The Most Haunted and Disturbing Reddit Videos You'll Ever Watch!

Somebody has been leaving notes around my house. They're starting to freak me out. They started innocently enough. "Don't forget your keys" read the first message, scrawled on a sticky note in loopy letters. It had been left on my fridge door. It immediately grabbed my attention because at the time I lived alone, I had no memory of writing it, and the handwriting didn't match mine or anyone I knew. I was slightly perturbed, but wasn't sure how to react. In the end I just tossed the note and went to work. The second note came a few days later, left on my kitchen counter. The sticky note was pink this time but still had the same distinctive loopy handwriting. "Make sure to pack a lunch today." Again, I was unsettled. Now, any normal person might have reported reported this to the police, but during that time I was going through a major depressive spell. I had moved to a new city away from my friends and family, and had started a new job that I quickly realized I hated and didn't nearly pay enough. Home was lonely and work was soul-crushing. I had trouble enough getting out of bed each morning, let alone filing a report that I am sure the police would not take seriously. Even more stressed, I crumpled up the note. However, I ended up packing a small lunch for myself. Usually I didn't bother to put in the effort and just ate cafeteria food, but against my better judgment I fulfilled the wishes of the note. That day the cafeteria was closed. The main cafeteria fridge had broken overnight and many of the frozen lunches inside had gone bad. Management thought it would be better to shut it down for the day. A feeling of unease settled in my stomach after learning the news. It was as if the note had predicted it. The notes continued throughout the following weeks. They would typically show up on random days, no more than 3 notes to a day. They were all left in obvious places in my apartment, all on sticky notes, and in that unfamiliar loopy handwriting. They began to grow more prophetic. Take ayade today. There will be a bad accident on your way home. Janet is going to offer you some cookies at the office. Politely decline. They will give you food poisoning. Marie has been on a diet. Compliment her on her weight loss. She'll end up thinking well of you. Of course, I tested the notes to see if they were accurate. Every time I ignored their advice, whatever it warned against came true. One day a note said to pack an umbrella, and I purposely didn't. It was forecasted to be sunny that day so any normal person wouldn't think to pack one, but sure enough I got soaked that evening walking to my car. I was incredibly curious about the notes. There were so many questions I had about them, and those unanswered questions kept festering in my head. I tried writing notes back in return and leaving them out, but never got a response. I'd speak out loud and ask questions as if the note writer could somehow hear me, but this only made me feel foolish. I'd occasionally make a surprise visit home at odd hours, just to see if I could catch the note writer leaving their notes. Of course, I never caught them. I tried installing cameras in my apartment, even making sure all of the cameras were completely hidden, but the next day I found every single one of the cameras' insides completely torn out and placed on the kitchen table with a single note next to them reading: "Never do that again." The notes stopped coming after that, which made me deeply regretful. I had grown accustomed to the notes; I had begun to rely on them even. They had significantly improved my way of life over the last few months both mentally, financially, and socially. I had actually started making friends at the office thanks to their advice, and for the first time in my life I was even a bit popular. My managers, who before the notes didn't pay much interest in me, now valued my presence and would ask for my opinion on projects. It was no secret I was on my way to a promotion. Could I still do that without the notes? I also valued the notes as a friend, as weird as that sounds. Or more like a guardian angel. Wherever they were from, they were always protecting me. Without them, the future was suddenly unknown, dangerous. Every time some mild annoyance popped up from that point, from bad traffic to stressful work situations and even a minor paper cut, I thought about how this all probably could have been avoided if I still had the notes. The next week, a bright green sticky note appeared on my bathroom mirror. "Don't forget to call Mom today. It is her birthday." I nearly cried. I decided to sack my investigation and just accept things as they were. Slowly, the fog of my depressive spell began to lift and I could feel myself returning to how I used to be. My confidence rose and for the first time in a while I felt in equilibrium with my life. I went out, cracked jokes, and even managed to clean up my apartment. I also managed to get a girlfriend somehow. Her name was Amanda. I met her at a pub when I was out with my buddies. The best part of all this is that for some reason, she seemed to actually be into me. She was gorgeous, with long auburn hair that reached down to her back with soft brown eyes. Her laugh was lovely and the lemon-scented perfume she liked to wear was intoxicating. She was the type of girl you could chat with for hours and never run out of things to talk about. The relationship was still new so I was trying not to plan our whole future together in my head, but she was so lovable it was hard not to. At some point I briefly thought about telling her about the notes. I've always wanted to tell someone about it but never really had anyone to tell up until now. I decided not to, however, afraid she might think I was crazy. There was no point so early in the relationship making her think I was a loon. Plus I was afraid the notes might stop again. If whoever was leaving them clearly didn't want me looking into them, how would they react if I shared what was happening with somebody? So at the moment I kept it to myself. Amanda had a hobby of cooking and had invited me to her house on Saturday for, in her words, "the best fucking spaghetti you'll ever eat." I was pumped since this was the first time I would actually visit her house. I was in a good mood that evening as I was getting ready for the date. I hummed to myself happily thinking about how lovely this was going to be, and went downstairs to grab my keys. On the kitchen counter was a new hot pink sticky note. I picked it up instinctively. Kill your girlfriend. My brain stopped for a moment. I read it once, twice, a third time, the words flashing in my brain but hitting an error every time. I set the note down and gulped, feeling nauseous. Anxiously, I went to my car and started driving. I tried not to think about the note but the words kept circling in my mind. Kill your girlfriend. The notes have never failed me before, and they were always in my best interest as far as I knew. Probably not much. Maybe they were wrong this time. Maybe it wasn't meant to be taken literally. Kill could be a synonym for break up, right? My mind kept trying to make up poor excuses the whole way there. By the time I arrived I was a sweaty mess and not a lick calmer. I pulled down my sun visor to check my face and a bright green sticky note fluttered out. I went cold. The notes had never appeared outside my house before. Hands shaking, I picked up the note and read it. Kill Amanda. Take the gun from your glove box and shoot her. I looked at my glove box wide-eyed. I did indeed keep a handgun in my glove box for safety purposes. I wanted to puke, to believe this wasn't happening. Again, I ignored the note and walked up to Amanda's house. House, trying to shake the message from my mind. She answered the door almost immediately after I rang the doorbell. "Hey, what's up?" she said with a bright smile, but when she saw my face the smile dropped. "You okay, Gary? What's wrong?" she said in concern. "Nothing," I lied, trying to force a smile. "Well, actually I think I have a bit of a stomachache." "Come in, come in," she said, ushering me in. The inside of her house was cute and homely, and she fretted over me worriedly as she led me over to her kitchen table. She then took my hand and rubbed it comfortingly. "If you're not feeling up to spaghetti, we can always have it another time. Don't worry about it. Do you want any antacids or something?" I smiled. The way she was so Her concern for me over a simple stomachache made me fall in love with her all over again. My heart panged with both love and guilt. The aroma of cooked spaghetti was also extremely strong, and even though she said it was fine, I knew it would probably be a bummer for her to pack away all that spaghetti after just making it. "I'm fine, sweetie. I probably have a stomachache because I haven't eaten much today. I was looking forward so much for your spaghetti." Her smile returned again. I always loved how fast she smiled at things. "Well then, Mr. Hungry, let me grab you a bowl." She left for the kitchen. I reclined back and sighed, sticking my hands in my pockets. I felt a crinkle of paper. Shit. I pulled the paper out of my right pocket. Take your chair and bash her head in. I had a hard time controlling my breathing as I stuffed the note back in my right pocket. I also felt paper in my left pocket, and against my mind screaming for me not to, I pulled it out, realizing that it was actually two notes crinked together. Shakily, I unwrinkled the first note. Do not eat the spaghetti. Drugged. "What's that, Gary?" asked Amanda behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I stuffed the notes back in my left pocket. "Oh, j-just some note from work I forgot was in my pocket is all," I said in a weird voice. She frowned, looked like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. "Here, babe," she said gently, handing me a bowl of spaghetti. It looked heavenly. I wanted to puke. She sat next to me with her own bowl. She rested her head in her hands and looked at me excitedly, expectantly. I stared at her blankly. "Well, take a bite silly," she said, gesturing towards my bowl. "Aya, I'm so s-sorry. I really need to use your bathroom." I jumped up and started looking for her bathroom. She jumped up after me, looking confused. "Gary! What's wrong? You've been acting weird." When I found the right door, I went in and locked the door behind me. She kept knocking and knocking. "Gary! Gary! Seriously, what's wrong with you? Is the stomachache that bad?" "Talk to me, Gary, please." I backed up and against the bathroom wall, then sank down to the floor. I pulled out the two notes from my left pocket again, this time reading the second note. My heart sank. She is not Amanda. My student submitted the most disturbing living history project I've ever seen. One of my least favorite parts about being a middle school history teacher is the bullshit living history assignments we give at the end of every school year. Kids are supposed to sit with their grandparents and videotape, voice record, or transcribe their oldest memories for posterity. I had been doing this for 17 years, and when I collected the projects this time around, I assumed they would be as dull, if not duller than usual. This had not been a particularly bright class. So I went home, poured myself a glass of wine, and prepared for a long night of "I only owned 2 pairs of pants when I was your age" and "My brother got beat with a newspaper for hitting a baseball into a neighbor's yard." And of course, these projects were peppered with innocent, old-person comments that were so horribly sexist and racist you just had to laugh. Now, I had a girl in my class whom I will call Olivia. She was pudgy, quiet, and proved herself a consistent B student. I expected her project to be as unremarkable as her, and perhaps that's why I was so profoundly disturbed by what I witnessed that night. Olivia had submitted 2 discs for some reason, so I began with the one marked "Interview." My screen hiccuped twice before a grainy image of a living The living room came into view. The place was a hoarder's hell. Olivia was curled up in an armchair clutching a notebook and looking like a scared animal. Across from her sat a man with a somber countenance, smoking a cigarette and staring at her expectantly. "Go ahead," a woman's voice whispered from behind the camera. Olivia's owlish eyes flashed towards the screen, then back to the man. "I am here with my great-uncle Steven," she began almost inaudibly. "He is going to tell us about his oldest memories from being in the army." Great-uncle Steven looked like he'd rather be in a goddamn trench at the moment, but he waited patiently for the questions to begin. Not surprisingly, Olivia read verbatim from the suggested questions sheet I had handed out to the Questions. He answered her curtly. Once or twice I heard her mother whisper "speak up, Olivia" from behind the camera. Typical, boring shit. So I was intrigued when Olivia set down the notebook and asked, "Did you like being in the army?" That was totally off script. Great Uncle Steven emitted a chain smoker's wheeze. "Nope. Glad to get out of my town though." "Where did you go?" "Balkans." "Buh-huh," she said. I doubted she knew what the Balkans were, and my suspicion was confirmed when she asked, "Was Bacchus very different from here?" "Yes," Mom cleared her throat from behind the camera, perhaps encouraging Great Uncle Steven to be a little more forthcoming. But Olivia seemed genuinely interested. "Uncle Steven," she asked, "what is your very worst memory from the army?" The old man crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and then slowly lifted himself out of his chair. "I'll be back," he mumbled. The camera cut off. When the screen flashed back on, everything was the same except Great Uncle Steven had several pieces of paper in plastic sleeves laid atop all the crap sitting on his coffee table. One, he held in his hand. "I was a kid when I enlisted," he said, looking at Olivia. "Your brother's age," he told her. Olivia nodded. "I never saw combat. Both of my deployments were to cities in Eastern Europe that had destroyed by civil wars. Everything was a mess. I felt like a janitor for fuck's sake. "Ahem," Mom coughed. Great Uncle Steven sighed and looked at his paper. My unit was assigned to a school that had been obliterated by all the violence. Broken windows, caved-in rooms, and for some reason, the part that got to me the most was that the school had been like this for years before we got there. No one had lifted a finger to fix it. I saw kids walk by it on their way to go beg for money or whatever shit they did. The camera dipped towards the floor as I heard Mom whisper harshly at Great Uncle Steven. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but it wasn't hard to imagine. "Damn, do you wanna hear this goddamn story or not?" I heard him bark in response. "Then you better let me tell it how I want." "Mom," Olivia chimed. "Please stop interrupting. Are you presenting this in front of the class?" "No, Mom, we're just handing it in to the teacher. I'm sure he's heard the word shit before," Great Uncle Steven contributed helpfully. I wasn't a he as a matter of fact, but other than that the statement was accurate. The camera was lifted and after a couple of blurry focus adjustments, the shot was the same as before. "Ah, I'm talking too much anyway," he grumbled. He lifted the piece of paper in his hand close to his face. "In the basement, I found this letter." I didn't know what it said, but I had a buddy of mine translate it. So I'm gonna read it now. And then I'll tell you what I saw in that basement. A chill ran down my spine. Mom zoomed into Great Uncle Stephen and his letter. His palsied hands trembled as he held up the paper. This is what he read: Dear Sir, I never loved my country. So many of these skirmishes are born from patriotism, a power struggle for the shards of a once great empire, but I do not care what name my home has on a map. This fighting is senseless and I stay as far away from it as I can. It was not these attacks and disorganized violence that took the lives of my wife and child. It was illness. Mercifully, it happened quickly for the baby. Nadia suffered for longer. I watched in horror knowing I could do nothing for them. My only solace is that I was there for them every step of the way. I stopped going to work one day, and no one came after me. I doubt they noticed I was gone. Since the school was simply across a field, visible from my window, it would have been easy to go for a few hours each day and come home quickly to care for them. But what was the point? All I did was clean floors. I was as useless to the world as I was to my family. I tried to take Nadia to the hospital, but the journey was too long and taxing. I brought her home and she died that night. After Nadia and the baby were gone— well, I don't remember much. I didn't leave my hovel, barely ate and slept, thought many times of taking my own life. Tempting though it was, I felt paralyzed by my own helplessness. The one thing that kept me sane was my radio. I never turned it off once. Even though I didn't listen to the words being said, in fact, the channel I got the clearest was in English which I don't speak a lick of. But the voices, the music, and the true knowledge that life existed beyond this violent city sustained me. I have no idea how long passed before I saw the light of day again. I was dizzy from hunger, so finding food was my priority. My radio came with me, of course. Since I first hold myself up, it has gone everywhere with me. It talks to me as I sleep and as I wake. I don't know what it's saying, but I know I would die without it. Once I had some water and food, it occurred to me that the only thing left to do was go back to work. So I did. The following morning, I simply returned to the school where I was a janitor and got back to work. Nobody made a big deal out of it. Like I said, Nadia had been sick for a long time, and those who worked at the school knew it. I appreciate that no one had pestered me to come back to work during the hardest days of my life. The teachers never said much to me, but we smiled at each other in the halls and that mutual respect was perhaps the reason I decided to come back at all. The place had gone to the dogs without me, so I simply grabbed my broom and rags from my closet and set to cleaning. Everyone is grateful to have me back, I know. And the best part is that nobody minds my radio. I bring it with me everywhere and keep the volume low enough not to disrupt the students. No one has ever complained. In fact, I suspect they like it. The schoolhouse is not very big, but does require a lot of maintenance. The floors are always sticky and stained, so I spend most of my time mopping. Kids make messes, I guess that's why I'm still in business. Sometimes I have to move things around to make sure I get every spot on the floor beautiful and clean, but I take pride in that. And the repairs. The school always needs tune-ups here and there, and I am happy to help. Some days I'm reconstructing a desk that broke as I whistle along with the radio, other times I handle more serious, structural issues. Days when I have work like this, I feel truly instrumental, like a cog in a larger machine. How could this school survive without me? It took me a long time, but I once again feel that I have purpose. There is a larder behind the school that is full of preserved food. In lieu of payment, I am allowed to take as much food as I need. That arrangement is fine, what would I do with money anyway? I used to bring the food back to my home, just one field away from the school, but when I started sleeping in the basement no one seemed to notice. This school is special to me and I cannot leave it unguarded. When I am besieged with memories of my wife and baby, I turn up the volume on the radio to drown out such thoughts. It works for me every time. Except this morning. Because this morning, I woke up to dead silence. I frantically examined the radio to see what had happened. I honestly cannot tell you how many days in a row I have been using it. Did it simply live out its life and die naturally? I have spent the entire day trying to fix it. Most of this time, I have been crying. I am losing my mind without it. I have given myself until sundown. If I cannot fix it by then, I am going to take my life. I am writing this because the sunlight is starting to die and I know what my fate shall be. I have thought about taking one last walk through the halls of my school, saying goodbye to the students and teachers. I know I will be missed. But I cannot bring myself to leave this room. I cannot go anywhere knowing that my radio is dead in here. There are no more tears in me. It feels now like I can't catch my breath. I vomited what little food I had in my stomach and I am growing dizzy again, like I did after Nadia died. I am not long for this world. But before I take my life, I have closed the door to this room and stuck a chair beneath the handle. It is the only room in the basement and has a small casement that lets in just enough light for me to see what I am doing. If anyone is kind enough to come looking for me, they should not be met with this gruesome sight. Perhaps they will see the door is blocked, smell my rotting body, and simply forget I ever existed. But I have placed both my radio and this note outside the door. Kind sir, Dear Father, if you are reading this, I have one humble request: please fix it. Save my radio. It did not deserve to die in its sleep and I am ashamed that I cannot revive it. Now I am ready to join Nadia and little Ludmila in heaven. I hope this school can find another janitor who loves and cares for it the way I do. The hour is now. Do not forget my radio. Stanislav. When Mom zoomed back out, Olivia had tears in her eyes. "Thank you for sharing, Uncle Stephen," Mom said, her voice choked. "I think we have enough." "Wait," Olivia chirped. "He said there's more. What did you find?" Before Great Uncle Stephen could open his mouth, the image disappeared. I stared. My jaw dropped. Was that it? What did Great Uncle Steven see? I promptly remembered that there was a second disk. This one was unmarked, but I hoped it contained the rest of the interview. There was no video, only audio. The voice that started up was Olivia's. "Hi, Miss Jeredy. I'm sorry about my mom, but she refused to record the rest of what my uncle was saying. But I asked him to continue and secretly recorded the story as a voice memo on my phone. I remember you said earlier this year that history is written by the people who win wars." She sucked in a breath and commenced crying. "But everyone's history is important, even if they are sad, pathetic people and even if they never won a single thing in their life. I haven't slept through the night since I finished this project, but you have to hear what my "Uncle has to say." There were tears in my eyes, too. The sincerity of her words was beautiful. I was also flattered that she had remembered some trite phrase I threw around because it was what my history teachers said to me. Before I got too sappy over it, the audio began again. "Fine," came Mom's frustrated voice. "If you want to hear the rest of the story, fine, but this is not appropriate for a school project." "Let me finish," Great Uncle Steven snapped. "If it's too much for you, help yourself to a snack in the kitchen. But Olivia wants to know what happened." I heard her mother mumble something and walk away. Olivia and her uncle were alone. I imagined her looking at him expectantly. "So did you find the radio? Or did it get ruined when the school got blown up?" he rasped and I heard the distinct click lighter. "That letter," he began slowly, "had a date on it." "What date?" she inquired hungrily. "It was dated 2 weeks before we started rebuilding the school." "Didn't you say the school had been destroyed like 2 years ago?" "Yes," replied Great-Uncle Stephen. "It had been." There was silence as I felt goosebumps on my arms. The images that came to my mind were almost too overwhelming to express, but Great-Uncle Stephen put them into words effortlessly. Clearly he had spent his whole life thinking about it. This man, this Stanislav, went to a vandalized, falling-apart schoolhouse and cleaned up blood and rubble like it was spilled drinks and dust. He smiled at dead bodies in the hallway and believed they were smiling back at him because they liked his radio. He moved around corpses so he could sweep the ground under them. The roof was half collapsed, so when it rained, he must have gotten soaking wet but was so oblivious that he didn't even feel a thing. I could hear Olivia crying steadily. I found the larder he was talking about. It was all pickled, preserved food that probably tasted like shit. Most of the stuff was moldy. "Bit, did you see the dead body?" "Yes, hanging from the ceiling, but still amazingly lifelike. He wasn't rotting away. This hadn't happened years ago." "Did he look peaceful?" she asked, a chord of desperation in her voice. "Couldn't tell you. The smell was rank, and his face was blue and his eyes were bulging. Like this," I imagined him demonstrating. "And the radio..." Olivia wept. I heard Great Uncle Steven take a long drag of his cigarette. "It was there, alright." and it was still on. My son's camera monitor alerted in the middle of the night. I checked it and saw my wife and son sitting on the bed. They weren't my wife and son. I'm a nurse and I currently work nights. It's a total drag but I'm hopeful I can go to days soon since some coworkers are planning retirements. Anyway, I was working one night when just after 3 AM my son's monitor alerted me to sound and movement. No big deal at all, he probably coughed loudly or sneezed or something. He's 3 now so he generally sleeps all night. I bring it up on my phone and I see him and my wife sitting on the bed. Again, no big deal. He might have cried out or gotten scared or something. I was about to close the app when I noticed they were acting strange, almost creepy. And when I say almost creepy, I mean creepy as balls. They were sitting on the bed together, both of them just staring up at the camera with blank, emotionless stares. The night vision is black and white, so they had white, eerie-looking eyes. They didn't move at all aside from their visible breathing, they just sat there staring at the camera. I close the app and give my wife a call to make sure everything is okay. I never get to call home on lunch so in a way this is kind of nice to get to talk to my family while at to work. It rings a couple times before she answers with a very groggy hello. It was like she was dead asleep when I called and she looked wide awake when on the camera. Hey, you guys okay? Huh? Yeah. Buddy came in like 15 minutes ago. Seemed scared so I said he could sleep with mama. I'm confused here since I saw them in his room a minute ago. Literally 60 seconds had passed since I closed the app and made the call. Wait, so you guys are in bed? Yeah, I fell back asleep right away. Everything okay? Everybody keeps waking me up. She's kind of annoyed. Hang on a sec. I put her on speaker and bring up the app, hoping I don't see it. When the app loads I get that pang of intense nervousness in my stomach that I haven't had in a long time, since I was a kid in school and realized while I was eating breakfast a paper or something was due that day and I hadn't done it. My heart leaps into my throat. My wife and son are sitting on his bed looking up at the camera, same emotionless stares. "Hello? You guys are in bed right?" "Yeah, we're trying to sleep." "Well I'm looking at his camera and I see you two sitting on his bed." "Huh, no, we're in our bed." "I know that's what you mean, but I'm looking at his bed and you two are in I'm there. "Hang on," she says. She's quiet for a sec while she brings up the camera on her phone. I hear this guttural, terrified gasp. Like she had sucked all the air in the room into her lungs filling them to capacity. I don't hear this kind of gasp from my wife often, usually only when she's truly afraid like during a jump scare in a movie or one time when we turned her back on our son for literally a second and he was down by the mailbox inches from the road. I hear rustling of sheets and the line goes dead. Of course now I'm absolutely terrified myself so I immediately call back. It goes to voicemail so I call again. I call again and again with no answer. Finally after about 4 minutes she calls me. I tell you that 4 minutes felt like 40 years. "Hey, what's happening?" I ask. She's absolutely hysterical and crying, I can't understand a word she says. "Stop, slow down for just a second," I say. She slows down enough to explain they are in the car and driving to her parents. She looked at the camera and when she saw what was on it she got up and grabbed our son and rushed downstairs and out the door. Didn't even close the garage. "Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll drive by when I get off and close close it. We live in a generally safe neighborhood so I'm not too concerned the door is up. "You will not go in there," she says. "Hell no," I return. "Why are we on the camera?" she asked. "Is it a recording?" "I don't know," I return. "I'm gonna keep watching it and see if there's anything I can tell." Do our code words with Buddy. We have code words because we're nerds. We've seen too many pod people in imposter movies, so we decided a long time ago to make code words with each other to be able to tell if one of us was an imposter. We have a couple code words, but we also have a 3-sentence story we recite together, each saying a different part alternately of each other. I hear her on the phone saying the things we taught our son, he giggles as he says them since he thinks they're a joke and doesn't have any idea of the real meaning. We're both convinced he's our son. My wife then says our part and I'm convinced she's her. We made up these words as a complete joke to ourselves. I never once in my life ever imagined we'd actually need them. Unreal. She got to her parents safely and it was hard to hang up. I told her we'll figure it out in the morning, hopefully just a glitch. She said she didn't think it was a glitch. When she was running out she had to run by our son's room and the door was is open. There's a little flashing light on the back of the camera that indicates it's connected to the internet. It gives off just enough light that when she ran by she thought she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a shadowy outline of what could have been an adult sitting on our son's bed. It sends chills down my spine to think about. Knowing they were safe and out of the house is the only thing that kept me at work that night. It was a long 4 hours but I kept checking the camera every chance I got. Sure enough, they were still sitting on the bed staring up at the camera with emotionless gazes. I studied them to see if I could see any pattern pattern, from their breathing to their blinking. Their breathing was steady and looked normal, it was their blinking that would tell me if this was just some kind of bizarre time loop freak accident video or not. I intently stare at my phone and count the seconds between each blink, telling myself if this is a loop then their blinks should be even and occur at the same time each time. There was no pattern to their blinking, it was erratic and random, just as a person blinking should be. The passing hours are what finally sealed the deal that this was not a weird loop video of some kind. My son's window is visible on camera and I can see on camera that it is getting lighter outside his room. His curtains keep out just enough light to prevent the camera from exiting night vision, but lets in just enough to be able to tell the sun is rising. I try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do before I leave work. Calling the police comes to mind, but I talk myself out of it. First of all, what am I supposed to say? Someone is in my house that looks like my wife but isn't. Worse yet, what if they are entities of some kind and the police do go over and it kills them or something? I decide to tell Coworker about it. He's a firm believer in the paranormal and might have a suggestion. I show him the video and tell him the story. His initial response of "that's creepy as fuck" doesn't help much, but he says he wants to go over and check it out. He says we both should to see if not my wife will try and act like my wife. I tell him absolutely not and he says we should at least go to the house even if we don't go in. I agree on that since I wanted to close the garage. We got to my house and walked around the perimeter first. Not sure what we wanted to accomplish by that, but it felt like something we should do. The curtains were all drawn since nobody was there to open them in the morning, so we couldn't see anything. I went to close the garage and suddenly had this overwhelming urge to go inside and investigate, it was like I just had to know what was going on. So in we went. We walk through the kitchen towards the foyer where the stairs are. It's so quiet in our house right now you could hear a feather drop, forget the pin. We stop at the bottom of the stairs and wait a few seconds. I look at the camera again and they are still sitting there. I've never been so scared in my life. My coworker puts his foot on the first step and I suddenly say "stop" loudly. "Forget this, we're outta here," I tell him. "Come on," I start making my way back to the kitchen. We hear a loud creak in the floor from upstairs. It's my son's room. He has a very loud, creaky board right in the middle of his floor that's almost impossible not to step on. My wife and I are still deciding if we ever want to fix it because it will alert us if he's ever up to no good when he gets older trying to sneak out or something. "Come on, come on, come on!" I yell as I motion for him to move his ass. We're out of the house in about 2 seconds. Out on the street I check my phone. Now only not my son was sitting on the bed, same blank stare. Not my wife was gone. "Holy shit!" My coworker says. "That was stupid as fuck of us. Do not tell my wife we went inside. She would be so ungodly mad if she found out what we just did." I use my garage door opener in my car to close the The door. Before we leave, I look at the camera again. Not my wife is back on the bed with not my son, both staring blankly up at the camera, blinking every few seconds. That was all about 4 days ago now. Not my wife and not my son are still sitting on the bed staring up at the camera. They haven't moved a millimeter. We obviously haven't gone back to our house. What do we do? I've been flying for almost 30 hours and the flight attendants won't stop crying. 30 hours ago, I hopped on a late-night flight from New York heading to Los Angeles. After boarding, I saw that I had an entire row to myself. Takeoff passed without incident, and soon I was stretched out for a nap across the row. I slept for a few hours, I don't know how long, but I woke up to some severe turbulence. It's possible that the lights in the cabin went out for a moment, but I was so disoriented that it's hard to say. I checked my phone to see that it was 4:03 AM, which I figured gave me about an hour until we landed. When I looked out my window, I was shocked to see nothing but wide-open ocean. My jaw dropped, there's obviously no ocean between New York and Los Angeles. I hit the button to call the flight attendant and spent the next few minutes racking my brain for a lake that could have been possibly been big enough to explain what I was seeing. I jumped when the attendant flipped off the light. She was grinning from ear to ear, and tears were pouring down her cheeks. "How can I help you, sir?" she asked. I froze for a moment at her reaction before deciding to just ask my question. "Where are we? Why does it look like we're flying over an ocean?" She wiped her cheeks to clear the tears, still grinning wildly. "Sir, we'll be landing in about an hour." "I, uh, okay, thank you," I said. After she left, I checked the clock on my phone again. 4:03 AM blinked back at me. It hadn't changed. I had to have been waiting with my call light on for at least 5 minutes. How was it possible that it hadn't changed at all? I opened up my laptop and saw it too displayed 4:03 I pulled out my phone, started a stopwatch in the app, and spent the next 2 hours looking back and forth between the clocks, waiting for them to change. They never did. I tapped the shoulder of an older woman sitting in the row ahead of me. She looked back, an annoyed expression across her face. "Yes?" she asked. "Do you know how long until we land?" I asked. She narrowed her eyes. "That flight attendant said it would be about another hour." I shook my head in confusion. "That flight attendant? We talked almost 2 hours ago. We should have landed already." She stared at me as if I was crazy. I was going to continue trying to convince her, but I felt a hand on my shoulder. My shoulder. I spun to see a male flight attendant grinning down at me, tears pinging off his cheeks onto my shoulder. Sir, I'm going to ask you to calm down, or I'll be calling the captain. I told him that wouldn't be necessary and sat back. He removed his hand and stepped away. The flight attendants continue to stop by every few hours offering meals. My stopwatch continued to tick up and is now telling me that I've been on this plane for more than 30 hours. I've explored all of coach and tried talking to some of the other passengers, but they've all told me that they are expecting to land in an hour or so. Around 3 hours ago I tried getting into first class. I made it past the curtain but was escorted back by 2 grinning flight Their grip on my arms were like iron. "Sir, the seatbelt sign is on," one said. "Please remain in your seat with your buckle fastened. We'll be landing in about an hour." I'd just about given up hope when a woman came down the aisle dressed in a business suit. She didn't look at me or slow down, but she dropped a piece of paper onto my tray as she made her way to the bathrooms at the back of the plane. I shot a look around before unrolling it. It said, "Are you stuck too?" I pulled out a pen and wrote "Yes. It's been 30 hours." I folded the scrap of paper up and set it on the tray closest to the aisle. She left the bathroom and picked it up as she passed. It's been 20 minutes since then. I don't know why, but I don't think the flight The attendants would like it if they knew we were talking. It doesn't matter. I have to do something. Update: A few hours after the businesswoman picked up her piece of paper with my message, she came back down the aisle and sat in the seat beside me. She bent over, trying to stay low. "So, you're stuck too?" she asked. I kept my voice low. "Yeah. My name's Jack, by the way. I'd say nice to meet you but—" She nodded. "I'm Mary. You're wrong, getting your message was by far the best thing about the past day. I've spent the last day and a half thinking I was alone in this." She paused for a moment, looking up the aisle. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. "So, Jack, you have any theories on what the hell's going on?" I considered lying but decided the truth was for the best. "I think we might be I said. Mary shook her head. "Maybe if it were just me or just you. If this was some cosmic train to hell why would there be two of us who realize what's going on?" "No idea." Mary pulled out her phone and handed it to me. It displayed the Wikipedia article for Flight MH370, the airline that disappeared in 2014. I read through the article carefully, there were dozens of theories trying to explain what happened. They ranged from hypoxia to suicide to aliens. "Doesn't tell us much," I said. "Not much other than that this may have happened before," she said. "How about you? Any theories as to why anyone else can't see what's going on?" We talked it over and realized one thing we had in common was that we were both fast asleep at 4:03 3 AM. There's no way we were the only ones asleep at that time though. Maybe everyone else was just napping. I don't know about you, but I was well and truly asleep. The cabin lights flicked off and a dozen red emergency lights in the floor flicked on, casting the cabin in a red glow. The intercom crackled to life saying, "Passengers, please return to your seats. The seatbelt sign is fastened, and we may experience some turbulence. We'll be landing in about an hour." Mary froze. "Should I go back?" she asked. "Maybe they won't notice if you're gone. But maybe they already know and they're just trying to separate us." Mary nodded. "We should stay "Let's stick together. That's a better idea." The intercom crackled again. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the arrival of the Captain. We'll all be given the opportunity to speak with him. Please remain in your seats until he calls you. If you need assistance, don't worry. A flight attendant will happily help you on your way." Sounds of passengers getting to their feet echoed from further up in the plane. We sat in silence, trying to get a look through the curtain separating us from first class. "The Captain?" I asked. "No idea. But it didn't sound like they were talking about a pilot to me. Did they?" "Nope." That's when a pungent sulfur smell hit us, so strong that I had to resist the urge to egg. It reminded me of the worst rotting eggs I'd ever smelt in my life. But the old woman sitting ahead of us didn't react. She just kept watching a movie on the back of her seat. "Don't cough," I said to Mary. We fought it for a few long seconds before giving in, coughing hard and violently. A second later the curtain opened. Mary and I froze, staring down the now red fuselage. 4 flight attendants passed through the curtain and made their way down the rows towards us, grins stretched wide across their faces. They were still crying, but this time the tears streaking their faces were darker. It's hard to say with the lighting, but it looked like blood. My eyes weren't drawn to them though. I looked over their shoulders at the figure standing near the front of the plane. It was a black silhouette standing beside the cockpit door. It at least 8 feet tall and pointing towards us with a single finger. It had called us. "The bathrooms!" I shouted. We ran towards the back of the plane, the flight attendants closing in behind us. Blood dripped from their grinning cheeks onto the carpet of the plane. "The captain is here," he said in a perfect customer service voice. His grin widened as he moved towards us. We made it to the bathrooms, jumping into opposite sides. I slammed the door shut and locked it, pressing my feet against the folding center part of the door to keep it closed. They began banging on the door and pulling at the handle while I fought to keep it closed. "I'm sorry, but you'll both need to speak with the captain," one of the flight attendants said. "Jack!" Mary screamed. "Jack! Help!" A distinct snapping sound like breaking metal came from her bathroom. She continued to scream as the sounds of struggle migrated up towards the front of the plane, towards the black figure I'd seen. I'd like to say I jumped out and fought them, that I distracted them or did something heroic. I didn't. She was carried away, and a few short seconds later her screaming was cut off. That was a few hours ago, and I'm still locked inside this bathroom. I keep trying not to think of what they've done with her. The thing at the front of the plane didn't seem human. I hope it didn't kill her, not after she was shouting for my help like that. I— couldn't take that. I haven't heard any movement outside in a few hours, but I'm terrified to open the door. I'm far from the seat outlets so my phone's almost dead and I haven't eaten in way too long. If I go out there, will the flight attendants remember? What If that thing is still waiting for people— I don't have much time to make a decision, but I'll update you all here with what happens next. Update 2: After another dozen hours or so, I opened the bathroom door. The lights in the cabin were back to normal and I couldn't smell any sulfur. I cautiously made my way back to my seat and almost cried when the grinning crying flight attendant came by offering a meal. That crappy airline food was the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten. When I'd finished, my mind immediately turned to Mary. What had happened to her? I crept down the aisle towards first class, trying to keep a low profile. Surprisingly, the flight attendants were nowhere to be seen. They'd almost seemed to ignore me, almost as if they wanted me to find her. She had a row to herself and was staring down at her phone in the window seat. I slid into the aisle and shook her arm. "Mary," I hissed. She pulled out her headphones and stared at me with a surprised expression. "Yeah? What's going on? Are you okay?" I asked. "What did that thing do to you? What did they do to you? I'm sorry, remind me how I know you." "What do you mean?" "We just—" I realized with sinking horror that she had no idea who I was. I fought back tears. "Mary, how long have you been on this flight?" She checked the watch on her wrist. "Well, it's 4:03 AM, so a few hours at least." She stared at me the same way you'd look at a person claiming they were the second coming of Christ. Her tone was low and reassuring. "Hey, don't worry so much. Look on the bright side, we'll be landing in about an hour." an hour. I felt an iron grip on my arm and looked up to see two flight attendants. Sir, this area is for first-class passengers only. They were still crying and grinning, but just with tears this time. I could still see streaks of blood staining the front of their uniforms though. I was escorted back to my seat where I spent the next several days. Attendants continued to stop by with food, I would use the bathroom, and soon was going absolutely crazy with the monotony. In retrospect, those few days weren't so bad. There's a lot of content on the internet after all, even with crappy plane WiFi. No, it didn't get really bad until around 10 days later when the WiFi It was sometime a week later that I lost control and began screaming for a flight attendant. They didn't come for several minutes, but eventually one did. "Just... just let me see the captain," I asked. The flight attendant bent low and spoke with that same customer service voice, "I'm sorry sir, the captain has made his decision regarding you quite clear. You didn't answer his call, and will, therefore, wait." "How long?" "Quite a while I'm afraid. Don't worry though sir, we'll be landing in about an hour." She straightened and walked away. I started making notches on various parts of the seatback to keep track of different things. One notch for each time I used the bathroom, one for each meal, one for every time I watched a given movie, that sort of thing. Thing. It was hell. I watched every movie in the seatback a dozen times over. If I ever acted out badly enough, I would be escorted back to my seat by one or more flight attendants. Any attempt at conversation with other passengers was met with confusion by them followed by a quick escort back to my seat. I guess it was on or around day 30 that, in a moment of panic and psychosis, I broke my laptop and phone, screaming at the top of my lungs. No one around me reacted in any way. Two months later, I stunk. The muscles in my legs were tight and cramped constantly. I finally concluded that suicide was my only option after my 128 rewatch of Thor Ragnarok. I got to my feet and limped towards the emergency exit. I knew normally the pressure inside the airplane forced the doors closed, but I figured that nothing about my situation was normal. If this didn't work, I'd find some other more painful way to go. I grabbed at the handle and swung it up. To my shock, the door opened easily, though no wind of any kind whipped around the cabin. It remained the standard slightly too cold temperature that it had been for the past who knew how long. The open door called to me, a black portal out of the plane. I stared at it for a long moment, almost too long. An attendant's hand grabbed my his shoulder, pulling me away. In a fit of anger and strength that surprised me, I wrenched away and jumped out of the plane. The wind whipping past my face was almost magical, a new sensation after so many months of the same. The ocean below me grew closer and larger, and I realized that suddenly, I didn't want to die after all. It grew larger and larger and larger until it seemed that all I could see was darkness and waves. I impacted the surface of the water so fast and hard that my entire body jerked around in the seat. I pulled my hand back, sucking at my bruised knuckle. I'd hit it on the seat in front of me. "No," I whispered, then shouted. "No, no, no!" A flight attendant ran down the aisle, kneeling beside me. "Are you okay, sir?" I clenched my hands into fists, almost swinging at her. But then I realized. She wasn't grinning. She wasn't crying. To be honest, she looked a little scared of me. I reached my right hand down to my pocket where I could feel my now unbroken phone. 4:04 AM. "Sir, if you can calm down, we'll be landing in about an hour." My mouth tasted like ash. "Thank you, I managed. I will." I stared unblinking at my phone. It now displayed 4:05 AM. Then I looked out my window and began to cry at the sight of city lights below me. We did land in about an hour. I can't even begin to explain why or how, but I'm currently sitting in an airport café typing this out. I'm free. I'm out. And I'm never going flying again. My friend's list of sleepover rules are beyond bizarre. I've never been good at making friends, or any type and bond with people in general. I'm not even close to most of my family members like I'm close to Jessie. Jessie is my best friend, I've known her only for a year and a half but she's literally my world. She's the only person I can speak to, the only person who understands me. I've never slept over at anyone's house that isn't mine, and even when I'm supposed to be staying at a family member's house I get anxious and they have to call my parents to collect me. This results in my parents having to cancel everything that they plan. My parents resent me, I'm a huge burden to them because of just how anxious I am. Jessie asked if I wanted to have a sleepover at her house. I'd never been to her house, or anyone for that matter, and I'll admit I was ecstatic, but also hesitant, in case I got anxious and ruined the sleepover and my friendship, I knew I was probably overthinking but it still scared me. Jessie gave me some time to think, and I agreed. I told my parents and they were pretty shocked, but decided to let me go because I had an actual shot at making a best friend for her life. The car pulled up onto a large driveway, connected to an even larger house. It was huge, like mansion-sized, probably the biggest house I'd ever laid eyes on. Me and my parents made our way over to the front door, which was about twice my dad's size, and he was 67. There was no doorbell, instead there was an abnormally large silver knocker in the middle of the door. I knocked. Jessie answered the door. When she saw me her face seemed to light up and her smile grew larger. She instantly leaned in for a hug. Jess's mother and father also approached the door, and stood behind Jessie, also with a comforting smile on their their face. Jess's father was also tall like my own dad, he was your typical dad-looking person. It was the same with her mother too, it was almost surreal. Jessy toured me around her huge house, which took about an hour in itself. Then we ventured off into Jess's bedroom, which was huge, and pink. Very pink. Like every object was pink. After staying in Jess's room playing games and eating candy for a while, her mother walked into the room, and placed a sheet of A4 paper on Jess's bed. The way she walked was so elegant and graceful, like a ballerina. I took off my headphones and grabbed the sheet of of paper that read, "Sleepover rules. Follow these rules to ensure you have a safe and happy sleepover. 1. Don't eat too much candy. They can smell it from miles away. 2. Do not leave the bedroom after 1:45 AM. Please remember this rule, your life depends on it. 3. If you happen to wake up during the night for no apparent reason, hide under the bed within 25 seconds. That way they cannot see you. 4. Do not get snacks from the mini fridge during 8:56 PM and 9:47 PM. You will not like what you find. 5. Make sure to turn off any light source apart from the TV. You must keep this on all through the night. I can't emphasize how important this is. 6. If you wake up randomly and see Jessie sitting upright, awake in her bed, run. Lock yourself in the en suite and do not come out for the rest of the night. If Jessie knocks and says she hurt herself and needs help, ignore her, and do not reply. 7. If you wake up and hear the baby crying, ignore it completely, don't even move, it isn't the baby. 8. Do not attempt to speak to Jessie during the night, and if she speaks to you do not reply. This is crucial if you want to stay Stay safe. 9. If you hear a dog whimpering and scratching on the bedroom door, drag Jessie under the bed and then hide behind the bookshelf. We do not own a dog. 10. If you hear a ringing in your ear, run, leave the house, this is the only exception, if you don't, we all die. Have a lovely sleepover, Tina. It had to be some kind of joke, these couldn't have been real, but I still have a gut feeling that I should follow these creepy ass rules. I folded the piece of paper and placed it in my right pocket. Then sat down again to play with Jessie. After about an hour, Jessie's dad opened the door. It's bedtime girls, you must go to "Sleep, now." I suddenly got very anxious, because this is when I had to start following the creepy rules. I held back all of my emotion because I didn't want to lose a friend like Jessie. Me and Jessie both got into bed. We top and tailed so my head was at the bottom end of her bed. "Night, Tina. Sweet dreams," she said, in between yawns. I don't know how my dreams were going to be sweet after what I'd read. Surprisingly, I fell asleep pretty quick. My sleep was pretty deep, and I didn't have any nightmares like most nights. And that's when I woke up. My stomach sank. I turned to see Jessie sitting, upright, in Wide awake. I didn't want to believe that these rules were true but my instinct was to just run. I bolted into the en suite and locked the door behind me. After a solid few minutes of hyperventilating in Jessie's en suite, I decided to unlock the door, I thought it was all probably stupid anyway. Just before my hand reached the lock, someone knocked on the door. I froze. "Tina help me! I've hurt my head and my vision's going blurry!" I desperately wanted to open the door, but something in my head advised me against it. Jessie kept screaming for help. I slumped into the corner, shaking with every breath I took. I took. She was screaming for hours. It was unbearable, her voice got less human-like and more distorted with every screech. By the time she stopped, I was already half asleep, to put into perspective just how long her screaming went on for. I woke up, the light from the sun outside made my eyes sting. My ears were still throbbing. I slowly got up from the corner of the bathroom, and unlocked the door. Jessie was playing on her PS5, everything was totally normal. "Hey Tina," she said, in her usual jaunty tone. "I think your mom and dad are already outside waiting for you in their car. I couldn't take speaking, everywhere in my body ached. I picked up my stuff and started walking downstairs. Jess's parents waited at the bottom of the stairs to greet me. "Your parents are outside waiting for you, Tina," said her mother with a smile. How did they get here so quickly? It was only quarter to 9. I could see the open door and my parents' car outside. I was so relieved, I was gonna leave this place finally. Jess's dad showed me out, and I hopped into my parents' car. I can't begin to explain how relieved I was to see my parents' smiling faces again. Jesse and her family Jessa waved at me as I drove away. "How was the sleepover, sweetie?" asked my dad. My phone buzzed. It was a message, from my mom. It said, "Hey Tina, I was just messaging to ask what time you wanted me and your dad to pick you up from Jessa's house." I looked back up at my mom, who was driving, and then to my dad, who was smiling eerily at me. Shit, I forgot to leave on the TV. I felt sick to my stomach. "Forgot something?" asked my dad. "Somebody has been leaving notes around my house. They're starting to freak me out. They started innocently enough. 'Don't forget your keys' read the first message, scrawled on a sticky note in loopy letters. It had been left on my fridge on my door. It immediately grabbed my attention because at the time I lived alone, I had no memory of writing it, and the handwriting didn't match mine or anyone I knew. I was slightly perturbed, but wasn't sure how to react. In the end I just tossed the note and went to work. The second note came a few days later, left on my kitchen counter. The sticky note was pink this time but still had the same distinctive loopy handwriting. "Make sure to pack a lunch today." Again, I was unsettled. Now, any normal person might have reported this to the police, but during that time I was going through a major depressive spell. I had moved to a new city away from my friends and family, and had started a new job that I quickly realized I hated and didn't We pay enough. Home was lonely and work was soul-crushing. I had trouble enough getting out of bed each morning, let alone filing a report that I am sure the police would not take seriously. Even more stressed, I crumpled up the note. However, I ended up packing a small lunch for myself. Usually I didn't bother to put in the effort and just ate cafeteria food, but against my better judgment I fulfilled the wishes of the note. That day the cafeteria was closed. The main cafeteria fridge had broken overnight and many of the frozen lunches inside had gone bad. Management thought it would be better to shut it down the day. A feeling of unease settled in my stomach after learning the news. It was as if the note had predicted it. The notes continued throughout the following weeks. They would typically show up on random days, no more than 3 notes to a day. They were all left in obvious places in my apartment, all on sticky notes, and in that unfamiliar loopy handwriting. They began to grow more prophetic. Take Ayade today. There will be a bad accident on your way home. Janet is going to offer you some cookies at the office. Politely decline. They will give you food poisoning. Marie has been on a diet. Compliment her on her weight loss. She'll end up thinking, well, all of you. Of course, I tested the notes to see if they were accurate. Every time I ignored their advice, whatever it warned against came true. One day a note said to pack an umbrella, and I purposely didn't. It was forecasted to be sunny that day so any normal person wouldn't think to pack one, but sure enough I got soaked that evening walking to my car. I was incredibly curious about the notes. There were so many questions I had about them, and those unanswered questions kept festering in my head. I tried writing notes back in return and leaving them out, but never got a response. I'd speak out loud and ask questions as if the note writer could somehow hear me, but this only made me feel foolish. I'd occasionally make a surprise visit home at odd hours, just to see if I could catch the note writer leaving their notes. Of course, I never caught them. I tried installing cameras in my apartment, even making sure all of the cameras were completely hidden. But the next day I found every single one of the cameras' insides completely torn out and placed on the kitchen table with a single note next to them reading: "Never do that again." The notes stopped coming after that, which made me deeply regretful. I had grown accustomed to the notes. I had begun to rely on them even. They had significantly improved my way of life over the last few months both mentally, financially, and socially. Socially. I had actually started making friends at the office thanks to their advice, and for the first time in my life I was even a bit popular. My managers, who before the notes didn't pay much interest in me, now valued my presence and would ask for my opinion on projects. It was no secret I was on my way to a promotion. Could I still do that without the notes? I also valued the notes as a friend, as weird as that sounds. Or more like a guardian angel. Wherever they were from, they were always protecting me. Without them, the future was suddenly unknown, dangerous. Every time some mild annoyance popped up from that point, from bad traffic to stressful work situations and even a minor paper cut, I thought about how this all probably would have been avoided if I still had the notes. The next week, a bright green sticky note appeared on my bathroom mirror. "Don't forget to call mom today. It is her birthday." I nearly cried. I decided to sack my investigation and just accept things as they were. Slowly, the fog of my depressive spell began to lift and I could feel myself returning to how I used to be. My confidence rose and for the first time in a while I felt in equilibrium with my life. I went out, cracked jokes, and even managed to clean up my apartment. I also managed to get a girlfriend somehow. Her name was Amanda. I met her at a pub when I was out with my buddies. The best part of all this is that for some reason, she seemed to actually be into me. She was She was gorgeous, with long auburn hair that reached down to her back with soft brown eyes. Her laugh was lovely and the lemon-scented perfume she liked to wear was intoxicating. She was the type of girl you could chat with for hours and never run out of things to talk about. The relationship was still new so I was trying not to plan our whole future together in my head, but she was so lovable it was hard not to. At some point I briefly thought about telling her about the notes. I've always wanted to tell someone about it but never really had anyone to tell up until now. I decided not to however, afraid she might think I was crazy. There was no point so early in the relationship making her think I was a loon. Plus I was afraid the notes might stop again. If whoever was leaving Seeing them clearly didn't want me looking into them, how would they react if I shared what was happening with somebody? So at the moment I kept it to myself. Amanda had a hobby of cooking and had invited me to her house on set for, in her words, "the best fucking spaghetti you'll ever eat." I was pumped since this was the first time I would actually visit her house. I was in a good mood that evening as I was getting ready for the date. I hummed to myself happily thinking about how lovely this was going to be, and went downstairs to grab my keys. On the kitchen counter was a new hot pink sticky note. I picked it up instinctively. "Kill your girlfriend." My brain stopped for a moment. I read it once, twice, a third time, the words flashing in my brain but hitting an error Every time. I set the note down and gulped, feeling nauseous. Anxiously, I went to my car and started driving. I tried not to think about the note but the words kept circling in my mind. Kill your girlfriend. The notes have never failed me before, and they were always in my best interest as far as I knew. Which was admittedly not much. Maybe they were wrong this time. Maybe it wasn't meant to be taken literally. Kill could be a synonym for break up, right? My mind kept trying to make up poor excuses the whole way there. By the time I arrived I was a sweaty mess and not a lick calmer. I pulled down my sun visor to check my face and a bright green sticky note fluttered fluttered out. I went cold. The notes had never appeared outside my house before. Hands shaking, I picked up the note and read it. Kill Amanda. Take the gun from your glove box and shoot her. I looked at my glove box wide-eyed. I did indeed keep a handgun in my glove box for safety purposes. I wanted to puke, to believe this wasn't happening. Again, I ignored the note and walked up to Amanda's house, trying to shake the message from my mind. She answered the door almost immediately after I rang the doorbell. "Hey, what's up?" she said with a bright smile, though when she saw my face the smile smile dropped. "You okay, Gary? What's wrong?" she said in concern. "Nothing," I lied, trying to force a smile. "Well, actually I think I have a bit of a stomachache." "Come in, come in," she said, ushering me in. The inside of her house was cute and homely, and she fretted over me worriedly as she led me over to her kitchen table. She then took my hand and rubbed it comfortingly. "If you're not feeling up to spaghetti, we can always have it another time. Don't worry about it. Do you want any antacids or something?" I smiled. The way she was so concerned for me over a simple stomachache made me fall in love with her all over again. My heart panged with both love and guilt. The aroma of cooked spaghetti was also extremely strong, and even though she said it was fine, I knew it would probably be a bummer for her to pack away all that spaghetti after just making it. "I'm fine, sweetie. I probably have a stomachache because I haven't eaten much today. I was looking forward so much for your spaghetti." Her smile returned again. I always loved how fast she smiled at things. "Well then, Mr. Hungry, let me grab you a bowl." She left for the kitchen. I reclined back and sighed, sticking my hands in my pockets. I felt a crinkle A piece of paper. "Shit, shit!" I pulled the paper out of my right pocket. "Take your chair and bash her head in." I had a hard time controlling my breathing as I stuffed the note back in my right pocket. I also felt paper in my left pocket, and against my mind screaming for me not to, I pulled it out, realizing that it was actually two notes crinked together. Shakily, I unwrinkled the first note. "Do not eat the spaghetti. Drugged." "What's that, Gary?" asked Amanda behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I stuffed the notes back in my left pocket. "Oh, j-just some note from work I forgot was in my pocket." "Take it is all," I said in a weird voice. She frowned, looked like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. "Here babe," she said gently, handing me a bowl of spaghetti. It looked heavenly. I wanted to puke. She sat next to me with her own bowl. She rested her head in her hands and looked at me excitedly, expectantly. I stared at her blankly. "Well, take a bite silly," she said, gesturing towards my bowl. "Aya-ya, I'm so assorry. I really need to use your bathroom." I jumped up and started looking for her bathroom. She jumped up after me, looking confused. "Gary, what's wrong? You've been acting weird." When I found the right door, I went in and locked the door behind me. She kept knocking and knocking. "Gary, Gary, seriously, what's wrong with you? Is the stomachache that bad? Talk to me, Gary, please." I backed up and against the bathroom wall, then sank down to the floor. I pulled out the two notes from my left pocket again, this time reading the second note. My heart sank. "She is not Amanda. My dad sold my soul to the devil." Yup, just about as crazy as the title sounds. My dad is what they call a macho man. All he wanted was sons. He lived and breathed for another Keller boy. Naturally, when my older brother was born, he was overjoyed. 3 years later, he begged my mom to have another son. When he found out we were twins, he was excited to have 3 sons. So when my brother and I came out, and he saw that I was a girl, he was despaired. I've always been his least favorite kid, and he never tried to hide it. While he named my brothers Anthony and David, which mean priceless and beloved respectfully, he named me Lilith, which literally means night monster. While my brothers and mom tried to soften that direct punch to the gut by calling me Lily, he insisted on us all calling me Lilith, so I could feel the disappointment that he felt the day I was born. Clearly him and my mom did not stay married, and quite unfortunately he signed for full custody when Anthony was 5, and David and I too. Things just got worse from there. If he took Anthony and David out to eat or to see a movie, I was to stay home. He spent all his time playing sports with my brothers, and wouldn't let me join even though I, as a girl, actually showed a genuine interest in what he was doing with my brothers. When I was 4, Dad got cancer. And from what I heard, it was supposed to be terminal. That's where the title of this story comes into play. Yup, he made a deal with Satan. 15 more years of life if he sold one of his children's souls. And big surprise, he chose me. So once I die, it's off to hell, no matter how little I sin or how much I pray. The first time I remember something happening to me was about a month after my dad made that deal. I was in my tiny, cramped room, trying to sleep on a bed I outgrew years ago, while my brothers and dad watched a movie downstairs, when I saw it. This thing in my closet. It was pale, with gaunt, sunken eyes and a gaping mouth. Its long and bony fingers wrapped around my closet door. There was no question that this thing was a demon. I immediately cried for my dad, who stormed up the stairs and gave me a proper beating for interrupting his movie night with his kids. After that, he called me a little girl for crying and locked me in my room. As I cried all that night, the demon simply watched me from the closet, unmoving. Demons watching me were pretty normal from then on. Sometimes it would be the pale gaunt thing in my closet, other times a dark figure hovering over my bed. And on bad nights, a horned figure with glowing red eyes would stare at me, taunting me through through the window. After a while, I stopped being scared of them. One night when I was 9, the gaunt creature was back in my closet, staring at me while I read. He began to make this really weird growling noise, to which I shushed him. He then did something he never did before. While he would occasionally wrap his hand around my slightly ajar door, he never actually came out of my closet. Until that night. In one swift movement, he tore open my closet door and stood up fully, revealing he was taller than the ceiling itself. He bent his neck in an abnormal way to fit under the roof. I rightfully should have been shitting my pants at this moment, but for some reason, I just wasn't that scared. We locked eyes for for a while, which was more awkward than scary, so I just went back to reading my book. He just looked at me curiously for a while, until my dad decided he wanted to be a horrible person again, and threw open my door to yell at me for something or other. The entire time the demon just watched. Thankfully my dad left after slapping me across the face, but I was crying again for the rest of the night. The demon, who now looked at me with something more than curiosity, looked back at my closed door, trying to see my dad. As I did nothing but sob, the demon just sat down beside my bed, towering over me. Neither The two of us looked at each other the rest of the night, I cried while he just stared off in the distance, but I wasn't alone, and that was all I cared about. From then on things changed. I wasn't just not scared of the demons, I welcomed them. Especially the gaunt-looking one who sat by me that night. He would sit with me whenever my dad was bad to me, or whenever I had boy troubles at school. He never talked at me, and barely ever looked at me, but all I cared about was that he was there for me. I even gave him a name: "Papa." I remember this one night, I was 14, and upset because Jacob, the boy I liked, didn't invite me to the Valentine's dance at our school. On top of that, my dad had gotten into one of his moods and had thrown a chair at me. When I ran into my room, I was almost relieved to see Papa crouched by the closet. "Papa," I cried, running to him. It was stupid, I know, I was calling a literal demon Papa, but I had nobody else. He was the only one who had ever shown me any sympathy. At first he stepped back, but as I cried even harder, he looked at me in the eyes, maybe for the first time since that night he stepped out of the closet. Then he did something surprising. He hugged me me back. As I felt his icy cold hands wrap around me, I should have been terrified, but I was filled with love. Love, for finally finding a dad who loved me. But one night, as I was reading To Kill a Mockingbird for my school project, I made a mistake. Papa looked curious, so I decided to read out loud to him. I guess I made too much noise though, because David opened my door. "Lilith, who the hell are you? What the fuck is that?" he screamed, and my dad came rushing up. Papa couldn't hide in time, and now, Anthony, David, and my dad all stared him down. He stood up, revealing his giant stature, and David began to cry, while Anthony froze in place and my dad ran off to get a vial of holy water he had kept by his bed ever since the deal was made. As I tried to run away with Papa, he stopped me and shook his head. We both knew it was too late. I cried as I hugged him goodbye, and as my dad approached us with the holy water and sprayed it on Papa, he let out a blood-curdling screech that could have been heard across the country. I watched in horror as Papa, who had stayed by my side all these years, faded to nothingness. "There," Dad said. "It can't hurt us anymore, sons," he said, embracing David and Anthony me in a hug. I just laid over Papa's lifeless body, uncontrollably sobbing. We were all so caught up in our own worlds we didn't notice something come up behind us. He was large, even bigger than Papa, and had two large horns, a goat's head, and a large stick in his hand. Dad turned around slowly, looking to this thing as he glared down at my abuser. "Your Majesty, I—" "We had a deal, Stanley. I granted you 15 more years of life, on two conditions." "Two!" It boomed, and I noticed David had wet himself. "It was a misunderstanding, sir, my daughter—" "You were granted 15 more years of life, on the conditions that I get your daughter upon her death, and— you never harm anyone, ever again. Do you understand?" it asked. "Yes, and I haven't— promised." The creature laughed. "First you break a promise, and now you lie. To his Satanic Majesty himself. Seeing you have not only harmed your daughter her entire life, but have killed one of my best minions, you have broken my trust. I'm breaking off the deal." My dad got down on his knees. "No, please, I'll do anything!" he begged. Satan looked at me. "There is one way, if Lilith, your daughter and the one you cursed, forgives you, I will set you free and you will live the rest of your life. My dad slowly turned to me and put on a smile. Hey, Lily, what about it? Look at me, I'm your dad. Your papa. I raised you. Don't you love me? I'm your dad, for fuck's sake. He said, getting more agitated as I stared at him. It's up to you, Lilith. Satan said. I looked to papa's body on the floor, then back to my dad. Come on, you gonna believe Satan, or your dear ol' dad? My dad said, pleading to me. I glared at him. My dad is dead, bitch. You killed him. I said. I don't forgive you. And with that, Satan dragged my dad down to the netherworld, my brothers and I hearing his screams until it was far away enough that it faded away, to where he could never hurt me again. As my brothers cried in the loss of their dad, I walked back to Papa, on the ground, and kissed his forehead. Goodbye, Papa. Thank you. We found a terrifying church in the woods, I don't know how to explain it. I grew up in Ohio in the '70s and me and my childhood friend Joe were outside all the time we could manage it. Joe lived on a farm that bordered a pretty big forest and my parents would drop me off in the in the morning and we'd stay in the woods all weekend. We'd only come out for school. We loved pretending we were frontiersmen. We'd build shelters, traps, practice making fire with sticks, the whole nine yards. When we got to be in high school, we got this notion to pull a Stand By Me. This was based on the movie of the same name that had just come out. The idea was that we'd walk the railroad tracks out in the country. But instead of looking for a dead body, we'd find cool bridges to fish from, and camp a little ways off the tracks. Of course we knew this was dangerous and we'd likely be trespassing, but we were kids. We had a lot of fun. We did find Beautiful rivers, we discovered bridges no one went to, we fished, we hid from trains. At night we camped in woods just near the tracks and made small hidden fires. Nothing bad ever happened. It was idyllic. In fact, it was so fun we did it multiple times. Never had a problem. After high school me and Joe went our own ways. We both left home, but always stayed in touch and always tried to coordinate visits so we'd see each other occasionally. Well, one summer in the mid-'90s it worked out that we were both in town for about a week. We do stuff with family in the day, and at night we'd either catch catch drinks at a bar or sit outside Joe's house around a fire and talk about the old days. One night, me and Joe got to talking about our Stand By Me trips. Well, nostalgia and beer are a hell of a mix. Soon we decided to take a day, walk the rails, camp one night and walk home. The day came, we started out early morning. We had my wife drop us off in our old spot where we used to start, right outside our hometown. She thought this was absolutely crazy and made sure to mention it. When she pulled away, Joe suggested that instead of walking the usual route, we'd take the opposite direction, just to be adventurous. We knew the land well, we had a map, so I gave a what the hell and off we set. The day went fine. It was fun, and a little sad, but in a good way. We found a bridge and sat on the edge, smoked a joint and moved on. We had no fishing gear, but we brought some canned food and other stuff. Before night started to set in, we picked a spot to camp. It was a thick forested area, trees on every side of the train tracks so you felt like you were in a tunnel. We had brought small hammocks to sleep on, but before we set them up we decided to do a little scouting of the perimeter. Now, this is what we used to do in the old days too. We'd walk the area around a little bit to make sure some dude's house wasn't just over a hill and we were actually camping in their yard. We walked maybe 100 or so feet into the woods and up a small incline. We figured if we didn't see anything from on top of this short hill, we'd be fine. But when we got to the top, we saw an old building down at the bottom, about 100 yards into the woods. It was barely visible. We pondered over what to do. We both assumed it was a sugar shack or something, because there didn't appear to be a clear road into it. From where we were, there didn't look to be anyone in it either. All was quiet, no movement could be seen. No lights. We decided to walk a little closer just to make sure. We came down the hill very slowly and as we neared the building we saw it wasn't a sugar shack at all, it was an old church. It looked like it had been abandoned for years. It was a squat, sagging building whose wooden planks were almost black from years of moss and rot. A cross still stood on top of the place, also weathered black. None of the windows had glass and there were no doors, just open doorways. We got close enough to see inside, there were rows of pews and a built-up section in front for a preacher to stand. We didn't go all the way in, we didn't want to. Beyond all that, there was no sign of anyone else. No footprints, no paths, no roads. It was an abandoned church. We left immediately and went back up the hill to our spot we had picked to camp. Having a hill between us and the church made us feel better, but we were still a little uneasy. We chalked it up to the natural creepiness seeing a church in the middle of the woods would elicit. Besides, at this point it was dusk and we just decided to rig up our hammocks and go to sleep and move on at early morning. Night set in, and as we lay in our hammocks and shot the shit, we began to hear something in the direction of the church. Our conversation about it went a little like this: "Do you hear that?" "What the fuck is that?" "It sounds like..." "People singing." And it did sound just like singing. We both slid right out of our hammocks and hunkered down, straining to hear more. We listened for a minute or two, and the singing continued but it wasn't getting louder. Finally we decided to creep back up the hill and see if we could spy where the sound was coming from. We could still move very quietly in the woods from the old days, it was second nature to us. The moon was barely out but it provided enough light so you wouldn't walk right into a tree, but it was near pitch black. We didn't use flashlights as we crept slowly up the hill and we didn't talk. When we got to the top we saw light in the distance. It was coming from the church. And the singing was coming from inside. Joe and I put our heads close together and had a hushed conversation that boiled down to "Can you believe this shit?" The light looked to be candlelight from the way it flickered, and though we tried, we couldn't make out what was being sung. It sounded like church music, but in another language. We sat and watched for a while, trying to see who was in there, but we only saw occasional shadows. We had no intention of getting closer either, we had about a football field length between us and we aimed to keep it that way. That way. The singing continued for a bit, and then it stopped. After that, a booming male voice began to chant. I was already freaked out, but this voice thoroughly scared the shit out of me. It sounded like some Old Testament preacher you see in movies, but again it was like he was speaking in a different language because we couldn't understand a single word. Eventually it got to where the single male voice would say something and then a bunch of voices would answer in song. This lasted for a while and then they all broke into this long, sustained wail that just kept getting louder. It got so loud and so disturbing that I covered my my ears. Then it stopped. At this point I was just getting ready to say "let's get the fuck out of here" when Joe put a hand on my shoulder and hissed "they're coming out." We were far enough away that we couldn't make them out really well, but what we could see was a line of figures walk out the open doorway, all holding hands in single file. We could see some of them had flashlights. They began to sing again, and the light from the flashlights began to move toward us and the hill. We booked it back down to our campsite, grabbed our shit and ran to the tracks. Once there, we ran down the tracks in the direction we had come from. After After a few minutes, we stopped and looked back. We saw lights coming down the hill. They were moving erratically like whoever was holding them was shaking them. We continued to run in spurts and walk as fast as we could. We eventually stopped seeing the lights and came to a road. By our map we knew a small town was about 15 minutes down it, and we walked there, got to a 24-hour gas station and called my wife to come get us. My wife and other friends all just thought it was kids messing around, but I heard those voices and they sure as hell didn't sound like kids to me. Not sure who those people were, but it was definitely Creepiest thing that happened to me out in the woods. I installed a Family Link to monitor my children's browser history. I wish I could forget what I saw. It seemed like a good idea at the time, a parental control app to monitor my children's internet activity. Benny, 13, and Daniel, 9, both got home 2 hours before I did. Who knew what kind of things they might have looked up unsupervised? I needed to keep a close eye on them. So I installed the app on their devices. Then, closing it on quitting time, I looked up Benny's search history. And here's what what I saw. Tits. Naked tits. Ass. Sex. Huge sex. Naked women together. Naked women sex. God of War Ragnarök trailer. Is God of War Ragnarök good? Can I download God of War on PS5? I was absolutely furious. He knew better than to search those things, but the little punk wouldn't answer his phone. I called Daniel, who also didn't answer, then I tried the house phone, still getting nothing. What were those damn kids doing? I called again and again, even checked the video doorbell blogs. They hadn't left the house, but were also completely unreachable. Now out of ideas, I rechecked Benny's browser history, but didn't see anything new. So instead, I looked up Daniel's. Brother kicked me off PS5. How do I get my brother to let me play PS5? Ways to get revenge on my brother. What do I do if I hurt my brother? How much are you meant to bleed if you get stabbed in stomach? What do if my brother tries calling ambulance? Brother stopped moving. Will I get in trouble if my brother won't wake up and it's my fault? 4 Night Dances. 4 Night Chapter 4 Map. I will never visit my grandma for Christmas again. I love visiting my grandma. She always makes the food that I like and spoils me. With the hustle and bustle of college life, it's nice to go back to my childhood and allow myself to be spoiled for a few hours every few weeks. Even though she has 6 grandchildren, she made it clear that I'm her absolute favorite. She'd often have the whole family around for dinner and after they left, she'd bring out the good stuff she made just for me. We usually have a big Christmas dinner together with the whole family, However, as the years go by and the younger ones start growing up, fewer and fewer people show up. Last year, everyone already made plans, forgetting about poor Grandma. I don't blame them, but they often forget how these visits mean a lot to her, especially ever since Grandpa died. That's why when I talked on the phone with her and she asked me if I had any plans, I lied to her and told her I didn't. She immediately jumped at the opportunity to politely invite me, going so far as to offer me to sleep over at her place. She said there's one room which hasn't been used in years and I could stay in there. I immediately said yes I said yes and agreed to stay over, realizing how happy that would make her. I canceled the plans I made with my friends, telling them something else came up. Although they were bummed about it a little, their drinking party wouldn't stop because of me. That was the last Christmas that I would ever spend with my grandma. On Christmas Eve I arrived to my grandma's place and she greeted me like she always does, with a tight hug and lots of kisses. I barely even stepped inside when she started offering me food. She had already made what could only be described as an all-you-can-eat buffet. We dug in and once we were done, she showed me where I could sleep for the the night. It was a cozy little bedroom, which apparently used to be my mom's room when she was little. Grandma told me not to leave my room during Christmas night in order to avoid disrupting Santa in his work. She said that if I really needed to use the bathroom I could, but to be extremely quiet and not to go downstairs. On the nightstand she left a list of the things I should do before I go to bed to ensure I get a good present. I decided to play along and abide by the rules. I told her I'd read it before bed and do everything necessary and she seemed content with that. She wished me good night and left the room. I was pretty tired from the trip there and the enormous the dinner I've eaten, so I lay down on the bed and involuntarily fell asleep within minutes. I awoke a few hours later. I glanced at my watch and realized it was 3:01 AM. I got up to grab a glass of water downstairs from the kitchen and groggily walked through the dark, trying to avoid any loud noise or turning on the lights, not to wake Grandma. I went downstairs and turned on the kitchen light, gulping down a glass of water. I glanced towards the living room at the Christmas tree and something caught my attention under the glow of the decoration lights. There was a small plate, with a tiny paper that said Santa. I reckoned it was cookies and milk, but when I got closer I realized that the plate was empty. Red liquid was in it and right next to the plate was a small bucket. Obviously, I found this weird, but figured that Grandma may have just forgotten to put it away or something. I turned off the kitchen lights and returned to my room, just then remembering the list my Grandma gave me. I grabbed it off my nightstand and started reading. Dear James, Thank you for visiting me for Christmas, you made your Grandma really happy. Now Christmas is a little different in this house than what you're probably used to, so it's very It's important that you follow these rules on the list. 1. Make sure to close your windows and ensure they are closed properly. These old windows don't work properly sometimes, so if you feel like cold air is coming in, let me know. 2. Don't put any wood in the fireplace after 9 PM. Santa will be really angry if it's scalding in the chimney or if there's still smoke. 3. You didn't forget about milk and cookies, did you? I stopped reading and chuckled at the list. Grandma clearly wanted me to follow the basic rules for Santa like when I was a kid, but again I decided to oblige. I continued reading the list. In this household we don't use milk and cookies, we use raw meat and blood. I already left a bucket by the Christmas tree and there's a raw piece of chicken I put on the plate. Santa sure loves his diet. 4. If you are woken up by the sound of scratching or knocking on your window, ignore it. In fact, it's best not to look there, but if you see someone beckoning you, pretend they're not there. They may try to open the window from the outside. This is why it's so important to keep the windows closed. 5. You may hear growling coming from the kitchen. It's okay, because Santa never comes up upstairs and since I already left the chicken for him, that should satisfy him. By this point I was sure grandma was just messing with me. That was until I heard the sound of 3 gentle knocks on the window behind me. I froze in place, staring at the list, but practically staring through it. 3 more gentle knocks ensued, but I did my best not to give away that I heard them. Once again, there were 3 more knocks and then the sound of scratching started. First gently and then louder, as if a rat was trying to bite through the wall. It lasted for around a minute until it completely stopped. Only when it did, did I gather enough courage to slightly shift my my position. That was a mistake though, because when I looked down to the floor, at the light which was cast in from the window, I saw the unmistakable shadow in the form of a humanoid silhouette stretched across. I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like whoever was there held both his hands on the window and stared directly towards me. I decided that the best thing to do is continue reading the list to try and distract myself. 6. If someone walks into your room while you're sleeping and you happen to wake up, pretend that you're still asleep. In the worst-case scenario, the person will sit on the edge of your bed and observe you, so do your best not to let let them know you're awake. If you feel their breath on your neck and it gets progressively closer, it means they realized you're awake. 7. You may hear me calling you from downstairs. Don't listen to it, I will under no circumstances go downstairs during the night. 8. Last and most important rule, if you get up to go to the bathroom, never ever, ever turn on any lights in the house. He has trouble noticing you in the dark, but if you turn on the lights, he will be able to follow you wherever you go and then not even locking your door will help. 9. Follow these simple rules and in the morning, we can open your "Love, Grandma." The scratching and knocking had already stopped by the time I was done reading and the shadow from the window was gone. I got into bed and covered myself over my head, shivering. Sometime during the night I heard my door open, but did my best to ignore the footsteps and low growling noise. I either passed out or fell asleep sometime later, but all I know is I woke up to the sound coming downstairs from the kitchen. I shot up, looking around the room and at the window, rubbing my temples and thinking about the nightmare I had. I left my room and immediately heard my grandma's voice calling me from downstairs. Downstairs, to come open the presents. I told her I'm coming, when I suddenly felt a grip on my wrist. I turned around and saw my grandma there, staring at me, wide-eyed. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, with a trembling voice. "You turned on the lights, didn't you? I just graduated from medical school, and my new hospital has some very strange rules. You probably think that all doctors are filthy rich, because I sure as hell did in the beginning. 8 years and a fistful of premature gray hairs later, I'm just a few hundred thousand dollars poorer than broke. That would matter if I had a family to provide for, but the long hours in med school have led to an end of my last relationship and a countdown on the shelf life of my ovaries. I was in a take-what-I-can-get-and-be-grateful situation. So when St. Francis Hospital in Charleston, West Virginia offered me a position, I packed my sad life into 3 bags and sought opportunity in the hills of Appalachia. 19 of us started in July, and 13 have since dropped out. I like to think of myself as the rat that wouldn't drown. Some people broke inside after watching children die because they weren't good enough doctors quite yet. It's doubly hard when you have to inform the dead child's parents, who then beg you to tell them different news, or scream that they want to die and just please kill them with whatever drug takes away pain. But most of my incoming class couldn't handle the Chief of Medicine. Dr. Vivian Scritt is, without a doubt, the biggest bitch I've ever met. Now I know why. "19 of you start today, and we've got a pool going with bets on how long each of you will last," she told us on day 1. "Don't feel any pressure, folks. I've talked with each of you in private, and my expectations are very low." She peered condescendingly over her thin spectacles, snorted, then turned around to walk away. "You should know when to follow me and when to stay away, because I'm not going to waste time explaining what you should figure out "Out on your own." We gawked at one another, all feeling weak and small, then scampered after her. I was last in line, and felt out of place taking even that much. "You should have the list of expectations for Saint Francis," Dr. Spritt explained as she walked on, not bothering to look at us as she talked. "I printed 18 sets of rules so that you would have to challenge one another for them, knowing that one of you would be left behind." An icy cold settled in the pit of my stomach as I saw everyone look down at a list of rules that only I did not have. "If you cannot follow these rules, there will be no place for you in in this hospital. It most likely means that you are unsuited to be a doctor, and should consider a profession that demands a weaker mental aptitude. At that, she turned around to face us all. And if you think that I'm the type to give second chances after a mistake, you're woefully underprepared for the world of medicine. She stopped and looked at each of us in turn, apparently expecting a response that no one dared to offer. Well, she shot out in exasperation, why are you standing here? People are dying! Get to work! No one wanted to show me their list of rules, so I had to wait until one of my classmates patients died. It took nearly a week. I was working at 3 AM, because I had only been on the clock for 10 hours. I was rushing into another room so that a patient wouldn't know I was googling his symptoms when I saw Mairon by himself in an OR. I stopped immediately. "Mairon," I squeaked. "What the hell is that?" His arms were working furiously, but his back was turned toward me, so I couldn't see what he was doing. Something felt wrong. Mairon was the pick of our litter. He'd been top 10 in his class at John Hopkins, and he would remind us of that fact in exchange for answering the questions that we were too terrified to ask Dr. Skritt. Slowly, I approached Mairon, not wanting to startle him. "We're really busy right now, is there something you need help with?" He showed no outward signs that he had heard me. Instead, he kept pumping away furiously at the task at hand. When I was 5 steps from him, I could see drops of blood flying over his shoulder. Which made no sense, since he had been alone in the room. "Mairon," I whispered, barely loudly enough to hear my own words. I slowly crept around his left side, finally bringing the scene into full view. Mairon's abdomen was split from sternum to pelvis. His esophagus spilled out, and his stomach sat on the table. A nest of quivering small intestine led from the bottom of his stomach back into his shredded torso. Myron showed no outward signs of pain. He was too busy working. He clutched his own stomach tightly in his left hand, the folds squirting through his fingers like unbaked bread. His right hand was working furiously with a scalpel, sawing his organ into ribbons. Rivers of sweat poured down his forehead with the intensity of the effort. I tried to scream, but it only came out as a moan. That was enough to get Myron to notice me. Slowly, he raised his head. Slowly, he smiled. It was not a happy smile. With eye contact locked on me, he licked his lips, angrily stabbed a piece of his stomach, and lifted it to his mouth. He bit. He chewed. He lunged. But most people don't know how to move with their innards splayed out for all the world to see, and this was his downfall. Myron's tattered guts caught on the corner of the table, and he fell to the floor. Finally, he screamed. I had learned very early in my medical career that compartmentalization is indispensable. That instinct took over my brain in the moment, and I acted clinically. Myron was still grasping his scalpel with his right hand. I kicked it, hard, and it flew out of his hands. He stared at me and screeched. With his entrails still wrapped around the table, I figured my best option was retreat. I moved to the back of the room as a doctor and a janitor burst in. In impossibly the most shocking moment of the night, I realized that were not shocked. Myron was anesthetized, subdued, and extracted within a minute of their arrival. For a moment, I was alone with a pool of blood and Dice's stomach lining. And something else. A sheet of paper lay on the floor, its corner just touching the edge of the creeping blood. Myron had dropped his list of rules. The practical part of my brain continued to drive me. I snatched the paper from the ground, then quickly exited the room, taking care to avoid the puddle. I didn't want to leave any bloody footprints in my wake. I knew that I had to read the list as soon as I was able to find 30 uninterrupted seconds to myself. 3 hours later, I had my opportunity and ducked into a janitor's closet. With a shaking, exhausted In my hand, I pulled the chain on a bare bulb, tried to ignore the noxious smell of leaking ammonia, and read. St. Francis Hospital rules, guidelines for new doctors. 1. Never, under any circumstances, share your copy of the rules with anyone else. 2. If any other doctor displays erratic behavior, leave the area immediately. Do not make eye contact. 3. If any other doctor is approached or detained by someone in a janitor's uniform, do not interfere. Never ask about that former doctor again. 4. Never touch any seemingly abandoned Reese's peanut butter cups. Those are Dr. Spritz' favorite. Favorite candy. 5. Any child that dies in St. Francis Hospital must be cremated within 120 minutes of official time of death. If you suspect this rule has been broken, alert Dr. Skritt, and the hospital will be evacuated. 6. There is no children's burn unit at St. Francis Hospital. If you find yourself there, continue walking until you return to familiar territory. This usually requires traveling in a straight line down the central hallway for 47 minutes. You will not reach a wall during that interval. 7. This rule is on a need-to-know basis. 8. A small quantity of sulfuric acid is kept in every room. This is only intended for use on patients with severed spinal cords. If they attack, a hypodermic injection of H2SO4 into the cranium is the only way to subdue the subject. 9. The morgue must house at least 13 cadavers at all times. 10. If find yourself on the hospital roof with no memory of how you got there, you have only two choices. Either wait for an extraction team to find you, or jump 4 stories to the sidewalk on Court Street. 11. If you see Room 1913, do not look directly at the numbers. Do not open the door. This is, by far, the most important rule. My heart stopped when the door opened. Dr. Skritt was staring at me. What little emotion shined through her exterior seemed to be surprise. We both stood, frozen, for 5 seconds of agonized silence. "Dr. Aphelis," she drawled gravely, "I'm shocked." She stared down at the bloodstained list of rules in my hand. I reached for words. Any words, because literally any response would make me look less guilty than I did in that moment, staring up at my boss's boss's boss and saying literally nothing in my defense as she weighed She surveyed my soul with her eyes. And I said nothing. "You took a list that wasn't yours, and were nowhere to be found after your coworker experienced such an unnatural incident." Dr. Skritt huffed through her nose. "It seems that you're willing to do the unthinkable in the name of getting what you need. And Mairan couldn't even follow the most important rule." She clenched her teeth. "I had a 4-year streak of predicting which incoming doctors will break the soonest. This will ruin my chances in the office pool." The ghost of a smile graced her lips before she turned to leave. "Get to work, doctor. You've got 3 hours left on your shift, and those symptoms aren't going to Google them themselves. I didn't realize that I'd been holding my breath until I heard my own gasp for air. Shaking, I slowly emerged from the janitor's closet. I quickly stuffed the list of rules back into my pocket, reflecting on the fact that I had just achieved what might be considered an actual win. Perhaps, just maybe, I would keep my head above water at St. Francis after all. I turned to head down the hall when I stopped in my tracks. Everything was unfamiliar. What the hell had happened? I glanced all around. The design of the hallway was familiar, but everything was off. I could hear people talking in the rooms, but the immediate vicinity was void of all people but myself. Nothing made sense. Then I looked up. And I'll be honest, I pee just a little when I read the sign. St. Francis Hospital, Children's Burn Unit. I was in prison for 15 years. There was a skinwalker in there with us. A little background first. I was serving a 15-year sentence in a penitentiary in southern Arizona. What I was in there for isn't important. During my stay there, there were countless things that happened that no one could explain, and even more that no one wanted to know more about. It all started with a prison legend. Supposedly, years ago something awful and unexplainable happened happened in the prison. Every morning we'd be woken up, and expected to stand near the front of our cells while guards visually confirmed we were present and accounted for. Apparently about a year before I got sent there, the most brutal and unexplainable thing happened during one of these routines. A man who had a cell to himself looked very off during this check. When a guard pulled over another guard to help him check it out, they found it wasn't actually the prisoner they were expecting at all. It was a totally different man. This man, was wearing the skin of the other man over him. Loosely fitting, draped over him, apparently looked like a real monster. The scariest things were though, was the guy wearing the skin was not an inmate. They had no idea how he even got into prison, let alone a cell. What's worse is that they couldn't even figure out who the hell he was. He wasn't documented anywhere. And what's worse than that? They never even found the body of the man of the skin he was wearing. Pretty grisly stuff, I know. And I realize that's not the go-to definition of a skinwalker, but that's what the prison called him. The skinwalker. Didn't help that the guy never talked apparently. Anyway, that's what started the whole skinwalker superstition around the yard. Apparently the guy got shipped to a different spot about a month weeks after it happened, and just about everyone in GenPop felt all the better for it. I heard about the story on the second day of my stay. Hell of a story to hear to place in your home for the foreseeable future. Now onto the real shit though. Sure, that guy was the Skinwalker, but all he did in the long run was get an old lifer Navajo inmate to tell everyone about actual Skinwalkers. It seemed like a lot of the prison culture actually revolved around them. Now, apparently, Skinwalkers are tricky to point out on the spot, but if you manage to survive around one for more than a minute or two, almost everyone can tell the mannerism Their mannerisms are all off. They can mimic human speech but not replicate it. They twitch manically. They have an unnatural gait while walking. But apparently they got better with experience. The old Navajo guy, his name was Carl, said that he was sure there was an actual one among the prisoners. Slowly picking us off over the years. He called it the Grandmaster Skinwalker at one point. Apparently he thought it had human mannerisms down so well that you might not even be able to tell if it was your cellmate for a day or two. It had to be good he posited one night. He would expect a skinwalker to jump at any opportunity ready for a kill. But this one realized it had a revolving door of people to kill coming to it, and masterfully bided its time, as Carl thought, for years. A lot of guys found humor in it. A lot more were really on edge about it. Every once in a while in prison, people snap. Sometimes you'll find your cellmate swinging in front of your bunk, strung up around the neck by his pant leg. Sometimes you just can't take it anymore. But in our yard, people tended to snap in a very special way. It wouldn't be an outburst at dinner, or a silent suicide in the night. Guys would just stop talking, hunch over and shuffle around. Any friendships they had would be mostly out the window. They would turn into a loner during rec time, they would let their hair hang in front if their face. No one liked to talk about it. Like if they did, it would happen to them next. I felt the same way. I didn't know if it was a skinwalker, or just people going crazy. But I didn't want to find out. It wasn't clockwork or anything, but every time someone snapped in this way, it wasn't more than a couple weeks before they were shipped off or transferred to God knows where without anyone else knowing beforehand. Then there was the nighttime occurrences. Short, loud bursts of sound echoed through my cell block during all hours of the night on a regular basis. It sounded like a mix between a pig's dying squeals and nails on a chalkboard. Just another thing no one liked to talk about. Even scarier were the shadows and footsteps. The block was dimly illumined in the night by a few lights hanging from the ceiling outside the cells. I myself saw shadows flit across my walls on a regular occasion, when there were definitely no guards near my cell. One time near the end of my sentence, I woke up, looked at my back wall and found a perfect silhouhette of a person standing there, but when I looked, my bunkmate was asleep, and no one "Outside my cell. And the footsteps. Everyone hated the fucking footsteps. They were the scariest part. In the night, sometimes, more rarely than the shadows, you would hear ungodly fast footsteps. They sounded like wet feet slapping on tile floor. Whoever caused them would fly from one end of the block to the other in a dead sprint. Whatever it was, it was inhumanely fast. If you happened to be awake before it started, by the time you heard the footsteps on one side of your cell and whipped your head around to see the thing run by, it sounded like it was 3 cells past you. Everyone hated the footsteps." I agreed, I thought they were are the worst. I was released from that place about a month ago, and I have more stories than I can count. I swear it was nearly my turn. About a week before I was discharged, my cellmate, and a good friend of mine snapped. In the same kinda way. I didn't sleep for an entire week. Well, I did sleep of course, but never for more than a few minutes at a time. Never turned my back on the guy. The scariest thing? I woke up one night to him somehow snaking his body through the bars of our cell. For reference, I couldn't get anything past my shoulder through them. The worst part though, he was coming back into our cell. On the day of my release, I didn't Didn't say a word to him. Just left. He seemed fine with it, so, so was I. I had made it through. 15 years of prison fights, gang disputes and for all I know, skinwalker abductions. I left through the front gates, a free man. As I walked along the fence for the rec yard, I spotted my cellmate. Standing off on his own, like he had for the last week or so. I shook my head, not even really sure if it was him anymore. I took one last look over the yard, this time from the other side of the fence. I wish I hadn't. There, standing off on his own, on the other side of the yard, was Carl. Slouched over, eyeing the other inmates, and twitching manically.