door button.
I looked at Sheena and her hand had smoke coming from it. The Rosary had been burned into her skin.
“What happened Sheena? Oh my God!What happened?”
The burns were third degree.
“Diablo! Diablo!” She screamed.
She kept screaming over and over again.
“Diablo!”
We got to the ground floor and I couldn’t get her out of the elevator. She had backed into a corner and was sitting down. Staring at her hand in horror.
I shoved all the files in my backpack and got down on my knees to tend to her hand and, with force that a human shouldn’t have, she shoved me back. Hard.
I went backwards and out the elevator. It started to close and I yanked my leg out in fear it could get caught.
The doors closed.
I got to my feet and hit the button several times but nothing ever happened. I waited in the parking lot for an hour and Sheena never came out.
I got into my car and started calling her. No answer.
I drove home and sat on my bed for a long time. What had happened up there? Where was she now?
I tried calling once more. Voicemail. I texted her.
Sheena. Please text me. I am so worried. I don’t know what happened and I’m scared. Please tell me you are okay. Please just talk to me. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.
I decided to open a file.
Patrick Whitt
September 20th, 1973 09:00 Subject has shown signs of altered mental state. Subject has been placed in solitary confinement with subject Hardy.
09:45 Subject Whitt has been informed his meal privileges were revoked. Subject has been given the ultimatum of starving or fighting to the death for food.
10:12 Subject has begged us to release one or both of them.
13:00 Subject has become irate.
14:20 Subject has been crying and pleading for release.
16:50 Subject Whitt has been ordered to kill Subject Hardy.
I closed the file and stood up. Throwing it onto my bed and backing away from it.
They were forcing these patients to harm each other and themselves. Like a sick game. I bent over and threw up my dinner. I felt disgusted.
Then my phone chimed. I walked to the bed to grab it and was happy when I saw it read Sheena. I swiped it open to see her response.
I screamed as soon as I opened it. The adrenaline went coursing through every fiber of my being.
It was a picture of Sheena’s lifeless body. She was lying in the room where I had taken the files. Still clutching the Rosary.
Written across her left arm...
Save Me.
I live on the east coast of the US, around Pennsylvania and Maryland. I had been searching around for a sleep monitoring app, as I tend to not get good sleep, even though I go to bed at 9 and wake up at 7. During my search, I found an app called: “Lucid Tracker”. Basically it detects when you are in REM sleep and plays a message consisting of the phrase: “You are dreaming”. Or was it “You are sleeping”? One of the two. Either way, it looked interesting.
I don’t think I’ve had a lucid dream in a long time. The only one I remember was when I was 10, and I didn’t take advantage of it. I did know I was dreaming, and I think I tried to make myself talk in my sleep (Had an old recording app and wanted it to hear, failed though).
Back to the story. I downloaded the lucid app and proceeded to get ready for bed. Turned on the app and fell asleep. Woke up in the morning, and I immediately remembered the app. I didn’t remember any dreams. Maybe that was just a bad night, no dreams. I got ready for work and headed to my car. I turned on the radio, as I always do.
“And now a special announcement. Research has proven that y- You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are-”
My eyes went wide open. Seconds later, I woke up in my bed.
“That was a weird dream,” I pondered.
At least I knew that the app works. I never thought that it would work better than I expected. I got ready for work, as I would oversleep if I went back to bed, and it wasn’t too early either. I took my time (there was a lot to spare) and headed off to work again. As I got in the car, I spotted the radio. As it was the thing that woke me up in my dream, I decided not to fuck with it. When I got to work, I was just about to get to my office when one of my colleagues put their hand on my shoulder.
“Hey,” he pressed, “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure, what is it?”
His face turned from a smile to a blank expressionless face as he repeated, “You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming.”
I woke up in my bed, breathing heavily. WHAT. THE. FUCK. This was turning into Inception. I looked to my left. To my right. Up. Dow- You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
I woke again, screaming. I looked to my phone. Found the app. FUCKING OBLITERATED IT, or at least the best I could. Not gonna use that again. It was work time. You know the drill. Nothing happened in the car. Nothing at work. Nothing on the way back. I got back home, and got on my computer. Played the shit out of WoW. I got a message. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING.
“FUCK”
Back in my bed. Damn it. I laid down, looking around. Deleted the app. Called my boss. Said I was sick. I know I wasn’t but it felt like I was. Nothing happened that day. Nothing the next. The next and the next and- YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
Back on my fucking bed. I cried for an hour. I did what I did last dream and called my boss.
I don’t know if I’m still dreaming. It’s been a month since the last one and I don’t know if this is real. Am I real? Is it still a dream? Am I gonna hear “YOU ARE DREAMING” one day and wake up back in my bed? What about you? Did you download the app, and don’t remember it? There’s a good possibility that you are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. You are dreaming. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING. YOU ARE DREAMING.
Ah, the snow. How delicate and unique each flake of the cold, white substance can be. The children will dash through it, flinging it left and right among each other. They will lay down and stretch their arms and legs in all directions, attempting to create a beautiful angel for all to see. Then, of course, there are others who build snowmen, their laughter filling the frosty air as they partake in a multitude of holiday activities. How I envied those who enjoyed the Christmas Spirit. I had never actually... seen such festivities occur. Rather, I would hear about them through tales my father would tell of the good boys and girls who truly valued what it meant to celebrate Christmas.
This story will be a recounting of an experience I had as a young boy. After finding myself away from my childhood home and actually close to civilization, I began taking the time to recollect a few memories from my past. Between strange occurrences, I couldn't explain back then, and one freakish moment I experienced at that point in time, I suppose this will act as a warning to you.
I truly want to help you, and this is perhaps the best way I can spread the word around about what I have discovered about the holidays without "him" finding out. I need to be discrete about this. Although I have traveled as far away from my old home as I could, I know for a fact that he's still out there, and that he can find me. I don't want to risk it, so maybe... maybe if a few people who see this help me spread it around, I won't have to worry about the consequences of my actions. It's the best I can hope for I suppose. Even still, I have to live the life of a nomad, never once being able to stop and catch my breath. Doing so would be too dangerous, so it is imperative I get this out soon. Now, since I've finished my introduction, I suppose it's time to release something I've been holding back on for quite some time now. I can only hope that I make any sort of difference by doing this.
My childhood was a strange one.
When December would come, I found myself locked inside my house. My father and I didn't adorn the halls with stockings or decorations, nor did we erect a Christmas tree in our living room. The fireplace was constantly extinguished, robbing me of the comfort I desired. Each night I would curl up in bed, trembling as the cold air ran across my body and I stared up at the ceiling, my mind completely blank. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. No, I didn't mind how rough things could get. There always seemed to be an innocent part of me that didn't mind the way I lived my life, no matter how barren the house could be during all times of the year.
Don't get me wrong, my father was very good to me. I can't recall a day he didn't show me his big, wide smile and treat me as best he could. He took care of me, fed me well, and was a good parent overall. He was a rather portly fellow, but a kind man nonetheless. The only issue is what, well, he wasn't a big fan of the holidays. It made for a very bleak life around the winter time especially. It confused me as to why he would tell me about how the other children had such a great time. I often thought he did it to make a bit of fun, or that perhaps he was just pulling my leg. I had never seen the things he described to me after all, so it would make sense that maybe they were just stories.
I rarely found it strange that we didn't live remotely near anybody else. Our small wooden hut was located high in the mountains, where the slopes would be treacherous for anyone ascending or descending the terrain. Perhaps, even if I had wanted to see the outside world, I wouldn't have been able to. It would have been impossible for me to climb up or down the rugged area, let alone at such a young age. Because of the sheer height of the mountains where we lived, the air was thin and the winds blew fiercely, and the most I ever saw of the outside world was through the window. My father said we didn't always live there. He said we had a home somewhere down below where the other people lived, but we were in his "vacation home" as he put it. I had lived in any other house before then, so needless to say, it was a rather odd vacation, to say the least.
While my father stayed inside with me, we would play board games and create drawings together. Those and various other indoor activities would teach me about the outside world and what it was like. However, my favorite memories of my father were the stories he would tell me. As mentioned prior, he would tell me of his experiences with that which dwelled under the mountain and across the world. His various interactions with such people piqued my curiosity and, upon my request to learn more, he would bring me books and magazines. Those sources were my first true contact with society, and I'd spend hours at a time reading. It kept me busy and, despite the lack of holiday cheer in my life, I was content.
As each December came, my father would start spending less time with me and more time in his private office. I only ever saw him carrying a large list of what appeared to be names on a sheet, and then he would vanish for lengthy periods of time. I always wondered what he did up there, but he never took the time to explain. He always brushed off my questions, or dismissed them a simple "You'll understand when you're older, kiddo." I never found myself content with those answers, and in a time where I wanted to learn, that lack of knowing the truth bothered me a lot. For years I felt as if my thirst for knowledge would remain unquenched, for the simple reason that I hadn't a clue what my father did. After mischievously trying to sneak into his office one night while he slept, I found that the door was locked, and I never found the key. With my determination fleeting, I decided to just mind my own business and let it be.
Several years of this same pattern would come and go, and I was fine with it at first. However, I was not fine with the repetitive, and quite frankly, monotonous routine. I had read all my books, perfected all my art, and it got to the point where my father would be retelling the same old stories. I grew tired of these tedious rituals, and thus my curiosity sparked once more. It had been years since I learned about the existence of my father's office. I thought that perhaps I was old enough to handle what was inside. You could imagine my dismay upon being denied my request to enter the room. I must have asked that man several times a month. Still, with his everlasting patience, he would respond with a simple "No" Each time.
With all of this information out of the way, I think it's time I introduce you to something my father would do that would eventually cause my curiosity to spill over. You see, every night on December 24th, he would open the front door, a large brown bag slung over his shoulder. He'd wave goodbye to me with a jolly grin on his. He'd release a cheerful laugh before closing the door and locking it behind him, making his merry way down the mountain with inhuman speed and skill before disappearing into the night. The following day, he would come back exhausted. After taking his bag to his office, he would then sleep for most of the day.
I may have been an ignorant child, but I wasn't stupid. All the books I had read, all the stories I had heard. They connected like puzzle pieces together within my young brain. The lists, the 24th of December, the brown sack. I smiled ear to ear as a realization came to my mind. I knew then more than ever that I had to find out what was in his office. So, I formulated a devious plan within my mind and decided it was worth a short.
After a few hours of waiting, I saw the sun begin to rise above the horizon. The snow had ceased on the mountain, and the morning was a calm one indeed. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I had waited all night for my father to return, and I didn't want to quit. Not then, when I was so close. After much waiting, I felt my body begin to relax. I fought with all my strength to keep my eyes open, and right before I drifted into a sound sleep, I heard the front door open. I perked my head up and fixated my eyes on the shape of my father stepping through the doorway. He looked surprised to see me up so early, but he flashed that same, warm smile he always did and rubbed my head gently. As expected, he ascended the stairs and opened his office door. He told me to wait outside and not to look in, and I obliged.
As he exited the room and closed the door, I stopped him before he could lock it with his key. I quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him downstairs. He tugged back towards the door in protest, but I was persistent, and he eventually sighed and followed me willingly. I lead him to the kitchen, where a fresh bowl of cereal awaited him. He smiled and thanked me before digging in, frantically eating the oats and drinking his milk. He eyed me as he ate, and I caught him looking at the stairwell which went to his office quite a few times. After he finished his cereal, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and got up. I could see the bags under his eyed and the dead expression on his face. With a single yawn, he went to his room and fell asleep in bed. My plan had succeeded.
I steadily made my way up the stairs and found myself in front of the office. Sweat pooled in my palms as I gripped the doorknob before me. Years of waiting and curiosity would be satisfied, and the mystery would finally be solved. I snickered softly. Finally, a little action. A vacation from the curiosity which had plagued me for so long. I trembled in excitement and I pushed the door open and entered. A single desk stood in the middle of the room, and the brown bag sat on top of it. I slowly approached the desk, placing my hands on the bag. With one swift motion, I opened it and poked my head inside. To my surprise, its contents weren't exactly what I had expected.
What I saw in that bag left me scratching my head in confusion. Instead of what I thought would be there, I found what seemed to be random objects at the time.
I was disappointed with my findings, and I carefully made sure to exit the door and close it behind, certain that I'd covered my tracks well. I never spoke a word of that experience to my father for fear of getting in trouble. I found myself chuckling a few times at how underwhelmed I was. I was expecting something far greater, only to find a strange assortment of items inside the bag. Perhaps I laughed to distract myself from the truth of what I saw, but I convinced myself that my dad was nobody special all along, and although it was still a mystery to me what he did those nights, I never thought more of it.
It wasn't until I got much older and finally moved out of that house that I began thinking about what I found that day, and what it truly meant. My father never hurt me, but I fear what may become of me by releasing this information. Perhaps he is still out there, doing what he does best. I only hope this information being released can help someone out there, and maybe it can help me organize my thoughts and help me get some sleep at night. Believe me, I haven't gotten enough rest since I discovered what was really going on. The part of the Christmas holiday they don't tell you. Maybe I fear that I will become like him someday. That it is my predetermined fate to do as he did. I'm not certain, but all I know is this. He is my father. He is the reason I fear for my safety by writing this. I will never forget what I found in that brown bag of his, for it all becomes clear to me now.
I saw chains, coal, birch branches ,rope, and branding irons. Each one had been used the previous night, and several child-sized shoes were also contained within the sack, all of them charred beyond repair.
I am really not sure where to start. At the beginning sounds so cliche, but it is probably a cliche for a reason.
I will tell you right now, if you are looking for a neatly wrapped up story this isn't that story. Real life just doesn't work that way. And with as much fiction as I have written, this is the realist and truest story I have ever told. And I don't really like to talk about it.
So why am I? I think mostly because regardless of "rules" I know that no one will believe it. I actually don't WANT anyone to believe it. How weird is that? But it is somehow freeing knowing that you will just read it as one of those other "real" stories on /nosleep.
None of the names have been changed, I doubt my brothers and sisters would appreciate that.
Not that they appreciate a goddamned thing anyway. In the story of their lives, I am the villain. I sent their father to jail. Not that his going to jail has much to do with this story. Call it a subplot if you like. It really doesn't matter to the story at large.
Who am I? Doesn't really matter. The name I post under is good enough. Mostly because I chose it for myself. If you search it you will find the fiction I write. Mostly fanfic these days.
Pretty chicken shit I suppose to post their real names where applicable but not mine.
Fuck 'em.
I have always been able to sense... spirits? Ghosts? I don't even know what to call them anymore. I can't tell you when it ended, because it never has. But I can tell you where it started, with a broom. Of all the stupid things. Just an ordinary straw broom.
I was maybe five maybe four. I had not started school, but because of the date my birthday fell on I was about six months older than my classmates.
My parents just bought this new house. It was old. Not like antebellum old, or maybe... it had been built a hundred years before we moved in. But this was in California so antebellum is probably not the right word anyway.
It was a normal house. Big family room. Big kitchen. Walls, a roof, a fireplace. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the old well that I swear had been filled with concrete. There was about a two and a half foot space between where the concrete stopped and the top. My parents always thought it would make a good wading pool, but we kids positively refused to use it for that.
So back to the broom. My mom and I were cleaning the kitchen preparing to move in when we took a break. It was only the two of us. My dad and everyone else was at our old home waiting for the movers. I was the oldest of what would eventually be nine children. There were four of us at the time.
Helping may be a strong word for what I was doing, but I was there. Probably for company more than anything else.
Mom had sat the broom down and we went out to explore the huge backyard. When we got back the broom was just gone. No one else was there. At first she thought I had moved it. When we found it she knew it could not have been me.
The yard had one of those old clothes lines with poles. They were made of some sort of hollow metal pipes. That broom was stuck handle first into one of the poles. There was no way I could have reached it. And there was no way it had been there when we explored the yard. It was pretty obvious with even a cursory glance. Mom was a little worried that someone had been in the home and was playing a prank. This was in the days before cell phones and our landline had not yet been hooked up so all we could do was wait for my father. No one was ever seen on the property and the broom incident was soon forgotten. I never forgot though.
Then after we moved in there were other odd things that happened. Slowly at first then ramping up.Pictures would fall from the walls with no explanation. Bottles, the old kind glass coke bottles, would rock back and forth. Weird but not terrifying.
Even though I had other experiences, I wasn't afraid exactly. Confused by what I was experiencing, but not afraid.
My great grandparent's house had taught me that if I ignored stuff it eventually went away. They had this really creepy hallway. You had to go into a bedroom and into a small hall to get to the bathroom. That hallway terrified me. It scared my brothers and sisters too. But ONLY that hall. The house was safe, the bathroom was safe, but that hallway... I instinctively knew it was not safe. But it never hurt me, only scared me.
It is amazing what you can get used to. They say if you toss a frog into a boiling pot of water it will hop out, but if you put the frog in cold water and slowly bring it to a boil it will let itself be cooked. I don't know if that is true, but it is a good analogy.
By the time I started seeing nearly corporeal figures I was so used to the other weird shit happening that it hardly seemed any different.
How messed up is that?
That house sure had its share of occurrences. But see, the thing is, after a while, it wasn't the house any longer. It was just a house. With a creepy well that we told each other ghost stories about as kids. In retrospect? I doubt the well had anything wrong with it at all.
Or maybe it did. I am not the best judge of these things.
The thing is, we were a military family so we moved some. Not as much as other military families I knew of, but some.
And the same thing happened in every single house we moved to.
No, by this point the house itself had become immaterial.
Some of the things I saw included:
A woman in a long blue dress would float from my room across the hall. She seemed normal, except she did not live with us and I could see through her. My mom and aunt saw her once as well. When they asked me if I had seen her I refused to answer. They knew I must have I was staring at her, but for me, it was a big pile of nope.
Another time in the corner of our family room I saw a man who was dressed in sort of old west clothes. He had a bushy mustache. Kind of like the one you see in pictures of Teddy Roosevelt. He was doing this weird loop sort of thing. He would turn with a drink in his hand like he was going to speak to someone and lift the drink to his mouth, then the scene would start over.
By this time my father (my mom was my birth mother, he had adopted me as a baby) had been sexually assaulting me for years. That is irrelevant to this story except that I was now a teenager and had turned to methamphetamines and other drugs, whatever I could get my hands on really, to self-medicate. Or just to escape. I knew my family would just chalk up what I was seeing to drug use. I would too if I had not been stone cold sober at that time.
Don't get me wrong, they all saw the same things. But when it came to me? Well, I guess having a reputation as a druggy did not make me particularly credible.
I could go on and on about things moving on their own, like the dryer that lifted itself off the floor and shook. Or my television that pushed itself off of a shelf but I think you get the idea.
I had learned about poltergeists around this time and I thought maybe because the sexual abuse I was experiencing was so traumatizing I had been creating these effects. (this is why I chose the child abuse flair, I won't be discussing or describing this any further)
That doesn't explain the actual entities I saw.
I have to say they were the least frightening somehow. I think mostly because they didn't even seem like they knew I was there. They were more like a weird movie than anything scary.
I had learned that if I thought about these things, or worse talked about them, things got worse. I didn't have the words to describe to anyone that when they got afraid or discussed these events it gave whatever it was power.
My mom tried to use a Ouiji board once with my brother. Absolutely nothing happened. No movement, no new weird experiences.
Just more of exactly the same.
I guess Milton Bradley didn't have a direct line to the spirit world after all.
And these entities, ghosts, spirits, whatever, paid as little attention to me as I did to them.
Until Michael. Not that he was particularly scary, but he was the first who knew we were there and actively interacted with us.
Michael was (is? would have been?) my brother. My mother discovered in an ultrasound he was anencephalic. He was missing most of his skull and a lot of his brain. He was stillborn.
The next year my sister Michelle was born. Named after Michael. She had the most experience with him. Although all of us saw him or were in some way affected by him at one point or another.
Michael was Michelle, or Nikki as we called her (his middle name was Nicholas hers Nicole) first friend. She talked about him all the time.
Mom brushed it off at first but when she asked her what he looked like she told her like my father and my brother.
But the next thing she said was chilling.
"But he doesn't have a brain like us. He has a mechanical brain." Nikki was three. She should not have had the vocabulary to describe this. And no, none of us would have told a baby about her stillborn brother with no brain.
She was so certain in her descriptions my mother actually took her to a therapist. This was next level weird shit even for people who had been living for over a decade in a proverbial haunted house.
The therapist was so worried because she did not sound like she was describing an imaginary playmate. He had my mother call the cops to search our place. He was certain a vagrant had taken up residence in our attic or something.
Of course they found nothing. It would have been unusual anyway since my mother was captain of our neighborhood watch and police were over once a week or so.
It is not exactly true that Michael did not scare me. But it was the intent that scared me most. The things Michael did frightened me only because I knew he was TRYING to frighten me.
Plus the whole idea if something could pick up a God damned dryer what ELSE could it do?
I had finally got the courage to go to the police about my father and was moved to a foster home. I refused to move back in even after he was moved out and went to jail. My mother had turned in to one mean bitch of a drunk and sexual wasn't the only abuse I suffered.
And it didn't matter where I went, Michael was there.
Nikki warned me he would be. I still spoke to my brothers and sisters on the phone, they had all opted to live with mom.
One day while I was speaking to my sister Juanita, Nikki insisted on speaking to me. "Michael is coming to visit you." was all she wanted to tell me.
I knew Michael was with me when I walked past a window and it shattered from the inside out. I was the only one at home everyone else was at school or work.
There was no reason for me to expect it was more than a freak accident but I knew. I was absolutely certain no living soul was in that house.
Cut forward a few years.
My mother and I finally made our peace. In the same way I made peace with everything in my life. I pretended nothing bad had ever happened. I am actually a professional level denier of problems.
She and I were remodeling her new home. The last one was burned to the ground by kids next door playing with bottle rockets. I was probably in my 30's at this point.
But as I said that house became irrelevant. The house wasn't haunted WE were.
I was rinsing a paintbrush and went back into the room we were remodeling at the moment.
Mom told me to turn off the water. I was sure I had, but whatever. I turned it off.
By the time I had taken ten steps to the other room, I could hear the water running again. I walked back and turned it off. AGAIN.
I actually thought it was my stepfather (a new stepfather, my mother divorced and remarried) playing a prank. I yelled at him, but he just looked at me like I had lost my mind. I just knew it had not been him.
I walked back to the small bedroom practically in tears. Mom asked what was wrong and I told her "No matter how many times I turn it off the water keeps coming back on!"
She went to the door and told me to go turn it off once more.
I did so and this time walked backwards to my mother.
We watched as the faucet turned itself back on.
Mom called out "Michael, knock it off you are scaring your sister."
We watched the faucet turn itself to off.
Mom was the only one who could ever control him. She swore he was just playing pranks. He wanted to interact with the family.
I think the weirdest part about Michael was that he did not stay a baby. He fucking grew up as a... whatever the hell he was.
My sister did not describe a newborn. She described someone about her age.
My brothers and sisters and even my mom described seeing a male in places no one should be. Like one day my stepfather was working on his car and mom was watching. She said she almost bumped into someone. A man wearing dark clothes. She looked up to say excuse me, and realized no one was actually there.
I never actually saw him. Others before and after, but never him.
Mom said when she died she would take Michael into the light with her.
Mom died a few years ago. I guess she must have kept her word since I haven't felt Michael since then.
There are still weird things that happen. Things go missing and turn up in places they should not be. Or, and this is somehow worse, in the exact same spot I had put them to start with.
I am not looking for advice. I don't want to DO anything. I refuse to give them that kind of power. I have seen things like that go really wrong when people try to get rid of entities. I genuinely feel like my best bet is to keep ignoring them.
I suppose I can expect things to ramp up a bit after I post this. But as long as I give them no further energy it will all die down again.I honestly don't know what the point of this was. Maybe just to finally let it all out. Well, not ALL of it, there is so much more, but those were the major highlights.
But I can tell you this... I am taking measures to make sure when I die I STAY dead.
I've held a healthy dose of skepticism in the paranormal for a long time. Working in IT can do that to you--you hear so many eye-rolling stories from users that you start to take every story with a heaping tablespoon of kosher salt. No, your laptop didn't infect itself. No, you didn't browse that website for half an hour 'on accident.' Of course it's impolite to call people out on it, but technology is separated as far from mysticism as you can get. Things don't just happen. That's why I've been increasingly convinced that I'm going crazy--I mean, I was gonna post about this on r/talesfromtechsupport before I considered jotting anything down here. Then I realized that nobody would believe me. I wouldn't believe me. Maybe you will.
First, context. I work in a mid-sized engineering and manufacturing company, as one half of a two-man IT department. A good chunk of my time is spent driving from plant to plant helping dock workers figure out iPads, but usually I'm in the main office. It's a two story building with an adjacent factory floor, the latter portion arranged in one big horizontal stretch about the length of a football field. This is where the business started, built from scratch in the early 80s by two exceedingly competent (if not eccentric) entrepreneurs. They split responsibilities straight down the middle, with one taking care of engineering and finance and the other handling manufacturing and shipping. The place took off, and both of them became fabulously wealthy.
Only one of them is still wealthy, because as a wise man once said: you can't take it with you. Five years ago--about three years before I started--the boss on the manufacturing side passed away. We'll call him $D. That meant the other boss--we'll call him $A--took control of the whole operation. The death itself wasn't particularly odd; the guy was old, and evidently he just had a stroke in his office while working late on a Friday. His corpse sat there at his desk the entire weekend, which is a little creepy, but it's not like there was foul play involved. The unsettling stuff is the before and after--the months leading up to his death, and the years leading up to today.
It's considered a company taboo to even bring it up, but there are a few things I've managed to pry out of my tight-lipped colleagues. At some point there was a fight between the owners--either nobody knows what it was about or nobody wants to say, but it happened. Whatever it was, it ended up irreconcilable, to the point where the two didn't even want to look at each other. They never scheduled meetings together. They routed their necessary correspondence through the secretary rather than sending them directly. Most notably, $D moved his office, once adjacent to $A's, to the far end of the factory floor, as physically distant from his partner as he could possibly get. And then, a few months later, he died. $A, as the rumor goes, was conspicuously absent from the funeral.
A spat between business partners is nothing tremendously out of the ordinary. I guess we're all lucky as employees that $A managed to hold the business together and keep it thriving. But the IT department--at the time, just my current co-worker--got some unorthodox instructions compared to what we usually do when an employee exits the company. The rules that the living owner set for $D's old workspace are still in effect to this day, and they were one of the first things I was filled in on when I started.
Rule number one: Don't touch anything.
$D's office is exactly the same as it was the day he passed. I was taken in to see the place just once, on my first tour as an employee. The only thing my co-worker told me before we stepped in was to keep my hands to myself. There was a thick layer of dust over everything (unsurprising considering the proximity to all the manufacturing equipment), and I didn't see so much as a fingerprint in it. The trash can was still full of papers. The shelves still held unpolished industry award plaques.
Most jarringly, there were pinups everywhere. I struggled to find a polite place to rest my eyes when I got shown around--you couldn't go two feet without seeing another tattered photo of a muscle car being washed. It was unprofessional to say the least, but hey--he was the boss. I suppose no one was going to tell him to take them down. I'd learn more about his taste in women later, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Rule number two: The computer and phone stay on the network.
This was actually more surprising to me than the racy decorations--it's always best practice in information security to pull a machine off the grid if it's not being used. Every endpoint on the domain is a potential security threat, and even if it's in a locked office it could be accessed remotely and used as a beachhead for hackers. Even so, for five years on the boss' insistence, $D's computer has been powered on and automatically updated. Never shut down, only restarted. His account still has full permissions in Active Directory. His extension still takes up space on our crummy old phone server. He's got voicemails that will never be listened to and e-mails that'll never be read. There's no discernible reason for it, but it's there, and soon you'll see why I wish it wasn't.
Rule number three: Don't come in here again.
My colleague locked the door on the way out, but not before telling me something I wish he hadn't:
"$D used to do things sometimes that weren't work-appropriate. Just pretend this machine isn't here."
I'm not one to make waves under normal circumstances, so I never got the compulsion to pry. Not until about a month ago, anyway--around Halloween, as a matter of fact. I'd just started lurking Reddit again after a two year hiatus, and I'm sure spending a week catching up on the r/nosleep classics didn't help. Infected Town, anybody?
Maybe it was just the holiday spirit, but one day I showed up in an especially spooky mood. 'Wouldn't it be neat,' I wondered to my idiot self, 'if that computer had something creepy on it?' I'd always assumed that the prohibited material my co-worker mentioned was pornography; you'd be amazed at how many people use work machines for that sort of thing (or perhaps you wouldn't be). It was a safe bet, considering the old man's choice of wall hangings. Not like I needed to break into his office to find out, either--every computer in the company has remote access software installed that my colleague and I can use. I could just pop in, log on to the local admin account, and rifle through the user directories for juicy bits. The factory floor closes half an hour before the offices do, and since I've got a private office I wouldn't have to worry about anyone taking a peek at my screen. Thirty minutes to find myself a chuckle, and no one would be any the wiser. Just some innocent fun. I wish I'd never thought of it.
About a week after Halloween, the stars aligned, and the custodian went home early while my colleague was out sick. There wouldn't be a better time to make a move. I cracked my knuckles, fired up the remote software, and connected with no issue--same old Windows 7 logon screen as every other computer, happily chugging away half a decade after its owner had keeled over in front of it. I logged in under the generic admin account. I opened a file browser. C:/. Users. $D. Pictures.
I had been at minimum half-right in my educated guess. By that, I mean I scrolled through about fifty percent of the several hundred saved images in that folder, and everything I laid eyes on featured explicit nudity. I like to think of myself as a professional sort, but I'm also a 2004-era veteran of the *chans, so I wasn't going to let an exposed chest or two deter me. I wish it had.
The further down the directory I got, the weirder it started to get. Niche fetish material started to show up with increasing frequency--balloons, abuse, toilet stuff. Certainly not to my taste, but nothing I hadn't guffawed at as an edgy high schooler. The less said about that, the better.
What ended up really catching my attention was an uncomfortably large set of sequential photographs named "factory_n", where n was a number between one and fifty-something. The first thing I noticed about them was that they weren't professionally produced like the bulk of what I'd seen--they were grainy and often blurred, like low-quality film scanned into a digital format. Every picture was of a different woman laying supine on filthy concrete, eyes shut, covered head-to-toe in this ugly black sludge so thick you could barely even tell if they were nude. While the shots were all from different angles, the position was the same: flat on their back, arms to their sides, legs together, like a tar-smeared statue melting into the grimy floor. There were well-worn machine tools visible in some of them, but they didn't look familiar, so I decided to tell myself that they were definitely not taken in our factory. I flicked through one at a time; no faces I recognized, no other figures. I saw maybe ten of them before the remote software suddenly kicked me out.
My first reaction was abject panic. Not because of the images, oh no--it was because I thought I'd been found. Remember, in technology, things don't just happen. Either someone had stumbled by and closed the remote session, or I'd done something to bungle the network connection. It wasn't likely the first--the factory was closed, and it was in a locked office anyway. If it was the second, then my colleague would certainly notice it missing from the directory at some point, and if he went down to take a look it'd still be logged in as an administrator with some kind of sketchy oil porn pulled up on the screen. In a panic, I pulled up a command prompt and pinged the machine.
It was still there.
Confused and relieved but mostly confused, I gave remoting in another shot. It worked like a charm. But it was at the login screen, and it had been less than a minute since I'd been booted. I was logged off, and that wasn't nearly enough time for the computer to have restarted for an update. And $D was still logged on, just like he had been for the last five years. I closed the remote session.
More than a little shaken and satisfied with my perfidy, I took a deep breath and browsed r/Eyebleach for the last few minutes of the day. I spent the evening drowning my jitters with friends at a bar within stumbling distance of my apartment, and I was fuzzy enough by bedtime that I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Morning came sooner than I liked, but at least I was at peace. I walked into my office to an entirely normal scene. Nothing had been moved. No angry e-mails from an administrator. Nothing at all out of the ordinary, save for a blinking message light on my desktop phone. There was no voicemail, just the robotic autoattendant with her Y2K-era Microsoft Michelle voice. "CALL 244," she said. That wasn't a familiar extension. I pulled up the company phone directory, freshly updated. It wasn't there. Frustrated, I remoted into the phone server and punched it into the lookup. The sudden revelation hit me like a cinder block in the ribcage. There was nothing I could do but stare.
[244 - PLANT 1 OFFICE]. His office.
Needless to say, I had no intention of calling back. At best, it was a horrible prank. At worst--well, I didn't particularly want to think of what could be worse. The rational part of my brain started churning out half-baked explanations, and I buried myself in them for a time.
The beginning of last week was when I became fairly certain I was going crazy. It doesn't help that I've been asked to stay late several times recently to do work that can only be done when the office has gone home; I love my job, but being alone in this building has become progressively more unnerving. There's a dark, unoccupied office across the hall from mine--I can see it all the time in my periphery from where I sit. Every once in a while, when I'm in the middle of my work, I swear something moves in there, or that there's someone standing in the doorframe just out of the light. By the time I turn my head, it's gone. Sometimes my message light will blink, but only once, like a petty little reminder in the corner of my eye. I hear footsteps in the hall when the entire department is locked up. The hulking metal door that connects the office to the factory floor is always open when I clock out late, sometimes just a hair, but always open. Sometimes I think I hear a squeal, like a pig, from far, far away.
But that's all within the realm of plausible hallucination. If it wasn't for what happened yesterday, I'd have my head checked and go on with my life. Now, however, I'm sure there's something eerie going on.
Yesterday, I was still pondering whether I should share this story. Given the circumstances, I wasn't entirely sure it was worth it--like I said at the beginning, a community of natural skeptics would laugh me off the metaphorical stage. Before I started writing, I thought I might take a snapshot of the office from the far end of the factory, just for some visual aid. Couldn't hurt, right?
I wandered down to the plant maybe twenty minutes after closing time, taking care as always that the parking lot was vacant--the last thing I wanted on top of all this was to be accused of corporate espionage. I jaunted out, zoomed in across the facility as far as I could, snapped a couple pictures, and made myself scarce. I didn't realize until after the fact just how awful the quality on my phone camera is; throwing in the abysmal lighting and all the particulate hanging in the air, you can barely tell it's a picture of a manufacturing floor. But photo quality wasn't what I found myself concerned about, or at least not after I paused to study them in my car.
See this light? Not the one on the far right--the vertical one, closest to the center of the frame. The one with the blueish glow around it.
There's no light source there. Not so much as a lamp. The space in front of his office was black as pitch when I took the picture. And that glowing something is right in front of his door.
That's why I needed to put this out somewhere. Maybe one of you out there has seen something like this, or like the factory_n images, or at the very least knows how I might--and I feel like a madman just typing this--how I might figure out whether I've drawn the ire of something otherworldly. I consider myself a difficult man to scare, but this has genuinely frightened me, and I'm afraid it's only going to get worse. If you've got any information or even conjecture at all, please share--I'll answer as many questions as I can. Maybe an exceedingly foolish part of my brain is looking for validation to keep delving. Probably that's the last thing I should be doing.
After all, if there's one thing you figure out quick as a professional, it's that you should never deliberately upset your boss. Even, evidently, if he's dead.
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