CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Reddit Horror Stories from r/Nosleep to pass the voyage of time

Episode Date: June 22, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "It all turns to rust" Creepypasta►14:33 "I was hired to look after empty buildings for big companies" Creepypasta►33:35 "What happens when it catches me?" Creepypasta���59:19 "I died and met my guardian angel. He was never trying to protect me" Creepypasta►1:23:20 "I'm an investigator of unexplained footage. This is the strangest video I've ever seen" Creepypasta►1:49:12 "I've worked the same job for 18 years and I still don't know what it is" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I'll be the first to admit it. We were bad kids. I spent a lot of time with Evan, Gary, Josh and Rob during my developing years, and we were in absolute pain in the ass. Evan always had some insane idea, and we all just pushed each other to do worse and worse. One day we could challenge each other to break a window. The next, we might sit someone's dog loose.

We once caught a badger and locked it in our gym teacher's car. I know. It was all awful. We never really considered how others would feel. In our minds, it was always about pushing our limits. This was not about how we treated others. We were selfish. It was summer.

I was 12 years old, and it was the first time it all got really out of hand. Evan had found his dad's handgun, an old revolver. He'd loaded it with six bullets, and we were going down to the old storage yard to shoot some cans. The place had been abandoned for years, and all that remained were empty storage containers. Most of them had been stuck there since the 70s, rusted shut. We all got a turn with a gun. Gary hit a glass bottle spot on.

Josh hit one, but it didn't shatter. Rob missed altogether. I shot a can making it flip. We were cheering and passing it around, pretending to be action heroes. With two bullets left, it was Evan's turn. He'd brought the gun to begin with, so we argued he should get two shots. He posed with it like he was the Terminator. I got a challenge, guys, he grinned.

One of you got us sleep in a container. No way, said Gary. That's gross, rats everywhere. Yeah, screw that, said Josh. No one's doing that. Evan pulled the trigger and shot straight into the ground. No one was ready for it, so we all stepped back. There was smoke coming from the hole in the ground.

He held the gun up, pointing it at us, one after another. We need a volunteer, he said. Or, you know, we could play Russian roulette. You want to go first? He was pointing at me. I almost peed myself. For goodness sake, yelled Rob. Fine, I'll do it.

Put the gun down. Evan just smiled. That's all I wanted, he said. We'll pick you up tomorrow. Evan found the oldest, grossest storage container in the yard. It was sunk into a big oil-filled puddle and was covered in so much graffiti that you couldn't see the original color. It had been stuck there for decades. We all had to pull to even open the doors enough for someone to slip in.

The smell is what stuck with me. Air is not supposed to smell like that. Rob slipped in and almost fell. The container was at a steep angle, so he just laid down to keep his balance. Evan, please, I... Rob, I brought the gun. Josh broke into a car last week.

You're the only one being a pussy. I... I just... Evan, slam the door shut. He laughed so hard that we just followed along nervously. What of nervous laughter. We left the... storage yard. Evan put the gun back, and we went out to have an ice cream. I wasn't worried about Rob. We'd done worse things to each other once a week since we were seven.

Still, if Rob hadn't stepped in, I would have been the one to spend the night in the storage container. I'm not going to go too deep into the details of what happened next, but we came back the next day to discover something. Did you know that Ross sucks up oxygen? that storage container was rusted all the way through. I've never been so terrified in my life, opening that storage container and seeing that pale face peeking out from a blue pastel-colored hoodie. We all told the truth,

and we were told it was all just a tragic accident. Evan tried to make it sound like Rob wanted to do it. I just told it like it was, a challenge. We did them all the time. The police knew all about our antics, but this one had crossed the line they hadn't anticipated. Gary moved out of town a year later and Josh was transferred to another school.

Evan had to repeat one year of school, so we just kind of lost him. In just one year, I was the only one of the old gang left. My entire personality changed. I was having trouble with nightmares. I could imagine myself being stuck in that storage container, feeling my lungs filled up with metal dust.

That awful, acidic, metallic smell. The slanted floor, taking me further and further away from the light above, sinking ever deeper. I had to go to therapy. For years, I just tried to have a normal life. My parents were very supportive. They were proud in a way that I told the truth and owned up to our mistakes. They didn't blame me for what happened, even if they were deeply disappointed. They knew we were just being.

being idiots, and they knew just as well that I would never be that person again. I wish it had been that simple. As I grew out of my teenage years, I would look back on the time with a gang in shame. The other guys didn't have as much luck as I did. Gary was put in juvie for a grand theft auto charge at 17. Evan dropped out of high school in a matter of weeks. Josh did pretty well for himself, but he was a bit of an outcast at the other school. Turns out, he came out as gay.

and there were plenty of people who had a problem with that. There's always a gang. If not us, then someone else. One by one, they seemed to fall off the face of the earth. Gary was first. He died in juvie, strangled in the shower. There were a few suspects, but there was no definite conclusion. Evan shot himself in the bathroom at his part-time job downtown.

His note just told everyone to go screw themselves. A year ago, the only other living member of her old gang was Josh, and I haven't spoken to him for over a decade. I accidentally met him at a cafe not too long ago, and we decided to sit down and catch up. I mentioned my girlfriend, Rosie, and he talked at length about his engagement to a guy named Harold. They were planning to move to Wisconsin together. I noticed, however, that talking about it turned the conversation sour. Josh just shook his head. I don't know if we'll make it, he said.

Things are weird. Weird, how? You ever think about him? He didn't have to clarify who he was talking about. Of course, it was Rob. Our eternal him. The images flashed before my eyes. The bottom of the container.

My feet wet, choking. I never been there, but it felt like something inside me had. All the time, I admitted. Do you think he thinks about us? The question caught me off guard. Seeing my confusion, Joshua smiled and waved it aside. Never mind, he smiled.

Let me get the check. Two months later, Josh was dead. D drowned in the bathtub. He never made it to Wisconsin with Harold. That's when my life turned to. to hell. I started having reoccurring dreams about that storage container. I'd imagine myself standing at the rusted door looking down. I would see all of their faces, pale and lifeless, staring up at me. Something was forcing my body to step inside, to join them. No matter how hard

I tried, I'd always step inside. The steep metal floor would make me slip, and just as my feet touched their grasping hands, I'd wake up. There'd be handprints all over my pillow. Rust. Two weeks after Josh's funeral, I got a letter. It was posthumously sent to me as part of his will. The paper was covered in rusty handprints and was scribbled in a panic. My name was at the top of the paper, which was probably how they knew who to send it to.

Don't stay in one place too long. He's looking for you. That was the verse line. The thing was written like a list. Sleep in the bathroom. There's less buildup. That explains why he was found there. Try not to sleep.

That's when he comes looking. Another explanation. He must have fallen asleep in the bathtub, exhausted. If you're reading this, I'm already gone. Don't tell Harold. Be careful. I didn't think I'd sleep that night.

But I did. I was so serious. stressed that my body just exhausted itself. My heart had been pounding for hours and the adrenaline was taking its toll. Oddly enough, the sleep was completely dreamless. I felt completely aware of the room I was in and my surroundings, which is why I reacted so fast when the bathroom door opened. Someone was in my apartment. I shot out of bed, grabbed my keys and phone and just ran. I ran out into the stairwell and was overwhelmed with an awful metallic smell. I almost choked and had to steady myself against the wall. I looked back.

There he was, just as we'd left him, same pastel blue hoodie, same pale face leaking with rust, streaks of red out of his ears, nose, mouth and eyes. The hair on the left side of his head was stuck up straight, like he'd slept in a weird angle. He was there. For me, I could feel my joints aching. I hurried down the stairs and felt something in my left knee snap. I fell but managed to catch myself. White bulbs started to pop.

Things were going dark and the air was growing stale. I couldn't put any weight to my leg, but I hobble my way down to the first floor. I was living in, darkness closing in, something grasping to drag me down. I burst through the door and into the cool night. Once I got outside, I threw up. Rust. I coughed. More rust.

It's been weeks now. I've lived my life by Josh's note. If I stay for longer than a few nights in the same place, it all gets covered in rust and my cough gets worse. I can't keep anything near me or the rust gets to it. It gets more active when I sleep. Once I fell asleep in my car and the damn thing was ruined in the morning, even the keys. I sometimes see that blue hoodie in passing.

You might be on the other side of the road or across the street from wherever acquaintance or distant family member that's been kind enough to take me in for the night. He's looking for me. He's not fast, but he's coming. He saved me for last. I sleep in the bathroom, but I don't fill up the bathtub with water. I've learned from Josh's mistakes There's still some rust build-up

But if I've gotten enough distance I can usually stay there for an extra day If I've been vigilant I take the bus or train as often as I can I can't keep buying cars And after ruining a third rental There's no one willing to help me out anymore Caffeine pills are literal lifesavers

But I don't know how much my heart can take I'm so tired my left knee is still ruined and it just aches I once scraped it from a bad fall and I'm not sure if it was blood or rust coming out it flaked like rust I don't know what to do I'm posting this from the computer of a public library

I've written this in a hurry but there's already rust building up the damiki keeps getting stuck my cough is getting worse I barely sleep and my hands are covered in rust. I wash my hands so much I'm getting rashes, but the rust just keeps coming back. There's a storm coming tonight, so I don't think there'll be any trains or buses leaving any time soon. I'll try to walk for as long as I can, but I'm afraid I'll collapse on the side

of the road. I try to hitchhike, but I don't want to put someone else in danger. My family has no idea where I am or what I'm doing. Rosie is going crazy with worry I don't know why my first instinct in all of this was to get away from friends and family but I just don't want to drag anyone into this unless they know what this is you know

I'm thinking I should do what Josh did just in case write it all down that's why I'm here this cough is killing me great against my lungs I'm pale like a damn ghost please help

I don't know how much time I've got I'm not sure if you're aware of this but there is an epidemic of unused buildings in cities around the world big companies purchase these buildings during times of economic downturn nothing a few offshore investments can't weather so these companies use their unaccountable funds

to buy up the establishments of those who can no longer afford their mortgages the investors pour money into the buildings to prepare them for whatever kind of business the new owners have planned. We're talking full renovation, gutting the place, re-carpet, re-plaster, repaint, renew.

Of course, the economy is a fickle mistress. Sometimes, just as quickly as these once-thriving buildings are bought up and emptied out, they're forgotten about. Maybe the companies that buy them go bankrupt, perhaps a new opportunity arises and they seek that out instead. It's also possible they simply buy so many of these buildings

that they just forget how many they own. That's Monopoly for you. As soon as you've bought up the oranges and reds, no one gives a damn about the browns. The result is you get these magnificent buildings around the city centres, brand spanking new insides, all eggshell walls and navy blue carpets

devoid of any purpose. Barron. The companies don't need to use them for anything. Their money comes from elsewhere. To turn them in. into anything else would come at a high price, and to sell them on would mean losing an asset which cost them nothing, and could be worth a great deal more in the future. So they sit there, slowly rotting.

Or at least they would. If not for me. These conglomerates hire me and my crew to go around and tend to their empty fortresses. We do a bit of cleaning, sweeping up cobwebs, and making sure black mold doesn't have a chance to grow. We also check the buildings plowing in electrics are still in workable order, if and when the place is put back to use. However, what they really hire us for, it's a kind of unspoken responsibility. We have the added bonus of scaring off the miscreants who infest those pristine places.

No, not rats or insects. We can poison those. I'm talking about much larger vermin, far more hazardous to the market value of a property. Squatters. Squatters, for those of you who don't know, are people who take up residence in a place without the consent of the property owner. There are all kinds of squatters. You get your hippie libertarians,

free the whale, legalize it man types. This group talks big, pretending to know the laws and threatening to use daddy's lawyer when we tell them the party's over. But one look at Big Greg, and they're usually out the door trouble-free. Next, you have your homelessness.

I feel kind of bad for this group. They need a place to shelter. No support network to help them out an inadequate protection from the government to prevent them slipping through the cracks. A lot of them suffer with mental illness or drug addiction, often both, that makes them volatile, unpredictable.

They're the reason we wear stab vest. One of my guys got bitten by one of these people a while back when we were cleaning out an office block that never was, developed a nasty case for hepatitis C, Poor guy. Expensive mess that one. God bless insurance. Things can get dicey when we're dealing with mental illness or drugs. Most of the time, when things go south, we just step outside, call the cops, let them deal with the situation,

then install extra security measures around the building, and be done with it. If we're up to me, I'd use the buildings as shelter, a place for these people to get their lives back together. I guess it would require permits, licenses, paperwork, trouble. The companies can't be bothered with all of that. Not when there's money to be made. Anyway, I don't get paid to enact social change. I get paid to evict, secure and repaint. Maybe if these groups didn't make such a vile mess of the buildings,

the owners would be more likely to accept them. I guess picking up after yourself doesn't factor high up on the list of priorities when you're out your mind on heroin. You'd have thought meth heads would relish the cleaning, a chance to turn their rotted brains to a task, but they seem to be more content with tearing up the carpets, scratching up the plaster, and digging away at the concrete. I have no idea what they're trying to find.

They probably don't either. The trust of Ferran kit have apparently never been spanked for having an untidy bedroom either. Most of the defacement is graffiti. most of that lame tags and bad drawings of genitals. Every now and again a real artist shows up. Almost feels like a shame to blast their work off the egg shell. All the other art just feels like a waste of time.

I guess it must have been about a year ago that I started noticing the schools cropping up. At first I thought it was the work of some tagger with a horror fetish. Three schools linked by some kind of rope, mouths open, screaming at each other. Creepy, sure, but that wasn't the weird thing. What really stuck out was the medium. The logo was spray painted in some buildings, in others scratched into the walls.

Crude versions made on basement floors in food waste or, in a few cases, human excrement. We had to call the cops a few times for the symbols alone when we found the schools painted in blood. The police cordoned those buildings off, brought in their crime scene guys. It mostly came back as animal blood Rat, pigeon, cat, dog A couple of times it tested as human Never any bodies But enough blood to suggest

There must have been one The newspaper's got a hold of the story I got my name of the paper and everything They hypothesized Who's some kind of homeless, drug addict Trustafferian cult operating out of these buildings There was the standard circus

After the moral panic Must have been a good time to own a security company or CCTV wholesalers, but nothing ever came of it. The police failed to link the skulls to anyone. The media got bored and moved on to their next outrage. When I say these symbols appeared in abandoned buildings, I mean abandoned. That was the other strange thing about these schools.

They always appeared in buildings showing clear signs of squatters, but there were never any squatters to be found. We found all their stuff. There's sleeping mats, tin food, clothes, even wraps or whatever they've been shooting or smoking, but never any people. I don't remember ever really getting scared working this job before those damned schools showed up. Even the crustiest junkies always felt more like an annoyance than a real threat. These buildings felt alive. That's the only way I can put it.

I could be walking through a room with vaulted ceilings, blue skies, pouring. light into the room height windows and still feel claustrophobic like the walls were breathing. I'd be power washing the carpet and feel a presence creep at my neck, spin around and nothing there. The boys didn't want to admit they were spooked, and I'd be damned if I was going to admit it to them. But we wordlessly agreed to start working in pairs as we checked the buildings and cleaned up after the missing squatters. Funny that a job involving evicting drug addicts could get a bit of.

more grim when the drug addicts aren't there. It must have been three months after the school showed up that I lost my first guy. We didn't even notice Tim had gone until the end of the day when we were getting ready to drive back to the depot. Found his power washer on the second floor. No sign of Tim anywhere.

We combed the building, calling out for him, but he never replied. After an hour of walking around that wretched place, we gave up, decided Tim must have had something to do and skipped out on us. Truth be told, none of us wanted to be in that place looking for him past sunset. When Tim didn't show up the next day, I should have been angry. Instead, all I felt was this deep, gut-wrenching dread.

I called his house, but no one answered. Tried three or four times, but nothing. The other guys shared some nervous jokes about it amongst themselves, lazy bugger and so on. But we knew something was wrong. I knew Tim, knew his wife. She was a full-time mother, home most of the time when she wasn't carting a kid around to school

or clubs or whatever kids do. That evening, I decided to call around Tim's place on my way home. The day you went missing, hit carpooled with one of the other guys so his wife could use the car. Their car was still right there in the driveway. I rang the bell. Nothing.

Knocked. Shouted through the letterbox. Nothing. I walked around the side of the house, peered in through the windows, careful for nosy neighbors. The TV was on inside the living room. Kids show, but no one watching from the sofa. I went around to the back of the house,

through the gate into the garden. The hose pipe was laying in the middle of the lawn, spewing water out into the house. the marsh that had formed around the nozzle. The back door hanging wide open. My heart stopped when I walked into the kitchen. Accompanying the rising feeling of unseen eyes watching me as I entered the house, there smear in the floor in thick mud.

The skulls. Of course, I called the police. They arrived and questioned me. I told them the same thing I've just told you. They called the other guys in for questioning too. Got statements from the neighbours, Tim and his wife's parents. No one had seen or heard anything from the houses since the day Tim disappeared. It was like they'd evaporated.

Things started to unravel pretty quickly after Tim and his family vanished. Four of my guys quit that week, one after the other. They said other jobs had come up. They wanted to spend more time with their families or whatever. I know the truth. I could see it on their faces. They were scared. After a while, it was just me and big Craig on the jobs.

No one else wanted to work for me. Even tried to call in favours from some of my other friends in similar jobs. But everyone had an excuse. Word travel's fast. Superstition faster. I guess, looking back, I should have listened to the signs and called it a day on the business. Refused to go into those buildings or send anyone else into them. But

A contract is a contract I've got bills to pay A mortgage My pension So I don't have to clean junkie crap off the walls Until I'm 80 It was my responsibility

To call it quits So I don't care What anyone says It was my fault What happened to Greg We were going through one of the old buildings Just outside the city centre It had been bought by a bank

Which for legal reasons, we will remain nameless. Greg and I had to go room by room alone, it just being the two of us to go around at a pair would have simply taken too long. Time is money. And anyway, it hadn't seen so much as a passed-out cracket for months. We didn't even bother with a stab vest at that point. This place must have been used as some kind of commune.

In the lobby alone, I counted 37 sleeping mats, or in pretty good condition. also reserves of food and drink stacked up to one side, enough for a small army. Whoever had settled here had enough know-how to get past the CCTV outside, cut their way inside and disable the alarm. How they had managed to do all that and then move a small community into the place, I still have no idea. It was near the end of the day. We'd removed most of the stuff, thrown it into the skip I'd rented. I was taken care of the main lobby. Greg was in the back, clearing out the bathroom.

There was something about this building. It felt dark. I don't mean like no light. It felt like a pit, a void. It was almost as if the building was right on the verge of speaking, like a screen was held in the halls, ready to be released at any moment. The place pulsed. You could almost hear it.

Almost. I finished up my job as quickly as far. possible, called for Greg. No answer. I remember standing there, just listening to nothingness. I called out again. Nothing.

I could have cried. I mean, I could literally feel myself welling up as I started walking towards the bathroom. By the time I reached the door, there was a lump in my throat I hadn't felt since I was eight years old, lost and alone at a theme park. I pushed the door open.

There, in the corner of the bathroom, huddled up in a ball, was Greg. All I could make out at first, apart from his bulk, or his eyes, wild, pinned open. His jaw was working around, but no sound was coming out. I stopped at the door. I wanted to go in and help him, but I couldn't force my feet to take me inside. It was as though every instinct of my body was preventing me from going inside. He looked at me, eyes pleading and terrified, the most awful expression of anguish I've ever seen. I backed up, told him I was going to go and get help.

I barely even noticed, but I was just saying sorry, over and over again, before I realized I was out the door on the street. The fresh air hit me, and I came to my senses. I sprinted back to the building, through the lobby, up to the bathroom door, threw it open. Greg was gone. One by one, I swung open the cubicle doors. Sure enough, etched into the wall of the furthest cubicle. The skulls screaming at me. The police listened to my story under raised eyebrows.

It wasn't that they didn't believe me, just that it didn't explain anything. They searched the building, photographed the bathroom, including the skulls, told me they would contact Greg's family and let me know when he turned up. He never did. Greg had a wife and two kids. The police found his youngest alone at home. Poor kid had already took herself into bed when the police arrived. As far as I know, she's in foster care now.

After Greg, I put in a call to my contract holders. No amount of money could make me send anyone into one of those buildings again. I was passed around to legal teams, dodged and dugged like the plague. It was like they wanted nothing to do with me, not even to hear out what I had to tell them. Eventually, I got through to someone. He sounded high up. I didn't get his name.

Not sure it would end well for me if I wrote his name down anyway. After all the threats of libel and civil suits from the legal teams, it was refreshing to speak to someone who sounded calm and non-condescending. He asked me about what happened, listened as I told him everything. After I'd spill my guts, he asked me about the state of the buildings. I was confused at first. He asked if they were fit for purpose. I told him they were.

He thanked me for my service and told me to expect a generous severance package. He rang off with a warning. I was not to mention the names or locations of any of the buildings my team announced. I had worked on over the past six months to anyone. If I failed to abide by this, defamation and libel would be the least of my concerns. He asked if I understood, and I told him I did. My check came in the mail two days later. Generous really fails to do justice to describe the amount.

Enough to pay the guys who quit on me the rest of their contracts. Least I could do. Enough to pay off my mortgage too, and then some. It wasn't just the money that kept me quiet all this time. I realised I've been terrified since those schools first showed up, just waiting for something awful to happen, some kind of catastrophe. But it just hasn't come. Life has gone on. People have forgotten.

Tim and Greg and the families are still missing. The cases have gone cold. I guess I just didn't want to bring it down to myself by acknowledging it, whatever it is. At this point, I just want answers. I want to know what took my men, what those schools were,

and who created them, how it's all connected. I can't find anything on the internet about the symbol. No one seems to know anything about it. I've drawn crude sketches, even contacted the police about their photos of the symbols,

but they say those records are locked. They won't tell me any more than that. Over the last few months, some of my ex-employers have begun using the buildings again. As far as I can tell, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. No more missing people or schools. From what I've heard, business is better than ever in those places, thriving even. I'm not sure if that means anything.

I'm not sure of much these days. It shows you another world, I think. That was the first thing Barry said to me when he produced the battered camcorder. He'd been sending me cryptic text for days about a camera he'd found in the lot of his office park. At first, he'd just sounded excited that the weird find had broken up the monotony of his workday.

But then he got it home and began fiddling with it, finding an old adapter cord that he figured wouldn't work or would fry the thing. But, for a wonder, it didn't either. A green light had come on, And two hours later, it seemed to be fully charged. Sitting in my apartment, he handed me the camera gently. My eyes going between it and his face, as I tried to judge if he was joking.

I felt my stomach began to twist when I saw he wasn't. My worry must have shown on my face. He frowned at me slightly and started shaking his head. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not crazy. He led out a short, bitter laugh. or I'm not any more crazy than I was before. Barry threw his eyebrows at my silence, and I'm taking my meds,

and I haven't had any paranoid thoughts or anything else odd. He gestured toward the camera. Just... This thing. I smiled at him and nodded, trying to keep my expression in check. Something was off. It had to be if he believed what he was saying.

But I'd never seen him this. sammed up since the first time I met him five years earlier. He hadn't been hospitalized since he was a teenager, and there'd only been one time since I'd known him that he'd had what I considered an episode. One terrible week, where he seemed like a different person because he'd gone off his meds,

quote, just to see how it went. It hadn't went well, and once I finally convinced him to start back to taking them, he'd realize that for himself. But this, This was different. He was excited and nervous, but he didn't seem out of control. Maybe the meds just needed adjusting this time.

I don't know. But I figured the best thing was to just hear him out and go from there. Okay, I believe you. Just, what do you mean it shows you another world? Barry's face was still guarded, but brightened slightly at my question. Okay, okay, so like, Like, the first thing I noticed is it's weird, right? I mean, I'm not an expert with cameras, but this one is a little different from any I've seen.

The way it's shaped and how small it is for one thing. But also, I can't figure out how it stores video. There's no slot for a tape or disc or anything. I turned a small camera in my hand. It was made of some kind of smooth grey metal, but was still very light, fitting comfortably in my palm. There was a padded leather strap where your hand would go while shooting and a small hole that I guessed was the port for plugging in a power adapter but otherwise it was just a small ergonomic tube

with a lens on one end and a viewfinder on the other I glanced back up with him with a shrug well I mean that's not that weird right I don't know how old it is but if it was made in the last few years it probably uses internal memory like a phone right Damn, I'm kind of surprised people even make camcorders anymore. Doesn't everyone use a phone or a tablet now? He nodded.

Yeah, most do. At least until you get into the high-end stuff like they use to shoot professional videos. And I figure it has to have internal memory. But wouldn't have a USB port or something to download it to something else? A hard drive or a computer or whatever. I can't find any hidden ports. Nothing but where I charged it up. I examined the camera closer.

He was right. The cool skin of the thing was seamless, and I saw no lines or latches, no labels or... Hey, this is weird too. There's no writing on it. Like none. No brand, no Wi-Fi logo,

no button names, nothing. He was smiling again now. I caught that too. It was almost like it was homemade. But who would do that? How many people could do that? that. And if you were somehow able to make something like this, would you just leave it in a

random parking lot somewhere? I frowned. I don't know. Maybe you download video wirelessly, but how do you even turn it on or do anything with it? It doesn't have any buttons. Barry's smile widened. It does. They're just hidden. Here, hold it like you're going to take a video or look through the viewfinder. I did, as he asked, slipping my finger under the brown leather strap on the side. Okay, you feel the little bumps under your fingers? I flinch a little as I realized I did. Turning the camera over, I looked at where

my fingertips had been. There was no sign of raised domes there, but I'd felt them. When I slid my fingers back over the area, I could still feel the same bumps, though I still couldn't see them when I checked again. Lips thinning, I glanced up as he continued on. The index finger is fast forward, the ring finger is rewind, and the middle finger is play. He shook his head slightly. There isn't a power button, so far as I can tell.

It's always on in some kind of sleep mode that stops when you pick it up. It has to have some kind of sensor because the viewfinder doesn't light up until you put your eye up to it. Either way, I haven't charged it in four days, and there's no sign of it giving out or anything. something occurred to me what about a record button Barry shook his head nope not that I can find I even tried voice commands

but nothing it just always records always that's another thing that's weird it seems to always record the same amount of footage constantly deleting a second for every second it adds I've timed it it's just over 37 minutes worth I let out a slow breath

Okay, so you were saying this weird camera is always on Always recording and it keeps the last 37 minutes all the time Like, you can rewind and watch it and it changes over time He nodded Yep, there's no flip-out screen So you have to watch it through the viewfinder And it's recording even when it's playing So if you watch for 15 minutes from the beginning

That 15 minutes will be gone by the time you rewind to start over again if you fast forward and watch the last five when you rewind, a little more than the first five of that 37-minute recording will be gone, because its recording window will have shifted forward during the time you fast-forwarded, watched and rewound, he grimaced. That's what so frustrating. I can't show you some of the things I've seen with it, because they've already gone.

All I can do is take you to places where you'll notice the difference and record new footage. I, I'd Barry, warily. Different because the camera shows you another world? Yes, and yeah, I know it sounds crazy. That's why I'm going to show you, rather than try to convince you. Just look at the recording as it is now, okay? So you know, it's not some trick or prank I'm pulling.

Rewind all the way through the footage through the viewfinder. Just hit the button under your ring finger, and it'll rewind in just a few seconds. hitting the hidden button I thought about saying something more but I wasn't sure what would help this was all really strange but there had to be a reasonable explanation

maybe someone was messing with him uploading new footage wirelessly to make it look like a magic camera I didn't know and the only way I knew to figure it all out was to follow Barry's lead until I knew enough to help him so I looked into the camera

immediately the viewfinder seemed to brighten, though it was hard to say for sure when the scene looked so dark. I hit play with my middle finger, and at first I thought something was wrong. The screen was just greyish black, and I was about to ask if I was doing something wrong, and the scene brightened somewhat, showing what I guessed was the parking garage across the street from my building.

The angle was odd and jumped rhythmically, but I could make out enough to see. see that while it was the parking garage, it looked different. There was graffiti covering most of the walls, and as the camera moved, I saw several cars that looked strange or covered with the dust of disuse. I never noticed any of that before, and I'd been in the garage just that morning. And why? Why is the camera like this, all bouncy and shaky? Barry's face grew a little pale Because it was in my bag

As I was walking What you're seeing is probably when I was on my way over here I frowned What did you have it sticking through a hole or something It's not very good footage He shook his head as he held up his bag And turned for me to see No, no holes

If it was recording over here It'd be shown the inside of my bag Or be dark I put it in my bag when I left home and didn't take it out until just now when I showed it to you. He gave me a nervous grin. But it wasn't recording over here. It was recording the same spot over there,

wherever there is. And over there, there's no bag to block its view. I felt my hands growing cold. I wanted to argue. To tell him it had been a great joke, but he needed to drop it. That I was getting irritated with the whole thing. But I didn't, because I knew he wasn't lying.

And if it was a joke, it was being played on him too. And my growing anger was in at him anyway. It was at the fear growing fat in my belly. Taking a deep breath, I put my eye back to the viewfinder. At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing. The view seemed to be of a dark wall, periodically punctured with metal rails and bits of wire as the camera seemed to float upward. Shooting Barry, a questioning look.

I showed him the viewfinder for a moment. He gave me a shaky laugh. Yeah, that one threw me at first too, but I've seen it in a couple of buildings now. It's when I was coming up the elevator. I guess it doesn't work over there, so you're seeing the shaft instead. Swallowing, I watched again.

The view was going down a version of my floor's hallway, the paint chipped and dirty, under sickly flickering fluorescent light. A pause and then passing through a door into my apartment. Except this version was filthy, with piles of trash in the corner and different furniture scattered in disarray across the room. I didn't see any sign of a person,

and I was grateful. My heart was already hammering harder and harder as I felt the last threads of my disbelief beginning to fray. When Barry spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. in. Sorry, yeah, it's a lot to take in, I know. What I was saying is, fast forward now, index finger, catch back up and then move the camera around in real time. And trembling, I did as he asked. After a few seconds, I caught up to the present, and when I pan the camera,

the scene in the viewfinder moved in sync, though it was still showing me that other version of my home. I could hardly breathe, as I load the camera again to stare at Barry. I... How is that? It has to be fake, right? Some kind of AR trick or something. He shook his head.

It's not. I've done all kinds of tests. I don't claim to be an expert, but how could it make those kinds of changes in the moment? It's showing us some other place, a place that's very similar to ours, but isn't the same. When I just kept staring,

he nodded. It's hard to believe, I know. It was for me too. That's why, I want you. To go for a walk with me. We went down to the street. Barry's hand tied to mine like a lifeline as I stared through the camera and into that other world.

The street and sidewalks were largely the same, but much of the rest was different. Stores sometimes had different names, or weren't the same kind of store at all. several buildings were abandoned and a few had been burned. When I asked Barry about that, he told me that there was lots of places like that all over and that nearly every house of worship he'd come across,

be it a church, a synagogue, or a mosque that had been burned down or otherwise destroyed. A couple that haven't. His gaze trailed away from me as his lips grew thin. I think they've been converted into worshipping something else. Barry gestured at the camera Keep looking through And put my eye back to the viewfinder It was the same time of day where we were

A late winter afternoon I was quickly ripening into a great twilight In our world People pass this by frequently But in the camera's viewfinder There was no one at I let out a gasp As a man ran in the corner in the viewfinder

He looked slightly disheveled But otherwise seemed normal pulling away from the camera, I looked for him in the world. But no, there was a woman and a small child waiting at the crosswalk ahead, but no man in a tattered overcoat trudging in our direction. Looking back to the viewfinder, the man was about to pass us, passed through us, with no sign of seeing us. Of course, that made sense.

We weren't there after all. I handed the camera back to Barry, shakily. What? I... What are you going to do with it? Should you tell someone? He frowned and shrugged. I don't know.

I don't think so. If I show it to people, someone will just steal it or take it away. I want to use it more and try to figure out more. Like, does it always show the same world? Or does it go between different places? I think it's the same one, but it's hard to say for sure.

He looks scared, but excited. It's great. though, right? Kind of spooky, but it's like having a magic mirror or something. I rubbed my arms. I guess. I just... How do you know it's not dangerous

or that it wasn't put out for someone to find, like a trap or something? Barry nodded. I know. I've thought about that, and I can't say for sure. But I can't just let go of something like this without trying, can I?

He's like thrown away a miracle. I let out a shaky laugh. My grandma used to say that people only call things miracles if it goes the way they want it to. The stuff that doesn't. That's just bad luck, or the devil. Barry smiled uncertainly. Well, I guess that's true. Not everything turns out good.

I shook my head slightly. No, that wasn't a point. She said that everything turned out good, turned out exactly the way it was meant to be, that every extraordinary thing has a miracle to someone. somebody, even if it hurts others. The thing that changed wasn't the miracle. I glanced back down at the camera with a shudder.

It was who the miracle helped. Reaching out, I gently gripped his arm. Just... Just be careful with it, okay? Something passed across his face then. Maybe a moaned of doubt or a more potent strain of fear. But then, it faded again. Nodding, he squeezed my hand.

I probably. I will be, Barry, disappeared two weeks later, and there's been no sign of him in the month since. He has no family, so I was the one that bagged up his stuff when his lease ran out, renting a storage unit to keep it in until he hopefully returned. When I didn't find the camcorder among his belongings, I thought it was strange, but it was also a relief. Though I didn't know for sure, I figured the camera was connected to. to what happened to my best friend, and if it wasn't going to help me get him back, I didn't want it around me at all.

Then, last week, I got a package in the mail. No return address, and the next day mailing label had been printed by one of those package drop-off stores. When I tracked it down, it was a place in northern New Hampshire. I called, but they said they didn't remember

who had come by with the box. That was okay. I thought I already. knew, because inside the box was the camera. It had to have come from Barry, and so I thought

maybe there was something on it that could give me some clue. Heart pounding, I picked up the camera and watched the last 37 minutes of footage. It amounted to little, just sitting out in that dirty hallway and then floating into the other version

of my apartment as I discovered it and brought it inside. No clues of what happened to Barry or caused him to send me the thing that had most likely ruined his life. I almost threw it away. It was an unclean thing that it infected Barry and now was going to infect me if it hadn't already. But then there was the fact that Barry had sent me the camera in the first place. He wouldn't have done that without a good reason, or if he thought it would hurt me, would he? So, I kept it, started using it carefully.

At first it was with the hopes that I could somehow figure out something that would lead me to Barry. But as time went on, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the larger mystery of it all. That other world it showed me. It was a wrong place, a bad place that had gone sour down to its core. The people there, half of them seemed twisted and the other half looked exhausted and terrified. Just watching for a few minutes drained me. But by the fourth day, I was using it every couple of hours, going to different places around the city to compare my version of a place to its dark twin. When I got back home, there was a letter in my mailbox.

The postmark was from Vermont a week earlier, and the address was written in Barry's Lodge and shaky script. Mouth dry, I tore it open and took out the note he'd written inside. I was wrong. It's not a miracle for us. they have cameras too, and they can reach through. I didn't use the camera for two days. I was too scared, but the more time that passed and the more I thought about Barry's letter, the more terrified it became of not at least taking an occasional peak,

if only to reassure myself that nothing was looking back at me. So I went for a walk yesterday afternoon. Just a short walk, following roughly the same path me and Barry had taken that first. night he'd show me the camera. At first it was fine. I could never get used to the strangeness of seeing that other world, but there was no sign of anyone noticing me. I put the camera away to head home, and something made me stop and turn around. There was nothing there. I had to calm down. It was understandable that I was jumpy, but if I started freaking out at every little, my skin grew cold as a thought occurred in

me and I lifted the camera back to my eye. 30 feet away, there was a woman, standing still as she held the camera up to her face, its lensed eye staring straight at me. She began to smile as she saw me noticing her, the camera bobbing slightly as she gave a small nod, a small greeting or confirmation that she was seeing me just like I was seeing her.

I started the back pedal and As I did so, she began to walk toward me. As we picked up pace, she began occasionally peeking out from behind the camera, presumably to watch where I was going, while still following me. It was one of those times. I saw her face. It was me. The world turned upside down, and I slammed into her trash can and went sprawling.

Between going backwards and being too afraid to leave the camera's view and lose sight of her, I'd have to likely run under the street, if not the steel can bolted to the corner. I felt pain flare up in my hip and elbow as I landed, but I managed to roll over and get to my feet after a couple of breathless seconds. I had to get the camera back and see where she... My eyes found the camera, lying in the street and broken in half from either the fall or the car that had passed over in a moment before I saw where it had landed.

Letting out a moan, I darted forward to grab it, but even before I touched it I saw there was no point. It was crushed beyond any hope of repair, even if someone in this world were capable of working on such a thing. And I could feel that pressure, that presence growing closer behind me. Even without a camera, I could sense that other watching me, following me as I began to run. I didn't want to go home in case it didn't know that's where I lived.

so instead I ran the other way, panting with fear and exertion as I tried to distance myself from that terrible prickle on my scalp that told me I was still being pursued. And it worked, if only a little. By the time I stopped running, the feeling was still there, but was fainter. I was ten blocks away from where I'd fallen, and across the street I saw the bus depot. Pat in my pockets, I was grateful to find I'd brought my car. wallet with me. Maybe if I took a trip somewhere for a day or two, I could throw off the trail for good.

At first, it seemed to work. I went to Springfield, and when I got off the bus, there was no warning tingle at all. I got a motel room and began weighing the risks of returning home the next day. But that night,

as I was coming back from grabbing dinner at the restaurant near the motel, I felt it again, strong like the first time. I couldn't see her, but I still knew. Her or someone like her, someone that could see into this world, had found me again. I write this on the late-night bus headed for the West Coast. My money is going to run out soon, but I don't know that it'll matter.

As we pushed through the night, I imagine I could feel a dozen roving eyes turning toward me as we pass. I think looking into the world has marked me somehow. made me easier to see across whatever veil might separate us from them. A veil that, according to my friend, they can reach through as well. And something is following me. No matter how far I go or how hard I try, I can feel an invisible hunter stalking me and drawing closer all the time. Maybe is that other me I saw on the sidewalk,

or maybe it's something else. but the details of that aren't what scares me the most is the fact that I can feel myself losing the race with every midnight mile and is the question that follows those dark moments when I realise that I'll eventually run out of road happens when it catches me

get the paddles I remember falling it was nice at first the air rushing past me as the butterflies in my stomach multiplied with each passing second. Clear! Then there was a screaming. Not from my mouth, but from the pedestrians below,

scrambling to run away from the landing zone. Some to get help, others to avoid blood splatters at all cost. Clear! It wasn't until the last second, just before hitting the pavement that the shock wore off, and I realized what had happened. I was on the 12th floor balcony of a hotel in town, enjoying the view, and the rail gave way, crumbling beneath my grip.

There was no chance of avoiding the descent. Clear! They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. I wouldn't go that far, but I understand the sentiment. In my final moment, there on the operating table, I thought of them. The most important facets of my life, my wife and daughter. His pulse keeps dropping.

I would never get to see Leslie grow up, never get the teacher how to drive or walk her down the aisle at a wedding. And Charlotte? We had our issues. That's why I was staying at the hotel in the first place. But we knew it was a forever deal from the start. Now, that forever was over.

Cut short by a building code violation of all things. One more, clear! As my vision wavered, I saw something in the corner of the room. Not a something, but a someone. A man in turn to the century attire, leaning against the wall with a cane at his side. No one paid him any mind. He simply stood there and smiled.

We're losing him. As I took my last breath, the man in the corner said something. In its battered state, my brain couldn't comprehend the message. Looking back, I now know what it was. See you on the other side, Jack. Some say, after kicking the bucket, there isn't anything. Your brain dies and your soul along with it. With no further capacity for consciousness,

your mind cannot carry on past the body's expiration. I can tell you from experience, this is not the case. Between the operating room and the hereafter, there wasn't so much as a second of nothingness, no lapse in thought whatsoever. One minute I was in the hospital, and next I was in the afterlife, as seamless as a pawn progressing to his next square.

Hello, Jack. At first, I couldn't see anything. There was an overwhelming brightness, flooding my field of view. It's all right, your eyes will adjust. Give it a moment. After a few seconds, scene came into focus. I was seated at a table in the center of a plain, white room, with no windows or doors to

speak of. Sitting across from me was a strange man from the hospital. Where am I? I asked. Why, this is heaven, of course, he said proudly. Heaven? So I'm... Dead?

He let out an apologetic sigh. Yes, you've ridden your train as far as you can go. End of the line, Jack. He offered condolences in the form of a concerned look, complete with an awkward frown. Who were you supposed to be, then, an angel? He smiled. Not just any angel, Jack. I'm your angel, a sign to you since your birth.

A sign to me? What does that mean exactly? Were you watching over me? Protecting me? His boisterous laugh filled the room and echoed off the walls. watching over you sure protecting you quite the contrary i am the one who loosened that railing and sent you spiraling to the ground my heart sank what you killed me why honestly jack to get it over with my wife and daughter were now alone out there in the world with that terrible thought in mind i stood up and slammed my fists into the table what the hell you talking about?

His face turned sour. It wasn't likely that many people talk to him that way. Sit down now. He raised and lowered his hand in one fluid motion and I was seated again against my will.

He then stood up and leaned in as far as the table between us would allow. Here's how things work, Jack. When you die, your angel takes over. They possess your meat suit and get an equal share of time on earth. If you live for 30 years,

the angel rides you for 30 more and experience his life outside of these white walls. The longer we wait, the more time we get. But some of us are impatient. Yours truly, for instance. I tried to respond, but no words came out. It seemed that power pinning me in place was also keeping me quiet.

Life here, it's insufferable. Rules in order. the same miserable goings on day in and day out. I can't take another minute of it. That's why I pulled the plug early. I can visit Earth whenever I want and even manipulate events to my liking. But it's not the same.

With the vessel, I can finally be seen and touched. I can experience human interaction and all the pleasures they're in. Love, hunger, ambition, things I've never felt before. I need this, Jack, more than you know. He backed away and sat down.

Whatever hold he had over me was then released, allowing me to speak again. So, this is it. My life's over and you take the wheel. I don't get a say in this at all. He let out a sigh of disappointment. Actually, you do. Every soul is given two options. He snapped his finger and a pair of documents appeared on the table,

along with a silver pen. First option. Authorize my claim of ownership over your body and join me on earth. You'll have no control over our actions, but we'll at least get to experience life again in some small way. My turn to play, your turn to watch. That didn't sound like an attractive option. What's my other choice?

He scoffed. Second option, get thrown in the fragmentary. with all the other lost souls. You will be torn apart, reassembled and torn apart again. It'll take thousands of years before you are completely obliterated and allowed to rest.

That wasn't exactly ideal either. If I choose the first option, what happens after your time is up? I come back to heaven and get assigned a new case and you're thrown in the fragmenter anyway. It's a buffer really.

A period of time in, which you can brace yourself for the inevitable. I couldn't believe it. Heaven. It was supposed to be your final resting place. Somewhere you could exist in peace after death. At least, that's how it was always depicted in books and movies. In truth, it was a nightmare.

I'm dreaming right. In a coma in the hospital? Dreaming about what comes after. None of this is real. It can't be. The man juggled. Oh. It's real, Jack.

Here, let me show you. He reached across the table and placed the hand of my forehead. All at once, we were transported to the hospital, standing over my corpse as the doctor's left the room. What is this? What's happening? Calm down, Jack. It's called projected travel. We're still up there.

This is just a glimpse of what's happening down on earth. Charlotte walked in, tears streaming down her face. Charlotte? She can't hear you, Jack. One of the doctors put a hand on the shoulder. I'm so sorry, I can give you a minute, but we really need to clear the room. She ran to my side, now sobbing uncontrollably, and placed the head on me. Why did you leave, Jack?

Why? I reached out to touch her, but my hand went. right through. It's all my fault. We never should have thought. You should have been home with us. I wanted so badly to tell Charlotte she wasn't to blame for any of this. To hold her and say it would all be okay. But I couldn't. And that killed me inside. We still need you, Jack. Come back to us. I turned to the man, now crying myself. I've seen enough. Take us back now. Suit yourself. He snapped his fingers and we were back in heaven, seated across from one another at the table. So, what'll it be, Jack?

Endless torment. Or some more time on earth and then endless torment. Personally, I'm partial to the latter. I didn't like either option. But it was now abundantly clear which one to choose. I'll take the fragmenter. It's the only thing that will destroy the sorrow I'm feeling. even if it does take thousands of years.

If I'm going there either way, I might as well get it over with. I grabbed the pen and began signing the appropriate contract. The man pulled my hand away. Don't be so impulsive, Jack. We have time. Think it over a bit. Tell you what, I'll even let you see your family from time to time. We can check in on them if you want.

That's even more of a reason to choose a fragmenter. I don't want them ever seeing you in my body. He looked absolutely devastated. I took my hand back and continued signing. No, I can't let you do this, Jack. Before I could get to the last signature block, the man ripped the paper out from underneath the pen. What are you doing? I made my choice.

I accept my fate. No, I'm not staying here, Jack. I can't sit through another person's life. You're going to let me in whether you like it or not. His eyes turned black and his mouth opened up, revealing a set of razor-sharp teeth. Before I could react to the transformation, I was pushed up against the wall by an unseen force.

He leapt over the table, grabbed me by the neck, and ran his hand down my arm. His now dagger-like nails caressed my skin, just enough to reveal slivers of red beneath the surface. Sign the deal or I'll have fragment you myself, piece by piece. I think you'll find that I can be very creative

when it comes to methods of torture. There are far worse face than death, and I can assure you I'm the worst one of all. His breath was toxic, putrid fumes spilling out of his mouth and climbing onto mine, creating a cancerous taste in my tongue that made me want to vomit.

If this was a preview of things to come, there was no doubt in my mind he was telling the truth. Regardless, I stood my ground. No, I choose this over letting you in. You can rot here with me. He growled and tossed me. across the room, I fell to the floor like a rag doll.

Plan B, then. A snap of his fingers, and he was gone, replaced with an old film projector that now rested on the table. As I stood up, it powered on, projecting a scene onto the wall ahead. It was Charlotte and Leslie on the drive home from the hospital. Where's Daddy? Charlotte looked at Leslie through the rearview mirror, crying, but trying a best to to hold it in.

Daddy's not with us anymore, sweetie. Leslie tilted ahead, confused. Where is he? Charlotte wiped some more of her tears away, though they were quickly replaced with more. He's in a better place now. If only she knew, when would he be home?

Charlotte couldn't hold it back anymore. She was now sobbing. What's wrong, Mom? me? She couldn't answer right away, barely able to catch a breath while crying. Leslie, sweetie, daddy's not with us anymore, okay? I'm so sorry, but he's gone. He's never coming back to us. She continued to sob while Leslie put the pieces together. No, he can't be gone. No, not daddy. My little girl began crying and my heart shattered into a million pieces. Charlotte reached back and held her hand as tightly as she could.

They were in so much pain and I couldn't lift a finger to help them. I turned away. It was too much. Is this your big plan? Emotional torture. I'm still not saying yes to you. You hear me? It was a brief period of silence followed by a voice from behind.

Look again, Jack. I turned back and saw him. Not in the room with me. No, he was in the projection, sitting in the passenger seat next to my wife, waving back at me. She didn't seem to notice him at all. What the hell are you doing? His lips contorted into a wicked grin. Watch this, Jack.

He grabbed his steering wheel and jostled it back and forth. Charlotte did her best to gain control, but the car was swerving all over the place. Oh, stop it! He released the wheel and looked back at me. Agreed to my terms, or they die. Which will it be? My heart was pounding. Fear nestled in the pit of my stomach.

I didn't want to give in, but I no longer had a choice in the matter. Letting him take my flesh for a joyride was a small price to pay for my family's safety. Fine, I'll do it. Good choice, Jack. Another snap of his fingers, and he returned. The projector now. gone. He held out the paper and pen to me, undoubtedly anxious to claim his prize. Sign. As I looked over the contract, I noticed the structure of the final signature block.

In addition to my and the angel's signature, an overseer was required to sign. Who's the overseer? Is that your boss? I asked. Nothing you need to worry about. Now sign. It was probably nothing. But... I was curious. Well, it says here the overseer needs to witness the signing. He flinched every time I uttered that word. He will. The moment the pen touches the page, he sees what you see.

Now sign it already. An idea came to mind. It was a long shot, but definitely worth trying, before handing over my body once and for all. The moment the pen touches the page, eh? He nodded, but snarled in the process. fall to the brim with impatience and disdain. This would be my one and only chance.

It was now or never. Sign now, Jack! I put the pen to the dotted line, but didn't jot down my signature. Instead, I scribbled out a message of three words. Overseer, come help. The man grabbed the page and examined it. You son of her!

He reached out to grab me, but his arm was pulled away. way. There was now another man standing at his table. Overseer, I'm sorry, I save it. With a wave of his hand, the overseer brought the man to his knees and erased his mouth altogether. He then fell flat on the floor and writhed in pain. Without any audible indication of discomfort, the sight was somehow even more disturbing. I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a step back, hoping I hadn't just submitting myself to a similar fate. Okay, Jack, what is it you need?

I took a simple, preparatory breath and made my plea. Are there any more options for me? No, fragmenter or vessel. All of his responses were sparse and final. Clearly, not the kind to mince words or beat around the bush. Okay, that brings me to my next question. having no knowledge of your customs or laws, I was just wondering if this angel's behaviour was,

for all intents and purposes, sanctioned. Behaviour? He asked. Yes. You see, he killed me, and then coerced me into signing over my body by threatening my family's lives. Is that the sort of thing that's allowed here? His brows curled, and he turned to the man on the floor.

Hardly. With another wave of his hand, he released him. Is what the human say is true? The man remained in the floor, not yet recovered from the pain. With no mouth, he simply shook his head to deny my claims. Fine. I'll see for myself. The oboecear's eyes glowed blue as he reached down and held a hand to the man's head. After a minute or so, the light in his eyes faded and he turned to me.

It seems you would tell him. the truth. His eyes then glowed red, and he placed his hand back on the man, who now looked terrified, squirming in an attempt to flee. He was no use. In a fraction of a second, his body was eviscerated, turned to a pile of ash before my eyes. Your turn. He walked over to me, and I backed into the wall. No, no, please. He placed his hand over my heart. Time to set things right, Jack. This might burn a little. He was right.

It was a fiery sensation that soon permeated my whole body. Then, just as I couldn't take any more, a beam of light shot through the floor and enveloped me. Soon after, I lost consciousness. As far as I could tell, I was done for. I sprung to life on the operating table, my lungs taking in as much air as they could in one breath. Nordley was nearby cleaning up.

The ruddy startled, he nearly fell over onto the floor. Oh my God, you're alive! He ran to the door and called out for help. Soon enough, a slew of doctors entered the room, astonished to see me breathing again. One of them completely awestruck, pointed down on my chest. That mark, it wasn't there before. Everyone in the room was looking at it.

A hand-shaped burned on my chest, right where the overseer touched me. One of the nurses chimed in. Well, I'll be damned. They all scrambled to change my fluids and check my vitals. Other than the burn, there was nothing wrong with me. My injuries had healed with no medical explanation. As such, I was released shortly after, with a remarkably clean bill of health in better shape than it was before the impact.

As far as the doctors were concerned, it was a miracle. I tried calling Charlotte from the hospital's landline a dozen times, but there was no answer. It was my guess that she was too grief-stricken to be bothered by a phone. With no car or anyone else to call for a ride, one of the doctors agreed to bring me home after a shift. I couldn't wait to see my family again. After all, was said and done, I arrived home around midnight.

Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate this. He smirked. Don't think me. I'm not the one who saved your life. You must have an angel up there looking out for you. I got out of the car and looked back at him before closing the door. God, I sure hope not. The doctor drove off and I ran inside, excited to share the good news and take the take away all the tears shed in my name.

Charlotte, Leslie, I'm home. After turning the corner into the living room, I saw Charlotte sitting by herself on the sofa. Honey, I'm here. I'm still here. She remained motionless and silent. Honey? Are you okay? Where's Leslie? She turned to me, and, with the most stoic expression,

offer me three words that cut my heart in two. Leslie's dead, Jack. The room started spinning. Anguish overcame me as I fell into the couch next to her. No, it can't be. How? As her tears wet my face, I noticed that Charlotte didn't appear to be sad.

Charlotte, why aren't you crying? What happened? Her face liked any and all emotion. There was a car accident and the way home, from the hospital. Just then, Leslie came down the stairs and sat next to her mother. Leslie, my little girl, are you okay? I reached out for her, but Charlotte pushed my hand away.

They didn't make it. We just wanted to see the man the overseer saved. Now that we have, we can leave. He stood up and headed for the door. That's when it sank in. The dread, the heartache, the realisation. Charlotte turned around before leaving the room Your wife signed a deal for the both of them

Their bodies belong to us now If you enjoy this story The author does his own narrations over on his channel Check it out on the top of the description below The Hidden Islands of Cornwall Preliminary Research Interview and Video Footage Analysis Philip Sazbo was

for want of a better phrase, a real piece of work. In interviewing Bryce Thomas, those are his exact words regarding his childhood friend. From what Bryce told me about him, he was right. Yeah, we didn't grow up in the nicest of places.

He had it rough, more than most, though. Couldn't help but like him, though. We had history. Bryce described the lifestyle of the late sabs to me in painstaking detail, from his crimes to his family. I was subject to intricate details about Philip Sasbo's life that I wasn't entirely certain were irrelevant to my investigation,

most of which have been omitted from my write-up of Bryce's words. He never did me no harm, let's get that straight. But the man was a psycho, unstable. Could a guy's finger off once, sold all sorts of stuff too. Started when we were teenagers. He got him with some older bloke who was dealing, and that was it, was the best chance he had, I guess. Single Polish mum, who got knocked up by a gypsy.

Then he got orphaned in a car crash, got raised by his godfather. He was like a real old god of proper cockney thugs, reformed and cleaned, but still hard as nails. You ever seen Lockstock? I told him I hadn't, to which he started talking about how Philip's godfather acted in a way that was reminiscent of a character from the movie, lock stock and two smoking barrels.

Bryce later explained how he lost contact with and subsequently got back in contact with Philip. The way things was going for him, I didn't want to get dragged into it. I drive lorries, suits me just fine. I wanted a normal job. He found me on Facebook a few years after we last spoke because he wanted me to look into something with him.

I thought he wanted me to smuggle some stuff over the channel or something because that's one of my roots, so I told him I wasn't interested. I've been asked to smuggle things a lot. Even got asked to hide some girls in my lorry one time. Called the police and the sicko who asked. I'm getting off topic. Sorry. Anyway, Sab started going on about how it would be, just like old times and that, talking about when we were kids and we used to watch that ghost hunting program on TV.

Finally, we were heading towards having a conversation about the... intended topic. I asked for more information about the nature of what Philip revealed to Bryce prior to them reuniting in person. He never really let on, but I figured it would be all right to catch up. To be honest, I didn't really give a damn. When we were kids, we'd explore the woods looking for ghosts and that. But to me, it was just a bit of fun.

I think he held on to ghost stories a bit too much, because of his mom, though. It was a big thing for him. Like, I think his mom always used to tell him Polish ghost stories and stuff before she died. I was intrigued by the way Bryce described Philip's perspective. I mentioned that I'd like to have an interview with Sabo himself and that it was a shame he was no longer able to tell the story in his own words. Bryce and I made some more small talk before I inevitably asked about their final ghost hunting venture. I asked Bryce when Philip finally told him about what he had planned for the trip.

See, that's the thing. He didn't really know exactly what we were getting into. When I actually met up with him again, he told me about this Cornish fisherman that he somehow knew of. He was going on and on about him. No idea how they met. But, according to Saps, this chap was saying that there were Ghost Islands off the coast,

little islands that aren't on any maps. I thought it was a load of bull, because if Saps knew him, it was probably a crackhead. It was completely shot anyway. But Sabs was proper serious about me and him going to see these islands, saying that there were real ghosts there. There were several questions I wanted to ask Bryce at this point,

namely about what exactly ghost islands meant, and the reason that said coastal islands would be uncharted. I made the note to these questions, but chose to pursue a line of questioning that would have Bryce retail events in chronological order. I asked Bryce to tell me about, what he and Philip did when they arrived in Cornwall. Saps was desperate to talk to the fisherman, a local lad called Arthur,

quite a bit older than the both of us. He didn't want us to film him, but I snuck a couple shots of him and his boat. I was pleased that Bryce had mentioned the video footage before I had to bring it up. Asking for media that may or may not capture the death of a friend or loved one is always somewhat awkward. Others in this line of work find it easy Though admittedly they had been doing it for longer I pressed Bryce for the video footage Yeah it's on my old phone

I got a new one last year Bryce handed me an iPhone from his pocket Covering which was a thick presumably waterproof case He was obviously prepared to give it to me prior to the interview It didn't have a password on it Something that Bryce may have done in anticipation for this moment. Never got around to selling it.

So you can borrow it to get the footage. I have it on my laptop too. It's all in bits though. Oh, and for the record, yeah. I only kept it in case the police asked about what happened. Not sure if they'd believe me, but, you know, I don't know. Arthur told the police he fell off the boat. But if they ever came and started blaming me, I'd have something to show them.

unsure of how to approach the topic, I decided it best not to ask exactly how Philip had passed away. Instead, I thanked Bryce for his time and told him that a colleague of mine would be in touch to return the phone and that I would call him on his current number if I had any more questions. I returned to the office and transfer the files from Bryce's phone to my desktop. I hunkered down in my cubicle and began to analyze the footage. Videos 1 through 5 Each video is a clip

Between 2 and 8 seconds For portions of which a bearded man is seen Stood atop a boat in a harbour The audio is muffled in all 5 videos In video 4 A portion of the video focuses on the name of the boat The man is stood on The Nimble Twist

The man in the video Is presumably Arthur The fisherman Video 6 The camera focuses on a distant cliff edge The zoom's view is juttering and wobbling Then pans right to a man with a shaved head The scene is accompanied by the noise of the boat's engine

Above a black track suit A man dons a fluorescent life jacket The camera zooms in and out of his face Sabby A familiar voice Bryce Thomas calls out to him in a mocking tone his voice oscillating to a comical ghostly effect

Sabby Bryce the cameraman continues What? Philip Sabo laughs We're going to the ghost island Sabby Bryce continues to zoom the camera in and out of Philip's face Come on mate take it seriously Sabo frowns his demeanour instantly shifting All right

Bryce pans once more to the right to reveal that they were aboard the nimble twist Do not film me A rough, harshly accented voice demands It's undoubtedly Arthur Right The camera snaps back to a bobbing view Of the distant cliff edge

How do we get up the cliff? Philip calls out You don't, Arthur shouts I'll take you around There's a beach on the other side That's where he throws us over Bryce mutters, flipping the camera to show his smirk. Save your charge, Sappho instructs.

We want to be able to actually film the island. Video 7. The view of the camera is obscured by a thick fog, and the audio is distorted by rough ocean noises. Just audible above the ocean spray is a shouting, Bryce. Where the hell are we going? Bryce shouts. We're almost there. He said this happens.

Philip calls back. He's trying to kill us or something. Bryce drops his phone onto the boat, quickly retrieving it. We're in a damn dinghy. My boat is not a dinghy. Arthur yells. We're almost there.

How much further? Philip asks. In contrary to Bryce's characterization of the man, there appears to be a hint of worry in his voice. Just through the fog, Arthur reassures him. Video 8. The boat is steady. only gently rocking as Bryce films a gentle beach through a fading fog.

The noise of the engine no longer provides an undertone to the footage, but instead the sounds of seagulls and smooth waves overlay a sense of serenity. Arthur abruptly interrupts the scene of tranquility with a harsh comment. It's your death if you carry on boys, he mutters. You're not going to take us any further, Bryce scrumbles. Of course not, Arthur laughed. I'm not going past the fog barrier. The fog's gone, Bryce notes.

Indeed, the obfuscating fog has all but disappeared. Only little remnants have missed remain. Let's get you two going, Arthur says. Video 9. Philip and Bryce stand on a sandy shore, while Bryce films two blow-up rings with paddles strewn across the sand. Philip complains under his breath. Why couldn't he drop us to the beach?

He spits. Something about the fog barrier? Bryce responds with some uncertainty. No idea what that means. Philip shrugs. Sounds like a cracker thing to say. Bryce chuckles before turning around to face the ocean. Wait, where the hell did Arthur go?

What? Philip jumps into the view of the camera, spinning to face the empty ocean. He turns to face Bryce. That little... Philip tears off his life jacket, throwing it into the ground beside him. You think he's coming back? Yeah, he's got to. Bryce pulls a bright object into the view of the camera.

Why would he give me the flare gun otherwise? Right, he said he'd get us from the cliffside, Philip says. But he can't have gone out of view that fast. Like, we'd see him going around still. How was he meant to get us from the cliffside? Price puzzles, making a scratch and sound off screen. Bryce Philip jolts towards him,

reaching an arm out. Don't hit your head with the damn flare gun. Bryce trubs his phone a second time, retrieves it again, and video ends. Video 10. Go! Bryce shakes the camera up and down

in a nodding motion. The shock consists of a row of red brick houses on a cobbled street. Stone brick walls mark out the boundaries between each terraced home. Gentle creeping vines of ivy subtly make their way along each wall in a twisting pattern, one that stretches the length of the frame.

The houses all share another similarity. Their windows are obfuscated, covered with the newspaper. Off the coast of Cornwall, Philip steps into view of the camera. We are on what the locals call a ghost island. Pretty sure it's just you and Arthur, Bryce interrupts. For goodness sake, Philip grumbles. through clenched teeth, and whatever, just come and film the flower. Bryce approaches the centre-most garden of the terraced houses

and leans over the stone brick wall to reveal a large, pale, pink flower. It has three petals, one of which is notably longer than the others. There it is, Bryce says, this weird flower in some bloke's garden. It's not some bloke's garden, Philip pokes the flower. Who'd even live here, and there have been no people. people had all since we got here. So why their houses, Bryce asks. Before Philip is able to respond, the pair focus their attention back to the flower, which begins to move and wriggle as a result of being prodded by Philip. The stench droops and the flowerhead slowly sinks downward

towards the gravel of the garden path. Bryce begins to speak, but Philip shushes him. The flowerhead shimmies before abruptly launching itself using the long pedal. As it lands, the two shorter petals stabilise it. It continues to jump, hopping its way down the garden path. You getting this? Philip whispers as Bryce zooms in on the creature. The flower creature reaches the door of the red brick house, then jumps with enormous force onto the letterbox. It writhes as it latches onto the flap, before worming its way inside the house. Philip begins to walk down the garden path toward the door of the house. What the hell are you doing? Bryce hisses.

Get back from there. This is what we came for, Philip scuffs. The flower was weird as hell, Bryce warns. What if it was, I don't know, an alien? An alien? Philip stops in his track, turning to face Bryce. Yeah, maybe. Have you ever seen a flower like that?

before? We're on a ghost island. Why would it be an alien? Philip manages to stifle a laugh. Zabs, shut up, Bryce fumbles, almost dropping his phone a third time as he points at Philip. Would you stop dropping your phone? Philip storms towards Bryce. The two of them muddle about with the phone for a moment, until Philip steps back and looks directly into the lens. Is the Velcro tight enough? Philip asks. I reckon so Bryce gives two thumbs up Both hands visible in the frame

Good thing I kept the life jacket on Yeah, good thing you're a damn idiot Philip spins and paces rapidly towards a door Let's go lock The pair stand before the door Philip knocks on the door The pair wait for a moment But nobody answers

Bryce steps back a few paces And Philip crouches He gently lifts the flap on the letterbox and peers into the gap created. Philip pushes his finger through to lift the second letterbox flap on the inside of the house. Shifting in place, Philip tries to spy the interior of the house from various angles.

Philip turns to look at Bryce, asking him to come closer and film inside the house. As Bryce approaches, Philip screams, reeling back from the letterbox. He clutches his hand, and Bryce stumbles backwards. Blood pours from stumps on Philip's hand, splattering at his feet,

and he yells incessantly. Bryce thinks quickly and takes up a shoe, then hands his sock to Philip to hold on the wound. Come on, let's get out of here. Bryce trembles as he slides on his shoe. Jesus Christ, Philip jumps to his feet. What the hell was that? As Bryce ushers Philip back down the garden path,

a clang is audible. Bryce turns to see that the flower has dropped down from the letterbox, and, instead of its gentle, pastel hue, it sits proudly with a menacing splatter of Ferris Red adorned upon its petals. It arches, readying itself to jump forwards. Bryce turns and runs, following an already fleeing Philip. They sprint to the end of the street, and as they turn left onto the next road,

they find themselves upon an identical street. To their right, the same row of houses, they were a brick exterior and repeating ivy patterns nearly similar to which they had already left behind. The bear continued to run, turning again under the next street. Again, they are met with the exact same row of houses. A third time, they run, and they stop as they reach the same street once more. Bryce drops to his knees, but Philip carries on running.

Wait, Bryce pants. Philip doesn't respond, but keeps going to the end of the street, and his only option is to take a left turn. God damn it, Philip shouts. Bryce turns, and behind him, stood with his arms at his knees. Here's Philip Sabo. We're stuck here, Bryce whimpers through snatched breaths. Philip walks back the way it came, and Bryce turns to see him emerge from the far side of the street. Philip walks back again and appears from behind Bryce, still holding Bryce's sock to his wound.

It's sodden with blood. Reckon the flower ain't following us, Bryce thinks aloud. Should we check? Philip begins walking before he finishes his question. Right, yeah, Bryce follows behind. Directly ahead from a skewed welcome mat, the flowerhead creature gurgles atop a pool of blood. A transparent proboscis protrudes. from its underside, sloshing inside a witch is a deep red from the small puddle left behind by Sabo's injury.

The flower head seems to not notice the pair observing it. I'm going to stumble that damn thing, growls Philip. You think you can take it? Price seems uncertain. Yeah. Philip creeps forward. He lifts a leg over the garden wall, then creeps to the grass towards the flower. Philip's footsteps over the unkempt lawn of the garden are soft, inaudible to the camera.

Bryce's shallow breaths overshadow any noise that Philip may be making. He reaches the edge of the grass. Beside the path the flower head drinks from. The pool has almost entirely disappeared by the time Philip reaches it, and the creature retracts his proboscis. It curls up into the underside of the flower. Philip raises his foot to stamp on the ground. creature. But grassy tendrils shoot from the matted dry lawn. They grab at his foot,

wrapping around his ankle, calf and thigh, pulling him backwards into the foliage. Philip struggles and shouts, trying to raise himself back up, but the grass continues to pull him downward, tangling around his waist and neck. Bryce begins to dash toward Philip, but the flower jumps towards him. Bryce lurches backwards in shock. He trips and falls on to his back. Meanwhile, Philip cries out muffled words, begging for help. Bryce clambers up onto his feet and sees the flower headed not towards him, but towards the stem from which it first fell. Undoubtedly relieved, Bryce instead turns his attention back towards Philip. At Philip's feet, a man of dirt is forming, flower stems with off-shooting dandelions and daisies, sprout up from

the pile of soil. They mould and twist, wrapping. and writhing into a womanly figure. She grows tall, her form great and majestic, almost above the height of the house. Will her branches weep from her head like a great mane of wooden hair? The grass releases Philip, and he rises before the flower-weaved giantess.

She kneels to meet his gaze, her cargancheon face forbiddingly looming. She and Philip stare at each other. Philip is frozen, paralyzed by fear. fear. The green woman looks at him at first with rage, but it instantly melts away into curiosity. Her eyes jitter up and down, observing details about this person. Bryce watches from behind the stone wall, whispering just loudly enough for Philip to hear. He begs Philip to return to the street. But as Bryce ushers Philip back to him, the giantess scoops Philip up in her arms, holding him

as one might carry an infant. Her voice is gentle. Her breath carries on the air like a rustling in the wind. Whips of a chill breeze are whittled into her words as she whispers a message for all to hear.

Your mother looks down upon you, she coos. She watches. Bryce stands up. Philip's face creases with vulnerability. His hardened exterior now resembling a sad, lost boy.

She does? With his uninjured hand, Philip reaches out to the great face of the giantess. She does, the green lady cackles, her voice beginning to bear the embers of anger. Her face contorts into the unfiltered hatred that she had shown upon her awakening. She is disgusted by what you've become. The woman plunges her face towards Philip. Rosa teeth made from thorn's line of mouth She wretches at Philip's arm

And he screams as it is torn from his socket Bryce quickly points the flare gun towards the woman He takes aim Philip is writhing in agony As Bryce tries to take aim at the woman So has to not hit his friend The thorn-ridden mouth plunges towards Philip to take a second bite And Bryce squeezes his finger on the trigger

A trail of smoke hurdles with a crash from Bryce's shot. The hissing flare penetrates its target and a fire blazes within the green woman. Shadowed by the creeping vines that compose the body, still visible is the flare that burns within a chest. It begins to envelop a body until she becomes a burning effigy of the unkempt garden.

She throws a victim onto the ground with a crunch, turning to Bryce. Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no. Over and over, Bryce repeats the phrase to himself. He prepares to run. He braces for impact. But instead is met with upturned lips and clasped hands from the burning woman. Heart, she nods.

The woman allows the fire to reduce her to ash, all while smiling at Bryce affectionately. As quickly as she appeared, she was reduced to nothing. Once the burning woman is gone, Bryce dashes to check on Philip. Unfortunately, as he approaches his friend, he realizes there is nothing that can be done. Philip's body is not only burned,

but crumpled from the impact in such a way that there was no chance of recovery. Parts of Philip's arm was strewn across the ashen garden. Bryce wretches and holds himself up with one hand on the wall. He throws up. After taking some time to recover from the emotional stress of the ordeal, Bryce ends the video.

Conclusion. I still have questions to ask Bryce Thomas. How did he leave the island? What did he say to Arthur after the incident? Considering the events that transpired on the ghost island, and also liked to ask Bryce why he didn't inform me of everything during the interview, though he could be unwilling to speak about what happened due to the traumatic experience he underwent. Perhaps that's why he opted to give me the video,

rather than talk about exactly what happened. After extensive analysis, Lola, our in-house video specialist has determined that there is little possibility of CGI being used to create the sequence of videos. Therefore, I've decided that further investigation is required. Our next step is finding the nimble twist and the man who sailed Bryce Thomas and Philip Sabo to the Hidden Island of Cornwall.

My job is easy, almost ridiculously so. For 10 hours a night, four days a week, I supervise a conveyor belt and perform remedial functions on a computer. In August, it'll be 19 years that I've been working here, and I still don't know what I actually do. I mean, I know what I do every night for work, but I don't know why I do it, or what purpose it ultimately serves. I can't describe exactly what I do. Because the non-disclosures I've signed forbid it. But trust me, when I say you could literally train a monkey to do it if you really wanted to. The pay is ridiculously lucrative, especially considering the ease of the work.

When I first started working here, I thought for sure it was too good to be true and convinced it was a scam or a pyramid scheme of some kind. My checks are signed by an institution which has no trace on Google, nor it's. any business registries I've looked through. I've never met my boss. If I have one, nor any of my co-workers, aside from my driver, Dave.

I don't even know the name of the business or my position. People ask me what I do for work, and nowadays I just tell them I work for the government and can't go into details because it's easier than explaining the reality. But I'm not even sure if that's accurate. Before every shift, I'm picked up from home by a box van with no logos or placard.

I've known the driver for years now, and he seems like a decent guy. I know him as Dave, but I don't think that's his real name. Once inside the van, I put on this custom helmet designed to prevent me from seeing anything. From there, Dave drives me to the job site, about 30 minutes away. He and I conversed nonchalantly most of the time, usually about sports, politics, or our lives general, but never about the jobs who work. When we arrive, Dave instructs me to remove the helmet, and I find myself inside a dismal garage with a simple metal door in front of the vehicle.

From there, I bid farewell to Dave and head inside to begin my shift. Beyond the door is a simple grey hallway with tired floors. Dozens of doors line the corridor, and the faint sounds of humming machinery fill my ears as I travel to my designated office on the third floor. There are no elevators, so I take the stairs. Once I arrive at my door, I use my badge in the reader to unlock it and enter. My office consists of little more than a small room and a few computer terminals in front of a large window. There's a personal bathroom on the left, along with a landline phone behind a class case for emergencies.

On the other side of the window is a larger chamber. containing a conveyor belt and a scan station. The conveyor has a single entrance and branches to four possible exits. Every few hours an alarm will sound and the conveyor belt will begin to move. This signifies the arrival of our product and the only real action I see throughout my shift. A minute or two later and a large, nondescript steel box will roll in from beyond the room. I've never gone the exact dimensions of it, but it's a perfect square, and got to be at least four feet on every side. Once it reaches the scan station, it stops, and my task begins.

From there, I use my computer to begin prepping the box for analysis. All I really have to do is use the robotic arms to ensure the testing equipment is hooked up properly. The computer does everything else, analyzing the odd steel box for whatever its parameters are said. set to, and spitting out the conclusion it reaches. As mentioned, there are four possible exits from there that the box will be sent on, depending on the results of the test. Path A is the most common, with about 7 out of 10 boxes being designated for it. Path B is less common, housing maybe 2 out of the 10,

and Path C is rather rare, accounting for 1 out of 10 or possibly less. In my almost 19 years of employment, I have never seen Path D be used even once. This process takes maybe 10 minutes from start to finish and generally repeats three to six times a night until my shift is over. Some nights I get no boxes at all, but those days are rather rare. As far as my employee duties go, that's about it. Aside from keeping my workplace clean, which is rather simple, considering I'm the only one that ever goes in there as far as I know. 99% of the time, I sit around in my station, just killing time. It can be hard to stay awake sometimes, but I feel my downtime with various entertainment like podcasts, music, and even an occasional movie.

Wi-Fi and cell reception is nonexistent in the room, which sucks. but I'm almost positive it is intentional. I know I'm not the only one who does this job, but I've never seen videos of it online or seen anyone talk about it. The contract assigned makes it clear that exposing trade secrets is grounds for immediate termination. This is why I've been intentionally vague about the process

and I've left out several crucial components of it. It's no doubt still a bad idea to post this, but I feel like I know. to. I'm behind a proxy, so hopefully that's enough to mask my identity. But even if it's not, it's a risk I'll just have to take. As mentioned, the job pays very well, better than anything else I know of that requires such little training and effort. The boxes that roll in on the conveyor belt are clearly not solid steel. If they were, they'd probably weigh a few tons, and I doubt the conveyor belt array

would be strong enough to hold, let alone move them. Obviously they are hollow, which means there is something inside them. For the longest time, I thought the boxes contained radioactive waste such as depleted uranium. It would explain the inaccessibility of the testing chamber,

as well as potentially the testing process itself. However, I'm not required to wear any special protective attire, and from what I know of radioactivity, being in as close proximity as I am to it, it would require special PPE. So, you may be wondering, if the pay is so good and the job is so easy, then why would you compromise it by posting this? It's a good question, and one that I've contemplated for years now. After nearly two decades of uncertainty for both myself and people I know, I guess the curiosity has finally gotten the better of me. That, and also, because something really unsettling happened recently,

and I just feel like I need some answers. You may recall that I mentioned earlier how Pathway D has never been used once in all the time I've worked here. But that's not entirely true. Last week, I was in the middle of an otherwise normal shift. The alarm sounded as usual, and one of the boxes rolled in a moment later. I perked up at my desk as it approached the scan station

and noticed something odd. I've seen thousands of these boxes come and go at this point in my life and for all I know, they're recycled and reused. This one appeared different than all the others. The outer shell was scuffed and would look like scorch marks were engraved on the outside. It looked like someone had taken a torch to it and randomly blackened the surface from heat.

I got my equipment set up, and a minute or two later commenced the scan, which takes about three minutes to complete. All the while, this inexplicable sense of dread overcame me. I don't know how to explain it really, but this overwhelming sense of impending doom just sunk its teeth into the fibre of my being. Usually, the scanning process is routine, automatic, and I hardly even pay attention to it nowadays, as I've repeated it so many times over the years. That time, I paid close attention, though, and I'm glad I did. I watched the readings on the scan climb, far beyond the normal threshold for an A or B. My eyes then sprung wide as it zoomed right past the C territory as well.

It just kept going into readings I had never seen, and frankly, didn't even think was possible. It quadrupled the readings that would have deemed it a sea before the scan had even reached the 50% mark. Things got really weird then. The screen began to fizzle at random intervals. The random blurbs of static appearing on screen for a single moment than vanishing. The screen partially distorted as well, like someone was running a powerful magnet over it. The lights in the room flickered a few times, and I thought the power was going to cut out before the scan concluded. My eyes then caught sight of the item being scanned, and my jaw nearly hit the floor.

It was trembling, like a cell phone on Vibrate, getting an incoming call, but much more intense. It seemed to distort as well, growing larger and more malformed before slumping back down and nearly imploding on itself like a long. rhythmically expanding in and out. To my surprise, the power held firm and the scan finally concluded. I looked back to the screen to see an impossibly high reading staring back at me. It was probably larger than every reading I've ever seen combined, and I didn't know what exactly to make of it. You're not real. A sudden whisper spoke into my ear as clear as day and sounded like it was spoken by a young boy. I nearly fell out of my chair and spun back expecting to see someone behind me. But there was

nothing. I was completely alone in the room. Now, on the verge of absolute panic, I decided to just return to the computer and finish my task. I just hoped that once the damn thing was gone, things would go back to normal and I could forget all about it. The D button had a protective cover over it as to avoid inadvertently hitting it. Like I said, I'd never pressed that button before, but the results of the scan made it irrefutable that this was a D result, whatever that even means. I operated the robotic armages to remove the scanning equipment,

feeling my hand tremble on the joystick. Once they were all clear, I flipped the cover up and hit the D button without hesitation. The conveyor belt then hot. to life and I watched a metal box which had since regained its initial form slowly rolled towards the exit. I had almost allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief when the conveyor belt suddenly stopped. The lights flick it again and the power cut entirely.

Darkness swallowed me and I reached into my pocket to try to grab my phone. My hands were shaking like leaves in the wind and of course the phone slipped from my hand, landing on the linoleum floor with a clack and skittering a few feet away. I dropped to the ground to try and find it as my eyes struggled to adjust the darkness. On hands and knees I crawled around, but a noise caused me to suddenly freeze and dropped my blood to Arctic levels. I suddenly wasn't alone in the room. Breaths fell labored from an ill-defined source, raspy and heart. raspy and harsh, like a smoker of many years who'd just done running a marathon and was almost gasping for breath.

It was close, but in the darkness I couldn't see it. Goosephons sprouted along my skin and every fear receptacle in my body seemed to begin sounding a red alert. I felt a pressure building in my chest and my mind began racing in the darkness, but my limbs refused to react. That tense stalemate continued for an uncomfortable amount of time, but in all likelihood it was probably less than a minute. The lights then inexplicably flickered back on and the computer screens blitzed back to life. With stinging eyes accosted by sudden light, I somehow managed to snatch my phone and scramble into the corner of the room. I was panting so hard and shaking so bad that it physically hurt. I expected to see someone, or something behind me, from where I heard the breathing.

But, once again, there was nothing there. The computers finished rebooting, and once again returned to the operating screen. I could only think of getting that damn metal box as far away from me as possible. So, once again, I moved to the terminal and resumed the conveyor belt, before even looking into the testing chamber. When I finally did look, I felt the tree. true tendrils of terror constrict around my brain. The box was mutilated, torn up like something that was once inside it had violently ripped

its way out. That seemed to prove my theory, that they were hollow all along, but of course, it didn't offer any comfort, because that also meant that whatever was once contained had now gotten out. I peered around the chamber frantically, but I peered around the chamber frantically, but saw nothing. The emergency phone on the wall seemed to beckon to me and I realized if ever there was a time to use it, it was then.

I picked it up and put the receiver to my ear. The phone had no numbers on it to dial and began to ring automatically. A second later I heard a voice on the other end. Is it out? The voice of a woman asked cutting straight to the point.

What? Is what out? The box. What is it? status. I looked back to it, seeing it once again destroyed. It's mangled. I don't know what happened. The power went out and then, did you hear it? My blood ran cold as she asked that. How would she have known there will be anything to hear? What did it say? She rephrased the question, and I can only think to respond to her. You're not real. She fell silent for. for a few moments on the other end, and my heart froze in my chest from anticipation. Remain calm, assistance is on the way.

The line then abruptly cut off. With the trembling hand, I set the phone back down and timidly glanced towards the window. My vision had suddenly gone blurry, but on the window, I managed to see the smudged outline of a handprint upon the glass. I must have passed out or fainted from fear after that. because next thing I know, I was waking up in a bright white room. The beeps and clicks of medical equipment filled my ears as my eyes slowly adjusted to the harsh lighting. My head was throbbing and my body felt weak, but that may have been from some medication they had administered. No one came into the room for nearly half an hour, and I was left alone in my delirium to try and piece together what had happened and where I even was.

Finally, the door opened, and in steps a brunette-haired woman in black slacks and a blazer. Her dark brown eyes shifted behind thick-rimmed glasses and cherry-red lipstick covered her unwavering expression. Her heels clicked on the floor as she approached, cradling a manila envelope underneath her arm. Mr. Johnson, how are you feeling? I shrugged and admitted I had a headache, but... felt all right otherwise. I asked her what the hell had happened. But she seemed to avoid the question

and she pulled up a chair. She opened a folder up and cleared her throat. Your last scan indicated the product was a D variant. Is that correct? I nodded, affirming that based on the present parameters my analysis was indeed correct. She seemed quite intrigued by that.

Did you see anything odd? I shook my head, clarifying that the power had cut off not long after. I thought about telling her about the handprint in the glass, but for some reason, decided not to. She asked me more questions about what had happened, what I'd heard, if I was physically hurt, and my general state of mind. I answered her questions as best and honestly as I could. I then asked her again what had happened, but once more she avoided the question. After a thoroughly unsatisfactory interview, she rose and took a leave. She had never even bothered to tell me who exactly she was, or even what her name was.

I assume she was higher up in the company, and the pamphlet she left behind seemed to confirm that. It was an unaddressed list of instructions of how I was to proceed. It basically taught me to go home and rest for a week. It assured me that I was not facing any disciplinary action for the event, and would even be compensated my normal wage during the time off. The instruction suggested I avoid laborious physical exertion, sleep plentifully and remain calm. By far the stranger's instruction was to avoid mirrors

and even see my reflection as much as possible. I still don't know what to make of that, but I've done my best to adhere to it. The instruction said nothing in regards to secrecy or keeping my mouth shut, and I honestly don't know what to make of that either. I guess maybe they just think no one will believe my account anyway.

The letter, of course, had no signature at the bottom and no way of indicating what entity, business or person had written it. The final line was quite curious, however. Rather than saying thank you for the hard work, it said something along the lines of, Thank you for your contribution. Maybe it was just another way of phrasing the same sentiment. But it made me wonder a few things.

It's been a few days since this all happened. And as per the instructions, I've been at home resting and researching like a madman. I still can't find any trace of my job online, and admittedly, I'm still not exactly sure what I do for a living. I do think I've learned a few things, though. Like I said in the beginning, I've never known what the exact purpose my job serves

or why it is so well compensated. It has to be important for all the secrecy monetary investment on the part of my employer. The work is a cakewalk, but obviously, as I've learned now, there is a danger to it. I still fully believe you could train a monkey to do it if you really wanted to,

or better yet, fully automate the process altogether. Most of my job involves using robotics, lot of arms anyway, and while it would probably be a bit expensive, you could probably engineer a way to operate the entire process from a remote location and eliminate the personal risk altogether. I think that's exactly why they don't want that, though. That last line of instructions has been ringing endlessly through my mind, and I think I know what it means now.

The woman that interviewed me in the hospital seemed oddly unconcerned with the the state of the product and focused most of the questions and how I myself felt. Maybe someone reasoned that that's just a responsible employer doing their part, but I think is for a very different reason. I think a focus was never on the iron boxes as a business investment, because the real investment was seated right in front of her and was much more valuable. I think I am their investment. and their primary objective was always studying me,

and how the job would affect my psyche and overall health. I'm their guinea pig, and for nearly 19 years I have supplied them with data. This revelation, if true, leaves me in an uncomfortable situation. My first thought was, of course, to resign, but I don't even know if I can do that. There was just so much uncertainty around all of this. Maybe I'm just being paranoid

Or maybe I've read too many conspiracy theories But I wouldn't rule out them offering me If they felt they need to If this is some CIA Enterprise Or top secret government experiment Then no doubt they would spare no expense in silence in me That probably doesn't bode well for me Even posting this to begin with

But we're beyond that point now And I'm in danger regardless of what decision I make I plan to go back to work, if only to satiate my unquenchable curiosity. If I'm being honest, I've also gotten quite used to the paychecks and leaving immediately will put my family in a difficult position. I try my best to adhere to the instructions and avoid mirrors. It still seems strange, but I've caught fleeting glimpses from my reflection a few times and I don't like what I see.

I keep seeing and hearing things that my wife claims are not there. Night is particularly bad, and the dreams have been quite disturbing. I'm seeing a psychologist now, and he has expressed his fears that I might be schizophrenic. I have no familial history of the disease, and before all this, I have never showed any symptoms. But now, I can't deny the possibility. Hopefully, it's just the lingering effects of trauma, but I'm starting to doubt that is the case. case, I'll in this post with something that may or may not be related. Now would be a good time to put on your tinful hats, because this is quite far down the rabbit hole.

As with any nefarious antics, this conspiracy leads right back to the grandfathers of all douchebaggery. The Nazis. Back in 1945, just before the Allies liberated Europe from Germany's Stranglehold, something downright evil was going on in Dachau, the concentration camp in Bavaria. Whenever camps are mentioned, the first one most people think of is Auschwitz for its infamous reputation, but Dachau was the Nazi's crown jewel. It was the first one ever established and held in high regard by the Third Reich

throughout the entirety of their reign of terror. Rumors have circulated ever since about what horrors truly went on there, but since it was the German homeland itself, it was one of the last camps to be liberated. By the time the Allied forces reached it, the damage was done, and most of the data was already destroyed or removed. Of course, what they found there is known all too well by history, at least in terms of the utter depravity and the countless lives lost and destroyed. But there was something more. A secret project, whose mere existence is still debated by his. historians and conspiracy theories

the like. As far as I can tell there is no official name for it, but most call it the nightmare project, or some variation of that. Now, if you know anything about them, you'll know they were masters of psychological torment and warfare.

They also dedicated a significant portion of the resources to expeditions searching up religious artifacts and locations, but possibly more important for our purposes. Research approaching the occult. There are numerous examples of this out there, but the one in Dachau seemed primarily focused

on the development of something known as a nightmare bomb. What exactly this thing was or how it worked is not known, but the name itself seems to offer a few clues. It was rumored to be a weapon that could obliterate human psyche and inflict a wide array of mental illnesses upon its targets. it was supernatural or scientific remains to be seen, if it even exists at all. But it apparently targeted the brain directly by a sonic wave of some sort. People say it could turn an otherwise healthy person into a depressed, anxious and schizophrenic mess.

For anyone listening to this, who currently struggles with these conditions, you have my deeper sympathies. I've personally seen how difficult a diagnosis like this can be, and I'm sure you'll agree. that a weapon capable of inflicting this goes far beyond what is deemed cruel and inhumane, even in terms of warfare. Evidence of all this is very hard to come by, and most of it is regarded as conspiracy. Honestly, I have no real reason to assume this is even related, but it just seems so familiar. Operation paper clips saw Natu rocket scientists exonerate their crimes in World War II and assimilated into NASA, So who's to say they were the only ones given that option?

Considering the facility I work in, the procedures and the secrecy surrounding it all, it's clear that whatever it is I do is lucrative or informative in some way. As we all know, the military industrial complex takes up the vast majority of the United States tax revenue and weapon development is a constant top priority. Maybe I'm reading too much into all of this. But since my employer has not offered any explanations, all I can do is speculate. If anyone has any theories about all of this, please feel free to share. Honestly, I like nothing more than to just forget all of this and get back to my life.

But I've had a lot of nightmares recently. I'm scared, and although I feel the right physically, I can't help but feel that whatever. ever happened to me, it's not going away anytime soon.