CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - SCARY Reddit r/Nosleep Horror Stories to warm up this horror month

Episode Date: October 11, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "The Door in the Attic Floor" Creepypasta►24:38 "My Job Is Feeding Grandma" Creepypasta►47:30 "My first day as a delivery boy didn't turn out so great" Creepypasta►1:04:05 "They bathed in the black quarry" Creepypasta►1:20:39 "I fell asleep on an overnight bus and woke up in the perfect town" 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...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►torei: https://www.deviantart.com/torei/art/...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-

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That is Shopify. combe. Rachel yelled out as she ran towards me through the storm, trying not to laugh. It figures that moving day would find lightning, thunder and rain attacking us from above, but it had been completely clear when we headed this way with a truckload of all our worldly possessions. I'm good, I called out, chuckling to myself as I lay on the ground with thick raindrops splashing me in the face. Honestly, I had no idea how I ended up there on the flat of my back. I volunteered to brave the storm to get the door to our new home unlocked.

I plan to get the lights turned on to, as the sky had grown quite dark when the bottom fell out only minutes before we arrived. Rachel was five months pregnant, and I was hoping to make things as convenient as possible. Her back had been throbbing pretty bad lately, and this move was already taken its toll on her. The new house was massive. My wife and I decided it was time for us to move out of her apartment in the city, and upgrade to a house in a more peaceful environment, as soon as we found out we were expecting. We had only been married for a year, and it was to surprise to both of us when the test showed positive, but we'd been talking a lot about trying to conceive in the near future.

Sure, we had hoped to be a little more financially stable by the time we brought a new member into our little family, but I can't say we weren't excited about it. After looking at a handful of houses over the course of a few months, we instantly fell in love with this one. We had no doubt that there would be an ice cube's chance in the depths of Satan's asshole that we could afford it, but we asked for more details regardless. The price we paid was a little higher than our budget, but it was a remarkable deal for the size of this place. Rachel and I made decent money between the two of us, but we couldn't have dreamt of owning a house like this, even with our combined income. Now, I've watched a considerable amount of mystery and horror movies in my life, so I made sure to do the reason.

I'm sure we're all familiar with the surprisingly priced houses that just happened to have been the location of a brutal and bloody massacre. As it turned out, a new home had been built a few months ago, and we would be its first owners. No history, no tragedies, no skeletons in the closet. I even looked at the land it was built on. Nothing much to speak of there either. Given the storm raging outside, we decided to hold off. on unloading anything until the weather cleared up. I called in a few favours to help us with a move,

but they had headed out to grab some food before meeting us here. By the time our friends arrived, things had simmered down substantially outside, so we began the tedious and back-breaking process of unloading the truck. It took some time, but we had everything inside by ten. We were all pretty beat up by the time the whole ordeal was done with, so we decided to just crash for the night and worry about to. setting everything up the following day.

We bid our friends good night, we had the healthy amount of gratitude, and turned in for the night. It was probably about three in the morning when the knocking woke me up. It almost sounded like someone was jerking on the door handle, trying to get in. You hear that, I asked Rachel,

before turning to see she was still in a deep sleep. I gently slid out of the bed and tried to make my way through the new and unfamiliar house in the dark. It took some groping around the walls to make my way downstairs, and I almost busted my ass a few times over our shuddley stacked boxes. But I finally arrived at the foot of the stairs. Our new home stood alone on about ten acres.

There was a much life around, and the absence of any manner of streetlights found the vast living room hidden behind the shadows of the night. I stood on the groundfall landing, just listening for a few moments. Only silence. I shook my head before yawning wildly. I'm hearing things, I whispered to myself as I made my way back up to the bedroom. The next day was mostly taken up by arranging our furniture and pushing aside the boxes we would be storing between the loft and the basement. That would be the task for another day, as our priorities were in getting the house feeling like a home.

After another few days, we were feeling pretty cozy, and it was time for the grueling process of packing away the non-essentials. As I was awkwardly carrying boxes up the ladder to store them in the attic, I found myself impressed by the size of the room. It appeared twice or even three times the size of the storage area in my parents' house. Having moved from an apartment, I didn't have much experience with rooms such as these. I couldn't speak to whether this was an unusual size for a loft, but I was not surprised, given the size of the house itself. God damn it, I yelled out after tripping over an uneven floorboard with both arms gripped around the base of the box. boxes. You okay, babe, Rachel called out from the opening behind me.

Yeah, nothing hurt but my dignity. I laughed while rolling to the side and gathering up the boxes that now lay splayed open on the floor. She was giggling pretty good, and she caught sight to me after a setting in the ladder to the room I now knelt in, gathering spilled memories off the floor. What did you trip over? Rachel asked, still chuckling. No idea, I replied, still reloading the boxes.

Looks like a loose floorboard, she said, nudging the raised edge with the foot. After gathering myself back up from the floor, I took a look at the slight lip that had tripped me onto my ass. It looked like a long and wide, single sheet of plywood. The rest of the floor in this room was made up by two by fours, so the large chunk of thin wood seemed quite out of place. I climbed back down the ladder to the second floor below and took a long screwdriver out of my tool bag, which would be headed to the basement later that day.

After returning to where my wife still crouched beside the unusual section of flooring, I jammed the flattered driver into the seam and pried up the sheet of wood. What the hell? Rachel said, looking down at the floor. Beats me, I shrugged, staring at the door that was recessed into the floor of the attic. We puzzled over the reasoning behind installing a second opening in the loft. Outside of the one that had the fold-out ladder we had scaled in the first place. Though it was a far bigger room than I had expected to see when we climbed the steps,

I couldn't understand why a second entryway would be provided, especially in the form of a wooden door that would normally stand upright. Upon closer inspection, and a quick jaunt back downstairs to compare, it could not be denied that this was the same style as the front door that led into our new home. Open it up, Rachel suggested while I just looked at it, scratching my head. stand back then I suggested The last thing I wanted was for either of us to fall to the floor below Especially my very pregnant wife

The door had a regular knob with a deadbolt lock above it I unlatched them both and pulled the door ajar Huh? I said looking at my wife then back to the floor What the hell is the point of that? Rachel replied staring down at the wooden floorboards beneath the open door It wasn't until I closed this strange door back up and began to slide the plywood back over it that I noticed the small text written on the top right corner of the door. For when they come, sighing bupa, I read out loud, after leaning over to make out what they read. When they come?

Rachel asked. No clue, I replied, rubbing my chin. As we headed back to the actual attic door, I noticed another unusually. aspects of this room. There was a thick metal bar attached to the brackets on the ceiling. It had a heavy looking chain hanging from it that was looped back around it with a hefty hook. On top of that, when I was descending the ladder to exit the storage space, there was a steel hoop protruding from the back side of the door that hung down behind the ladder currently. Safe room maybe? Rachel suggested.

Attic seems a strange place for a safe room, I chuckled. Shrugging off the chain and assuming the bizarre door to nowhere to be some kind of bizarre practical joke on the part of those who constructed the building, I went back to gathering up boxes for storage. On my second trip, I gave another glance to the oddly located door and slid the plywood back over it. I just nudged the screwdriver to the side for the time being and turn my attention back to the task at hand. My wife and I went on about the rest of our day of stashing things between the basement and the attic, but I could not shake the image of the storage store. My mind kept wondering back to it whenever I found myself sitting still for a moment.

As we approached the end of our first week in our enormous five-bedroom house, the majority of our settling in was over. Sure, we'd rearrange things here and there should we feel the urge, but our grueling and busy move was finally done with. Rachel and I had both taken two weeks off from our respective jobs,

so we had plenty of time to enjoy some peace before we had to get back on any manner of a schedule. As much as I loved our new home, there was one aspect of living there that did trouble me. Ever since being here, I still occasionally found myself awakened by the same knocking sounds that joked me awake on a first night.

It wasn't every night, mind you, just here and there, but always around three in the morning. It could be that it would still occur every night. Maybe I was lucky enough to be in a deep enough sleep most nights to not be forced into waking up, but I was going concerned

about what could be causing it. The fourth time it pulled me from my sleep, I fully investigated the strange noises. I flipped on all the lights in the living room and even strolled around outside with a flashlight for 30 minutes or so. I still found nothing. No trees brushing up against the house,

no signs of any wildlife that could be bumping off the exterior walls in the night. Nothing. It actually sounded like it was coming from instant. the house as much as outside. It was almost as if it echoed from all around me, if that makes any sense. It wasn't until the 10th night

that I finally got my answers to the shuddering and knocking sounds in the night. It was some time after midnight in the early morning of October 5th, 2018, when the events that almost broke my weary mind occurred. What was that? Rachel asked, sitting straight up in the bed beside me,

shaking my arm. Huh? I replied, still half asleep. I think there's someone in the house, she said with a voice trembling. It's probably just a knocking I've been telling you about, I replied. She was of the opinion that I was overreacting to the noises that woke me in the middle of the night. I even tried to wake up the last time, like she asked me to. She'd assumed that I was just hearing things,

but she asked me to let her know next time and she'd come check it out with me. This isn't knocking, babe. Rachel said, wrapping her fingers around my arm. It wasn't until then that I looked at the time. It was only a little after two, and the knocking always happened closer to three. I sat up beside my wife, and we stayed still trying to figure out anything going on beyond our bedroom door. Sure enough, I could lightly make out the sounds of multiple footsteps and whispering voices. Stay here, I told my wife as I crept out to the bed.

No, she said, don't go out there. She sounded genuinely afraid. I'm sure it's nothing, I replied, chasing my fingers across the side of her face. You don't need to get worked up in your condition, I smiled and gave her a wink. Truthfully, I was pretty nervous about seeing what was going on out there. We don't own any type of weapons, but I hope the umbrella grabbed would be enough to get a good wallup on anyone who may be intruding. I slowly opened the door and leaned forward to see if I could make out anything. As soon as my head poked out of the door, I felt a tight grip around my neck and I was pulled out of my bedroom.

Well, look at what we got here, the large man wearing his ski mask said. I tried to swing it in with the umbrella, but he just snatched it out of my grip with a hand that was not currently pinched around my throat. What the hell do you want? I squeaked through the tight grip. The man just smiled And another came charging at the steps The one who was holding me by the neck Shuffed me into the other man's arms Before pushing through my bedroom door

No I screamed out, fighting tooth and nail Against the thick arms holding me in place Don't touch you I yelled flailing and kicking I heard my wife scream from inside the bedroom And I felt my heart racing And my face flushed with terror

Moments later The man came strolling out of the bedroom holding Rachel by the hair with her arms gripped behind her back. She was cussing and kicking while she fought against the man who was easily twice her size. Let it go! I yelled still struggling to get free. The two men stayed silent as they dragged us kicking and screaming down the steps before throwing us to our living room floor. I started to get back up under my feet until the one who had pulled me from the room pulled a gun on us.

You're going to want to keep quiet or I'm going to plug the both of you. He said, with a smile peeking through his woolen mask. The other one was going through drawers, presumably looking for anything of value, while the one with a gun trained on us just kept waving the barrel from side to side. It never had a pregnant girl before. He said casually as he drifted the pistol from left to right between the two of us.

You're pretty damn cute at that, he continued, glaring at my wife. Don't you even think about it, you piece of... I know you ain't trying to start nothing, bud. the man yelled out, interrupting my words. He strolled to where I was sitting. I tried to slide my body in front of Rachel before he crouched down to look me right in the eyes. Tell you what, big man, he said,

forcing the barrel of the gun under my chin. How about you sit there and shut your goddamn mouth? I have a bit of fun with your lady. I began to shake at the thought of what he was planning to do. I had to do something. I know what you're thinking, bud. he said, bearing the gun deeper. Give it a shot if you got the balls.

His eyes grew large and wild as he stared me down. Before I knew it, my arms seemed to act independently from my mind as I smacked his gun away from me and my wife. A bullet fired into the staircase and I pushed the hulking man forward onto the floor. Rachel, run! I yelled out before the man could pig himself back up. Immediately she got up and ran for the stairs as the man got back up and charged at me.

Get her! He cried out to his partner, who quickly began running after my wife. I was pushed back to the ground, but I had the chance to chase after him. The large man punched me in the face, and immediately felt my head begin to spin. The guy hit like a damn truck. He pounded on my face a few more times, and my senses began to fade, and my ears started ringing. I heard Rachel screaming as a pursuer dragged her back down the steps by her feet. Stop, I whimpered, barely holding onto consciousness.

The man struck me one final time, and I felt my body fall limp. I was still awake, but incredibly dazed. Now, I'll show you what you get for pulling that stunt. The man, who still wore my blood on his knuckles, spat as he pinned my wife to the floor. He started tearing out her clothes while my wife screamed out. No, I said, barely holding on. As Rachel screamed at the top of her lungs, I forced myself back up from the floor. Get off of her!

I screamed as I charged out of the man. He turned just in time to see me swing at him as hard as I could. Jesus! His friend yelled out as I felt teeth shatter across my fist. The hit must have knocked the big guy out cold. He just dropped as the other guy came at me. I quickly ducked in anticipation of his attack and ran my shoulder into his midsection. He felt at the floor, close.

touching at his gut. I started pulling the man off of my wife as the nightly knocking and shuddering sounds began. What is that? Rachel asked, his tears still streamed down a face. It doesn't matter, I replied, finally freeing her of the dead weight of her attacker. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. The attic, she said, while the large men behind her began to cough himself back to awareness. Go! We both sprinted up the steps as fast as we could while both men were still picking themselves back up of the ground. As soon as we reached the second floor, we ran towards the attic door,

only feet ahead. I jumped up and grabbed at the handle of the opening and pulled it down, releasing the collapsing ladder. We were both rushing and pure adrenaline as the two came thundering up the steps towards us. Once Rachel was up the ladder, I started lifting myself up.

Three shots fired from behind me while I climbed at the ladder as fast as I could. I cleared the opening and reached back down to pull the ladder up along with the door. The man's gun blasted two more times before I sealed the entrance behind me. Before I could register anything else, I reached up for the hooked chain

and latched it onto the loop on the back of the entry flap. As the adrenaline that had spiked began to fade, I suddenly realized I was in a significant degree of pain. I looked down to see my stomach and right leg oozing. Babe, my wife said in a weak and shaky voice, No, I screamed out, causing me to buckle from the pain in my gut. Rachel was laying on the floorboards, gripping at a chest, as blood spewed between her fingers. I could hear the invaders pounding and pulling on the door, while a loud knocking and shuddering was echoing from behind the plywood that lay across the floor some feet from us.

Bullets fired off underneath me, but none seemed to be able to penetrate the floor we lay on. I yelled out in fear and anguish as the love of my life coughed out thick blood before falling silent beside me. I pounded my fists on the wooden floorboards, though the pain in my stomach threatened to push me past my breaking point. The yelling duo still fought to get in, and the shuddering below the plywood grew more aggressive. I lay my head on Rachel's still bleeding chest and wailed out against the pain in my gut and in my heart. For when they come, my wife said softly. I choked my head up and looked at her face. She was still alive, but only barely.

Don't speak, I said, as tears rolled freely down my face. The door, she whispered. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the shuddering sound. I grabbed the screwdriver that still lay off to the side. Once again, I pried up the plywood and slid it away from the opening. The door shook violently from the floor. I turned back to my wife, and my heart sank when I gazed at close their eyes. I saw no motion, no expanding.

or contracting of her lungs. I hung my head in sorrow for my wife, an unborn child, who lay dead across from me. I reached my trembling hand out towards the shuddering door-knock that stood up from the door that faced me. I turned my hand and lifted the door open. There was not a row of two by four floorboards anymore that lay beyond the second exit on the attic floor. Heavy droplets of water pelted me as the storm appeared to rage from behind the open door. I became distracted from the strange sight when the entrance behind me was finally pulled open, after the metal loop separated from the attic door.

You're dead now, the large man yelled out as I heard him thundering up the ladder. Screw it, I said to myself, before jumping down into the mysteries that lay beyond the door that lay open below me. As soon as my body cleared the opening, I felt gravity shift from below me to behind, and my back slant hard under the firm ground. I lay there, dazed for a moment, while the thick raindrops splashed onto my face, before the door slammed shut behind my head. Are you okay? I heard Rachel yell out as she ran towards me, trying not to laugh. It took some time for me to put together what happened that night,

and how the bullet holes in my gut and leg were no longer present as I lay with my back on the wet concrete, dressed in the same clothes I wore on the day we arrived. My wife had a hard time believing my heart. account of the events that had occurred, but all I cared about was that she was alive and in my arms again. I took her up to the attic and showed her the unusual door that still lay beyond the long and white piece of plywood. She still wasn't convinced about the story I told her, but she couldn't argue that this was a bizarre thing. It wasn't until time passed by and brought us back to the early morning of October 5th that she couldn't deny the tale I spun her after I picked myself up from the

wet concrete had to be true. A few days back, I purchased a rifle and a pistol of my own to prepare for the events that I had already lived through once. I sat in the darkness, staring out of the second floor window with a gun in one hand and my phone in the other. I wasn't entirely sure at which time our late night visitors would arrive, but I made damn sure I would see them coming this time. Rachel didn't take my prediction seriously, but she began to

reconsider when we saw the headlights approaching from a distance. No way, when the lights cut off as the truck drew closer. I called the police as soon as I saw the vehicle approaching, and I carried my rifle to the top of the stairs and trained it on the front door. I wasn't exactly familiar with shooting, but I was ready to fire if the assholes crossed the threshold. The truck stayed parked out front for some time, before I saw the internal light flick on as the vehicle's door swung over.

open outside the wide living room window. As soon as our front door gave way and my heart began to race, I saw the flickering blue lights strobing from the road. After her failed attempt to escape, the police had the sizable men in handcuffs. Once the two had been loaded up, the officers committed my quick reflexes in placing the 911 call before the two could break in. Both of the men who were planning a robbing and potentially killing us had quite the check had passed, and a handful of warrants sworn out for the them. Likely, they would not be causing any trouble for at least a good 15 to 20 years. After a few months, my wife gave birth to our beautiful daughter, Samantha. She quickly became the light of her lives and gave me more reasons to smile than I ever could have imagined.

It was a little after a second birthday, only a few months ago, that she found a fondness for poking everything in sight, including Rachel and I, with her cute little pointer finger. With every single poke, she would say, Boop. One day, after she had successfully booped my wife on the nose, around ten times in a row, Rachel, attempting to hold back laughter, said, Okay, that's enough booper.

As the realization of what she just called our daughter hit, we both looked at each other, lost for words. To this day, the door on the attic floor still shudders around three in the morning. strangely, the sound that used to wake me up in the middle of the night only serves to make me sleep easier now. I can't predict what the future holds for my adorable baby girl, but I have a feeling her new nickname is going to stick.

When I was 12, my father sat me down at the kitchen table and explained to me that his older brother, Lance, had been killed in a terrible accident. Lance had been caring for my grandmother and now that he was gone, she was our responsibility. We had to move right away. I knew I should have felt sad for my father's loss, but all I could think of was how I was being forced to leave my school

and my friends were some miserable old lady I'd never met. It wasn't fair. I didn't speak to my parents for the entire ride to our new home, but they seemed oddly relieved by that. My father drove in white-knuckled silence, my mother clutched the forehead and looked out the window at the gusting leaves and dreary skies of our new Midwestern home. The house where Uncle Lance had lived with Granny was a two-storied 19th century farmhouse, surrounded by a stone fence and wizened old trees. I was reluctantly impressed by the high crown-moulded ceilings, antique furniture, the aristocratic charm of the place.

Living here, I thought, would be like living in a museum. I was afraid to touch anything at first, but I soon found myself testing the winged leather-round chairs, rooting through the shelves full of old books with strange titles, and exploring the second floor. I'd forgotten all about the move, my friends, and even the old woman would supposedly come out here to take care of, until I was halted by the first closed door I'd found in the house so far. I swear I heard breathing on the other side. Some instinct made me back up quietly down the hallway and returned to the living room where my parents sat, exhausted on a heap of boxes. That closed door at the end of the hall.

Is that grandma's room? I ventured. Honey, my mother replied, going pale. You didn't go in there, did you? No, I was just looking around. As I stood, twisting my foot on the huge, oriolian. rug, my father kneeled down in front of me. It's very, very important that you never go into grandma's room without permission. No matter what you hear or think you see, that door stays locked.

Understand, he warned. I understand, I muttered. But I don't get why it's such a big deal. You guys are acting weird. Your father's just tired, honey, my mother's side. Why don't you choose a bedroom and unpack while we get dinner or? ready, huh? That was how we came to be sitting around an ornate black walnut dinner table, beneath the glow of stained glass lamps, eating macaroni and cheese from plastic balls.

It was almost midnight by the time we were finished. My father yawned as he did the dishes. Then the doorbell rang. Oh God, my mother whispered. Is it starting already? Stay here. My father hurried to the door, peering down the hallway. I watched the shadowy figure and my father a black food delivery case then returned to the van that he left running. Then my father was rushing the case upstairs

like it burned him, a look of disgust on his face. My mother and I listened silently to the creaking footsteps, the jingling of keys, and the groan of a door opening. My father came back downstairs a few minutes later, looking drained. He left the black case on the porch,

washed his hands and face several times in the kitchen sink and announced he was going to bed. I didn't know it at the time, but that was to be our nightly routine from then on. It's not that I wasn't curious about the grandmother I'd never met. It was just that I had too many other things in my mind. A new school, new friends, a new town to explore. If the thick wooden door at the end of the hallway had to stay closed,

for everyone's safety, as my father said, That was fine by me. It didn't affect my life at all. Or so I thought. We'd only been in our new home for a few nights when we started to hear scurrying in the walls. Although the house was spotlessly clean and well cared for, it wasn't surprising that the old place was host as some wildlife.

It freaked me out at first, that scuffling sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. I'd lay awake, my eyes scanning the patterned wallpaper, wondering if the creatures on the other side were finally about to claw their way through. My father tried traps and poisoned, but nothing worked. In time, we simply got used to it. That's why I wonder if it was the silence that woke me up that night, or the warm weight I felt in my chest.

And my eyes popped open and saw three other pair of eyes staring back. I was too scared to move, almost too scared to breathe. I could feel the rat's horrible squirming tails and smell their fetid fur. Even worse, I could understand their squeaks. Why didn't you open the door, sweetie?

Grandma's waiting. I screamed. The rats scampered off as lights flickered on and my parents rushed to my room. They seemed relieved. It had only been rats. The invaders left after that and I soon managed to convince myself that I dreamed the whole thing.

As time went on though, the signs became harder to ignore. If I left a pen on top of my homework while I went to get a drink of water, I'd find, come upstairs, squawed across the page when I got back. If I looked in the mirror while I brushed my teeth, sometimes my reflection would stop brushing and gesture eagerly toward the door at the end of the hall, a freakishly white smile on its face. Strange smells and sounds came from the room at the end of the hall.

If I was hungry, it was baking cookies or roasting meat. If I was thinking about a boy I'd like from school, I'd hear his voice just on the other side of the door. These messages, or whatever they were, took a toll on my mother and father as well. For the first time, money didn't seem to be a problem for our family, and my mother dove head first into online shopping, DIY projects, and whatever else she had to do in order to forget about our family. bizarre situation. My father, on the other hand, stayed away from the house for as long as possible. He'd come home just before the midnight delivery, and even then, he usually had booze on his

breath. One night, he didn't even come back at all. Ding dong! My mother and I looked at each other, then back at the door. It was midnight, and my father wouldn't have run. Ding dong, ding dong! My mother took out a cigarette, since when had she smoked and gestured toward the door. You better get that. But, I began, you'll have to learn to take care of her eventually. My mother shooed at me with a cloud of smoke. She'll be your responsibility after we're dead.

I gulped and opened the door. The face of the man outside was hidden in shadow. A trench coat covered his body, although it was summer. When he held out the black delivery case, the kitchen light made his grin flash like the blade of a knife. The moment I took it, he was gone. Just do what your father does. My mother tried not to look at me as she spoke. Take a dinner out the package and leave it by a bedside.

Don't look at what's inside. Hopefully she'll be asleep. If she's not, don't interact with her. Don't do or say anything at all. just leave the tray, close the door and come back downstairs. Got it? With package in hand, I made my way to the door at the end of the hall, then remembered,

how was I supposed to open it? The doorknob, like the others in the house, was in the shape of a brass lion's head. I reached out for it and winced when I felt something sharp digging to my palm. Had the doornob bit me? A trickle of blood ran down the brass, a sandal, but I heard the lock release. I took a deep breath and slipped inside.

Arthur, a wison voice and voice called out my father's name. Is that you? I expected something out of a nursing home. Bedpans, beeping machines, the reek of disinfectant. But this room was identical to any other in the house. The same carved-de-booked shelves, ornate rugs, colored glass lamps, and a cozy armchair where an old woman waited expectantly. This must be Granny.

She blinked as if surprised to see me. I forced the smile and opened the delivery case. Inside was a tray covered by a stainless steel lid. Just as my mother had instructed, I took it out without looking inside and placed it on the nightstand beside Granny. Oh, Granny cocked ahead. You must be Arthur's daughter.

It's wonderful to meet you at last. Would you stay and have a cup of tea? I get so lonely up here, and it would be ever so nice to hear a new voice for a change. My smile became a grimace. But I followed my mother's orders. I backed out of the room with a case in hand and let the door snap shut behind me.

My heart was full of doubt as I walked downstairs. Why in earth had my parents locked up this sweet old lady? She was the spitting image of the grandmother I'd always imagined, but never known. One with gold rim spectacles and a white bun and a mischievous smile, who wore blue-chiggered dresses and taught me how to garden, knit and bake cookies. I told myself that I must be missing something. Maybe Granny Withershins had a weakened immune system, dementia, or some other condition that meant she had to stay inside.

But even so. As I trudged down the stairs, the front door flew open. My father saw the black case in my hands, and a look of horror crossed his pale and sweaty face. You didn't let her, he bellowed at my mother, who was still smoking and staring at the window into the night. She waved a hand. Honey, my father staggered forward and wrapped me in a bear hug. He smelled like vodka martini. I'm so sorry, but I have to.

ask, did you talk to Grandma? Did you take anything she gave you? No, I muttered. That's good, good, my father whispered to himself. You did great, honey, but you have to remember, you can't trust anything that Grandma says or gives you, for everyone's safety. I understand. But as time went on, I wasn't sure I did. Grandma seemed fine. If anything, it was my parents. who weren't right in the head. My mother ignored me. My father was hardly ever around. On the nights he came home late, I took over bringing Granny her meals.

Soon the delivery driver met me with a look of sad recognition, and I no longer ever flinched at the drop of blood needed to open the door. I found ways to learn about Granny without explicitly going against my parents' instructions, listening at the door, for example. When Granny ate whatever it was

under the metal cover, she did so with gusto. It was like listening to a pack of hyenas ripping apart a carcass. Sometimes she'd sing or play music or call to me in a sad sing-songy voice. In the end, of course,

I cracked. Like I suppose my father did and my uncle Lance and every member of my family going back who knows how many generations. It was a rainy, miserable Saturday. My new friends had promised to invite me

to hang out that weekend, but not one of them even bothered to call. I spent the day wondering through the empty rooms like a ghost, until a hot rage began to boil in my chest. Enough was enough. I opened the door to Granny's room. Oh, back so soon, she asked. I'll put the kettle on. Have a seat, sweetie.

That she did, using a little hot plate hidden away on a bookshelf. I lowered myself into an armchair, buzzing with questions. Where did Grandma sleep? Where did she go to the bathroom? What did she do all day up here? None of them were exactly polite topics of conversation though, and I was relieved when Granny set a steaming saucer of tea in front of me and asked me what was wrong.

I hesitated. This was my last chance to keep the promise I'd made to my parents by not talking to Granny. But I was fed up with the promises and seen. secrets. Fade up with this boring Midwestern town. My stupid classmates. My whole dumb life. Bringing on, what was the worst that could happen?

Everything, I answered. Everything is wrong. The sky didn't fall. Granny didn't suddenly attack me for speaking. Everything was just as before. My grandmother observed me over her glasses as she took a deep

trout of tea. I did the same. It tasted of herbs. some pure relief. And before I knew it, I was describing how much I'd lost by moving here, my parents' strange behavior, my struggles to fit in at school, and other more private things I'd never told anyone, not even my best friend who was now so far away. The more I drank, the more I talked. Granny has the question to steer the conversation here or there, but mostly she did something no one had done for me in what felt like years. She just listened. I don't think I stopped until I literally ran out of words and the sun outside Granny's window was going to set.

I think I better get going. I got to my feet. Of course, Granny understands. There was such a lovely little chat. I hope you come for another visit soon. I closed the door as quietly as I could. I was so worried about getting caught that I didn't notice the string that I brought with me when I stood up from Granny's chair. It led me back under the door, and as soon as I crossed the threshold, it detached from my skirt with a mind of its own.

Of course, I wouldn't learn that until later. I was still trying to sneak back downstairs when my father's voice boomed out from my own bedroom. Apparently, he'd been looking for me. Just what do you think are doing? My father snarled. Nothing, I sulked. I know where you've been, honey, and I'm afraid you're not taking this seriously. I know how it looks, but I'm your father.

You've got to trust me. Trust you, I snapped. I don't even know you anymore. I regretted the words the moment I said them. But there was no going back now. My father hung his head. This is for your own good. My father stood up to leave my room.

You might hate me now, but at least you'll be around to thank me later. You'll crown it for the rest of the month. Home, school, and that's it. No friends. No games and no more visits with Grandma. It couldn't have come at a worse time. That same evening, one of my classmates called to invite me to a pool party the next weekend. It was obviously going to be the big event of the year and everyone would be there, except

me. I stalked irritably from room to room, with nothing to alleviate the boredom and anger. Little did I know that Granny's thread was off weaving a story of its own. I woke up that night to find something tugging on my bedsheets. I pushed myself up nervously, weary of the rats. It was a doll, a dirty-looking one-eyed thing with a recorder inside that I'd forgotten about. The doll looked up at me with a single plastic eye and opened his mouth to play a new recording. You've been ever so kind to me, sweetie.

Why don't you come let Grandma out of a room for a bit? Um... As I sat up, the doll pulled itself onto my bed and waddled toward me. In its empty socket, I could see that it was filled with string. The end of the cord trailed off out my door. If we go out together, Grandma can make your daddy see sense. Then he'll let you go to the pool party. Wouldn't that be fun?

It might have sounded great if it wasn't coming from a warped recording in the mouth of an animated doll. I looked frantically round for something to cut the thread. My eyes settled on a pair of scissors on my nightstand. As the doll climbed towards my face, I snag the scissors and cut its cord. The doll fell lifelessly under my bed, but Granny's string wasn't done yet. After recoiling, it slithered back inside the doll, then coiled around the scissors, yanking them out of my hands and lashing them to the dolls. It now held them like a butcher knife. I kicked the doll away.

But like a horrible plastic spider, it scrambled back on top of me. This is a blade stopped an inch from my eyeballs as the baby's voice issued an ultimatum. If you let Grandma out, you can keep your eyes. With the doll latched tightly onto my head, I opened my bedroom door. The hallway had been transformed into a tunnel of thread, like the layer of a funnel web spider. The only open path led directly toward the last door of the hallway. I thought about my mother's distant look. My father's drinking and obsession was staying out to the house.

Had my parents been dealing with stuff like this since we moved in, hiding it from me, so I didn't have to endure the horrors that Grandma was weaving around us. I barely felt the prick of the knob as I stepped inside. Hello, dear, Granny smiled. Can you please get this thing off of me? I begged. I'm afraid not, sweetie.

It's there to help you do the right. thing. The string that animated the doll I now noticed was wrapped around my granny's finger. Now, hold the door open for Granny now, won't you? I felt my throat go dry. I stepped back, ready to let Granny through. Stop! My father in his pajamas fought the web of string. Granny stood, and as she did, I noticed that the doll no longer moved. The string only had power outside Granny's room. In here, it seemed to. the old lady was powerless. I ripped the awful doll from my head

and threw it onto the floor where it lay a useless toy. As I sprung back from Granny's room and slammed the door, I heard a monstrous whale from the other side. I knew she was going to work on you, my father panted, but she can only hurt us

with what we give her or take from that room. And there, she's powerless. She can mess with our senses and manipulate our desires, but she can't hurt us, not as long as we take care of her and keep her in that room. Who is she? I asked. What is she?

Our cross the bear. Every family has at least one secret. She's ours. Uncle Lance didn't have an accident, did he? No, my father sighed. He didn't. Arthur, my mother cautioned. She's old.

After this nightmare, a bit more wouldn't hurt. My father led me downstairs and opened a password-protected folder on his computer. The files were recordings from a security camera fixed on the door at the end of the hall that I'd never noticed before. I finally understood how my father knew that I'd visited Granny. The file my father clicked on was titled, Never Forget.AVI. Uncle Lance had a stroke. Your aunt June, his wife, tried to take care of feeding him.

herself. She didn't know that protection against that thing only extends to our bloodline, anyone else who goes in there. He didn't need to say more. I could see it in the grainy black and white footage on the screen. My Aunt June, tribling a few drops of a husband's blood on the doorknob to activate it, crossing the threshold with a black case in hand, falling as her feet were swept out from under her, writhing in agony, clawing at the floor as her own inside splatter round her, making the white-hearted, expressions of a living being eaten from the feet up. Her last act was the yanked the door shut,

trapping herself inside with Granny. Aunt June had sacrificed herself to keep the thing sealed away for one more day, just long enough to give us time to arrive and carry out our duty as caretakers. It's been over ten years since that day, when I learned the truth and took over as a caretaker. Since then, my parents have gotten divorced

and stress and fear has driven my father to an early grave. Still, I can't complain. I've gotten used to the horrific illusions and unnatural occurrences. Unlike everyone else I know, I can count on a steady balance in my bank account I won't ever need to work for a living. Still, when I walk through town with this crisp chill in the air, I look at the pretty facade of so many houses

and wonder about the secrets they might be keeping. I wonder how many people I cross paths with go through life under pressure, knowing that they have to be home for a delivery at midnight. From worldwide topmerken, to entrepreneurs that net begin, millioner vertrawe on your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok and more.

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That is Shopify.b. The old firm, one of the oldest and greatest breweries in the country since its very first establishment. The old firm rapidly became a fruitful success and in no time pulled all the commoners and royalties

across the land to its finest and luscious drinks. Indeed, it was the very foundation of the source of the soon-grown beer industry, and invigorated the soul-deep love for beer in the entire country. It would most certainly raise

an eyebrow of concern to many if they found an unaccompanied 14-year-old child standing outside the old firm, or any brewery for that matter, under the torrent of merciless night rain. However, I had my reasons. I wasn't waiting in the storm for a brew, but rather I was looking up to brew up a grand

storm, a storm of unexpected twists and events that solemnly regret to this day. I glanced at the clock tower a few dozen meters away in an attempt to tell the time. Quarter to eleven, the clock read. I let out a wobbled sigh and began slowly pacing up and down the cobbled path,

unsure of whether my impatience was because of anticipation or apprehension. Two days ago, I was offered a job by an emotionally torn man whom was desperate to, quote, get his business back on track. Considering how unfair and grueling life was for my single mother, who had to work 70 to 75 hours a week away from home and go several days without a proper meal

just to make me sleep happy and healthy. I accepted it without a moment of hesitation. We both agreed that our rendezvous would be outside the old firm on Tuesday night at 10pm. Questionable timing for such a crucial appointment, but my zest far awayed my intuition. I was refraining from telling her about the job offer and wished to give her a pleasant shock with my earnings.

after all humans love unexpected surprises i assume you're mr hank yes a tall well-dressed slightly wrinkled man towered beside me blowing out a warm puff of smoke from his cigarette he sported a black fedora covering his eyes a pitch black shirt and tie and a long brown coat that extended all the way down to his upper shin there was a particular energy about him that i can't quite put my finger on if our meeting earlier didn't occur i'm only a certainly have yelled at the top of my lungs for help. Yes, Mr. Robinson, please, there's no need to address me with a formality, I replied, slightly lowering my head. I felt like interrogating him on the reason he arrived so late, but I didn't dare to do so in fear of losing my job. He chuckled, took my cold, shivering hand, and shook it vigorously. I think I should, Mr. Hank. You're a lifesaver. Please, come inside and we'll talk about what you need to do. He reached into his coat pocket and brandished the key, on which, I can swear I saw a few specks of blood on, and led me inside the legendary brewery. The inside of the brewery heavily

contradicted its status and popularity. The wooden table and skinny chairs looked like they were able to collapse at any given moment. The walls were coated with moss and dust that hadn't been looked after by the staff. The floor sung an ugly choir of creeks that was so unsettling to hear. I shivered and grabbed my arms as Mr. Robinson guide me down a flight of stairs. We continued walking down into a secret chamber. I was too dark to make out any detail. The air felt extremely tense and hostile, like I was being dragged down into the deepest depths of the underworld.

I began to feel uneasy and desired to forfeit there and then. However, the thought of my mother going another night hungry actuated me to follow this man, regardless of my fears. It was only when we were met with a medium-sized plastic-wrapped box did Mr Robinson stop in his tracks. Without a whisper, he squatted down and attached this sticky note with some writing of the box. Mr. Robinson fumbled into his coat pocket again

and brandished a hand-sized bottle containing a yellowish-blue liquid. He then picked up the box and placed it with the utmost care in my arms. His expression, once polite and positive, was now a complexion. of earnestness instead. He spoke with a tone like no one would hear from reading a text or a script. The deliverer shall fulfill his duty in delivering this box to no one else but the owner. Not a single word you shall utter to anyone during your journey, no matter who they may be. Upon meeting the owner, you must maintain eye contact with him, and you must be as polite as possible.

Once he accepts his delivery and dismisses you, you must immediately turn and make your way back. you should not look or try to know what occurs inside his house after the delivery is completed. This delivery must be completed before the hour hand strikes 12. The most important rule is to avoid conflict with the owner. Failure to comply with any of these laws will result in severe consequences. He took a deep breath, then pointed at the bottle atop the mysterious box. In any case of the deliverer being in a pinch,

he may drink this liquid to ease the situation. However, it is strongly advised to adhere to the rules in the first place to avoid this unfortunate scenario, no matter what happens. But, but sir, I was under the impression that this was a regular job. This task is way too meant for a 14-year-old, don't you think? I'm aware of that, Mr. Hanks, which is why I shall ascertain a grandson of wealth for you if you can accomplish this. Do you accept your duty or not? I gulped and looked at the package with mighty contemplation. This felt all too risky for me.

Was Mr. Robinson just a crazed person looking for someone to run his errands? What was the reason I was required to strictly follow these ludicrous laws? A bottle for supposed protection? Blasphemy. My stomach growled softly. I was getting hungrier. I breathed the cane and glanced behind me. Ever since I was born, I was plagued with problems in difficult situations.

all of which could have been sorted if we just had a bit more money. A grandson of wealth would surely do much more than just that. Let us get started, sir. Mr. Robinson's face abruptly lit up with a mixture of relief and joy, almost like he destroyed any remembrance of what he talked about and knew. Excellent. You know your way then. It's quite a distance and there are no carriages lurking about at this time, so you must make haste, Mr. Hanks.

I nodded and dashed up the stairs, two steps at a time, back to the service, feeling very much like a new person. I looked at the sticky note attached to the box, trying to engrave the address in my mind. 23 Minow section, 2nd Street, door number 12. Getting there is unquestionably not a problem for me. I know my hometown better than one knows their kin. Under the poorly lit lights, I found myself rushing past the corridor of blurry houses. the regular pit pattern of my shoes colliding with a cobblestone street, breaking the deafening silence. My stomach was roaring now, and I slightly winced at the increasing agony.

I heard some people yell, curse, and throw buckets of feces at me through their windows, assuming I was a thief. I most certainly didn't blame them. It's a pretty strange thing to see at this time. I had about 40 minutes remaining, but I didn't wish to spend a second longer in this nightmare task I was issued with. I was buried so deep in my ocean of thoughts and conspiracies that I didn't even notice how much I closed in on my destination. I could see it now. 23 Mino Section 2nd Street, Door number 12. How do I describe it?

In comparison to the rest of the town, it looked like that one friend that accompanies a group of friends all the time, but unambiguously doesn't fit in with a group. So near, yet so isolated, large yet desolate. There was something about this abode that didn't sit right with anyone who has been unlucky enough to come near it. Still, I moved forward. I had to do this. I couldn't say no. Soon enough, I advanced toward the door and dazed at it in a bid to conceptualize who or what was waiting for me behind the door.

I led out all my worries and a weary sigh and gently knocked on the door. The door marginally opened and a middle-aged woman peeked out to greet. me. I couldn't see much, but judging from the way she appeared before me, she must have woken off from slumber and was evidently unhappy at my interruption. Her eyes wandered down to what I possessed in my hands, and slowly back up to meet my gaze. We looked at each other for what felt like an eternity. At long last, she was the one to break the silence. My husband isn't home, young man. I believe it would be sufficient if you leave it here for the time being. I continued staring at her, not daring to say a word.

She cleared her throat and spoke in a slightly harsh turn this time. Excuse me, he isn't home. He returns in 20 minutes time, dear. You wouldn't want to stay out in this poor weather and possibly wait for him, would you? I paused myself not to react to her words. That would unmistakably break the very first law Mr. Robinson told me to follow. Just how much time is this woman intending to eat up, I wondered. After an additional minute of blaring silence, she exiled deeply and shook her head.

Let me fetch my husband. Won't take a minute. Shortly after, the woman reappeared on the doorstep with her husband. Except, he was nothing like I imagined him to be. No, he was far from the appropriate pronoun to call it. That thing was an absolute monstrosity. It was a behemoth in size and a freak of nature in body proportion. It had a dark crimson re-complexion.

The creature had two bony and slim arms and legs. Its mouth displayed a merciless, vicious row of teeth that appeared to decimate anything in existence into mere atoms. Perhaps his most frightening feature was its head. Its head was far larger than its body, which momentarily made me marvel at how he is still able to stand. The creature had five eyes, with one massive eye on its forehead. all of the gaze is burning my skin right into my very fragile soul.

It towered above me without a word to say. My legs began shaking violently and my conscious struggle of remaining on two feet commenced. I felt a break of cold sweat piling on my neck and back. It was an endeavour to sustain composure. If I don't speak now, I won't speak again. I gulped and extended the package slowly to the beast. I broke a nervous smile and spoke up in the most positive manner

I could deliver. Good evening, sir. I've come to deliver your package? The creature tilted his head to the side and inquisitively looked at the package unsure of whether to trust a new boy on the job or murder him on the spot. Just as I was beginning to question

whether I got the correct address or not and prayed my silent prayers, the creature grinned from ear to ear and led out a giddy laugh. He handed the package to his wife to bring home and returned back to the abyss that was his abode. I took that as the approval message Mr. Robertson mentioned. I'm glad you appreciate it. Good night, sir.

With that said, I set off on my journey back home. I just about liberated a thankful chuckle under my breath. Fair to say, I was pretty amazed at just how easy things went. If only I hadn't celebrated so early. The woman accidentally let the package slip out of its grasp and it fell onto the floor. I must have heard something breaking there, perhaps glass. The box looked to corrode slowly, but under the harsh rain it was uneasy to tell. That got the beast's unwanted attention.

The woman sunk to the floor and pleaded and cried for the beast to spare a life. To the beast, her life was in the least of his interests. Within seconds, it lunged the water and crammed her inside its mouth in one go. The pleaded screams muffled by the horrifying, nauseating sound of sharp razors meeting flesh and bone. Blood splattered and painted the streams of rainwater between the cobble red. It roared indignantly, a shriek so fierce it made my eardrums bleed. This thing was beyond angry now. Before long, his attention was fixated on me now.

I was no runner, but even with a few dozen men, meter's head start, the creature caught up to me in mere seconds and pinned me to the floor with his misleading abnormal arm strength. I rapidly clawed at my face and my neck, ripping off chunks of flesh and skin. I tried to wriggle and push the thing off of me, but my attempt was in vain. He wanted to kill me too. I saw it in its bloodlusted eyes. Effortless, it hoisted me up and welcomed me with this savage, brutal set of teeth. With my free hand, I grabbed the liquid in my right pocket, it and flicked it open. Instead of drinking it, I squirted it in the critter's mouth. The creature yelt and gagged in pain, letting me go. I fell down onto the floor and backed away from

it immediately. It started screeching and screaming and shrieking, I was trying to choke out what I fed it. The liquid seemed to have inflamed it from inside out, and large paws emerged around its torso. A steady stream of blood, organs and acid flowed out of its hideous body as it descended onto its knees. The creature shot me one last, conquered stare as his eyes rolled to the back of its skull. I looked at the bottle in my hand with bewilderment. Ease the situation, according to Mr. Robinson, meant killing yourself to save the pain. Realising the gravity of the state of affairs I was in, I silently cursed Mr. Robinson. I made an effort to rise on my feet, but to no avail.

I broke some ribs from the fall and fractured my right ankle. My right cheek was slashed and a few parts of my neck was missing. I was lying in a pool of water, mud and blood. I was losing a lot of blood and needed urgent medical attention. My vision became obscure, and I felt myself breathing a lot slower. Ten weeks later, I was healthy and fit again. The hospital did quite a splendid job of fixing me up. They did surgery in my face and neck, as well as treated my ribs and fractured ankle.

The doctor said I was blessed to be alive, and had they not arrived any sooner, I would have breathed my last that night. Nobody was able to find out the cause of the event, and it was eventually labeled as a mystery. The only person who's fully aware of what happened was my mother, who was on a way back home from work. She was the one who sought medical attention for me while I was half dead. A reprimanding is a little too light to describe her reaction, and she vowed that I won't be allowed to be seen out of her sight. I guess she won't be going anywhere too, as I found a huge lump of cash under my table with a blooded note beside it.

Superb work, Mr. Hanks. Outstanding. Not how I plan things to go, but nonetheless, you deliver just in time. Come meet me at the old firm I have more packages for you to deliver This is just the beginning Your sincerely Mr Robinson I'm a plumber by trade

It doesn't sound like much But if you've ever worked this job You know you're in a position of power Fixing the toilet might not sound all too glamorous But everyone who's ever had a broken toilet knows how inconvenient it is How long can you stay in your house without a functioning bathroom.

Anyway, I have quite the story to tell, and it starts somewhere far away from my ordinary workspace. There's an abandoned quarry just outside of town where kids who graduate have one final party before the summer. I say kids, but they're adults now, I guess. But it is a mindset thing. The whole quarry party is considered a harmless tradition and most parents are willing to let their kids go.

I mean, they went there themselves, all those years ago, who were they to tell their kids not to? The people of this town may be old-fashioned, but they're not hypocrites. Sure, the quarry is a bit messier nowadays, but all in all isn't that bad. But that night and this particular graduation party, things were worse than ever, and no one would know until it was too late. There were dark clouds gathering overhead, so most of the kids who wanted to take a dip had to hurry before the kids.

the rain came. The first six to arrive threw themselves in. It was pitch black. Some complained about the water feeling weird, but it wasn't until the other kids pulled up with their cars had they noticed something wrong. There, illuminated by the headlights of a half dozen vehicles, the six kids who dove in stepped out of the water, covered from head to toe in a black, viscous liquid. Not oil, not algae, nothing like that. Just a thick surface liquid. and it burned them. One kid, Mary Dunland, went blind. Two others ended up in the hospital with respiratory failure.

The other three managed to get most of it washed off in time. The police were called in, and I've been told it was nothing short of a miracle that no one died that night. They never really managed to identify what kind of liquid had been poured into that quarry. All they found was that someone had dumped some kind of old appliance in it, a washing machine, I think. Over the next week, my crew were getting calls all over town.

He started with a blind kid. I didn't take the call personally, but my co-worker Jimenez told me she was in a bad shape. She'd lost a lot of weight and her hair had fallen out. Apparently, the only thing stopping her from going back to the intensive care unit was her parents and their power of prayer. Poor kid, she never stood a chance. When you lose so much hair that it clogs your shower drain, you need to see a doctor. There were other calls as well. The kids with respiratory failures had similar issues.

One of them was starting to lose teeth. The other had trouble keeping liquids down. Even the kids who got the stuff off fast were having trouble. Nasty rashes in Exma. Seeing Rugboa with an enormous bald surreis' spot on the back of his head was unreal. All of them were going to be. clogging or ruining the drains one way or another, hair mostly, but also this foul-smelling, hardened soil. Some of the kids were puking their guts out and there was still this black stuff

inside of them. You couldn't let it touch you, and stuff still burned. It also discarded things into this sickening blue shade. My guys stepped into at least four bathrooms with blue spotted tiles despite the parents trying to tidy up. It was bad. Then the order came to drain the quarry, the entire quarry. It was an enormous undertaking, even though the site itself was neither deep nor big. The site was abandoned back in the 70s. Still, the mayor couldn't just sit this one out. We had a work cut out, and yet no one had any idea what the liquid actually was.

I never touched the stuff myself, but I found Jimenez out by a truck one early morning. She was looking for something and I came over to help. What are we looking for? I asked. It was still so early that the morning dew hadn't settled. Jimenez was scratching her head. My kit, she said. The entire thing is just gone. Bucket, tall belt, all of it.

We had it break in. She shrugged. No idea. There's just no... No. She stared at something off the side of the truck. I stepped sideways and followed her eyes. There were black handprints on the left side of the truck,

and there were spots of goo covering the gravel path. Picking up a rag, he managed tried wiping it off. It left a blue handprint with enormous ink-like texture, looked just like the bathroom tiles I'd seen. I'm calling the police, she said. As I sat there, watching the handprints, I noticed something. There was a clear pass into it, to and from the back of the truck.

The second set of prints, going away from the back, were slightly larger and slightly higher up, like someone taller and larger had made them. Jimenez, I called. Do you have your work pants? At home, she called back. They're in the dryer. Did you get that ink stuff on them? Yeah, she responded, why?

I didn't like this. Not one bit. Turns out every single item that had been touched by this stuff had gone missing. Jimenez's work pants included. Later, Jimenez told me the police had gotten similar reports all over town. Lots of things that had even touched the stuff had gone missing. Entire sections of pipe, for example, from where it clogged, but also bathroom tiles, clothes, fabric, all kinds of items.

I didn't like it. And what about the kids? I brought Jim Minnis along to Mary Dunland, the kid who went blind. Her family was amongst the first to call us out about clogged drains, so I figured there were some of the people worst affected, or at the very least, they were among the first. Jimenez was sceptical, but that was a go-to response whenever she didn't understand what was going on.

She didn't like to go into anything unprepared, but I didn't know how to tell her what I suspected. Instead, I just told her where was. doing a follow-up on the water pressure. She didn't buy it, but knew better than to start asking questions. I think she'd noticed I was stressed out about the whole thing and just humoured me. As soon as the door opened, I could hear something awful from the top floor. Both parents were standing in the doorway, but their heads turned in a heartbeat.

The pipes above were rattling, and it felt like the entire house was shaking. Something heavy fell over, and something ceramic shattered. Mary? The father called out as he ran upstairs. Mary, what happened? We didn't even get the time to explain why we were there. We ran up upstairs along with them. See, the thing is, the kids had been covered in their black stuff in the quarry.

But it wasn't just their outside, but their inside as well. It got in their lungs, their bowels, the throat. And that stuff sticks. It colors things. overnight pretty much anything touched by it has been taken away so i didn't get a good look at her she had been sitting on the toilet she had taken a hold of the bathroom sink but it didn't help much it broke and laid shattered on the bathroom tiles mary dunland was lying right alongside the shards with the black organic trail leading out from her stomach and into the toilet her eyes were already dead staring straight ahead. Mouth wide open, her gums already drying. She died in a matter of seconds.

Her organs displaced and pulled out. Then came the screams. From everyone. But Mary, the police were busy that day, and Mary was just the first to go. Tongues were ripped out in the shower, skin was carved off. Monkey got scalped in the bed,

as their hair had turned blue from the goo a few days prior. Another had the teeth pulled out of the head while they were brushing the teeth. No witnesses seemed to make any sense. This time, there were only two survivors, the kid who got scalped, and another with a ruptured lung. It was a mess. Pretty much anything that had touched the black stuff vanished over the next few days.

So, naturally, I wondered what happened to the equipment used to drain the quarry. By now I needed answers, and none of my workers were allowed to go near the stuff until I could tell them it was safe. I headed up the water treatment plant with one of the supervisors, an old friend of mine. We headed inside and small talk the entire way, until we could no longer ignore the obvious. So, what did you do with it? I asked. The quarry water. We tested it for acidity, and it was within parameters. So we just filtered it.

Filtered it? I scoffed. You don't mean. Yeah, he nodded. It got filtered out with the rest of the main water supply. Are you? I glanced at my thoughts. That is insane.

Look, there are no toxins in it. No bacteria. Chemically, it looks no different than old stale water. There's got to be more tests you can run. Look, we've checked. He insisted, come see for yourself. I check the pipes, I check the filters, I check the reports. On paper, there was nothing wrong with this stuff, except for a slightly elevated acidity.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling of something terrible happening. I need to see the reservoir. Of course, there was much to see. Clear, fresh water. I couldn't imagine anything from Mary Donnellan's bathroom ending up here. so no matter how clean there wasn't enough chemicals in the world to wash that image out of my mind the only thing you'll notice is the elevated water levels said the supervisor that's only because of the added volume it can't be that much i added more than you think

and you've checked out here too we've checked out here too we took a walk along the side of the reservoir where i noticed something peculiar On the western bank, there was a small patch of sunflowers planted the year prior. The soil around them had dried up, and some of their leaves had turned blue. Also, the soil of my shoes were leaving blue footprints. I'd stepped in something. We need a goddamn shovel. The topsoil was fine, but it was all just a cover.

Underneath, inches away, the roots and worms were turning black and blue. The goo may have been filtered out. But it found its way back again. The implications were horrifying. We could have all drunk it, bathed in it. What if it only took a drop of the stuff to make us sick? I think it was some sort of microbe, something small enough to not be seen until there were too many a number.

Something capable of surviving harsh environments. Something we'd never seen. The supervisor was running off to call his superiors an alert. Everyone. I just sat down on the side of the western bank watching the discolored soles in my shoes. My mind blanked. I must have sat there for hours. It wasn't until the sun started the set that I even noticed how much time had passed.

As I got up to leave, I threw one last glance at the sunflower patch. A few of them had turned completely blue while others were still struggling. I turned around to leave. Then... I tripped. I fell face forward, knocking all the air out of my lungs. Something had snagged around my feet, and I was still trying to understand what was happening.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows all around me. Glancing behind me, I saw this long shadow of a man, but it was standing straight up, a vertical shade. That's when I realized it was no shadow, reaching a height of just above 11 feet this monstrosity was black as an oil spill it held out a hand towards me and two fingers reached out and spun themselves around my feet

the entire being was fluid and shifted its weight back and forth always in motion the two fingers reached out at least 10 feet and were still as strong as industrial rubber there was something solid inside the head something resembling a skull something with an open mouth, as if trying to scream.

I barely had time to struggle. I took my hands into the ground, but all it did was bloody my fingers. I screamed, but my lungs were still recovering from the fall. In the blink of an eye I was being held upside down. I flared around like a cat in a bag. Then my shoes came off. I landed on my back, in perfect view of the fluid being. His fingers retracted, bringing the shoes into itself and absorbing them.

They melted away. Then, as if nothing happened, the being sank back into the ground. It was all over in a couple of seconds. The only evidence of this being real was my very real lack of shoes. Barely even registering what happened, I just stood up and screamed. I screamed my throat out. The entire thing has been labelled. a chemical spill. The brazier bar has closed off and an old pharmaceutical company was blamed for

mishandling old infantry. Of course, hatchet pharmaceuticals haven't been a branch open in these parts since the turn of the millennium. They were just a convenient scapegoat. I moved out of town as soon as I could. I do not trust whatever weight in the water supply to just go away. I saw what it did to the soil. A thing will grow out of control and this entire town is, and this entire is going to hell. Mark my words. There is so, so much wrong with the story. I have the government stepping in and closing the reservoir as if they knew what was going on. There's been reports of masked maniacs baptizing people in the now closed off reservoir.

Hell, there was even some guy who wanted to buy the wash machine from the quarry. Look, this thing's just... It's a powder keg. I can't believe they're covering it off. My therapist says I have to let it go, but I just don't know how. Dr. Jane insists that it will be a journey for that she's up for the task. I'm not so sure. Look, all I'm trying to say is, do your research.

If you're moving into rural Minnesota, check the papers, drink bottled water for a few weeks, be careful, and check the area for blue flowers. My story was supposed to have a happy ending. The ones with terrible beginnings usually do. But I'm going to realize my hero's journey won't end with me smiting the beast and getting the girl. It's going to end here and now, with a plastic parasite wearing my bleeding skin. Calling the police isn't an option. It goes to their department, and even Grinsville isn't either.

Google Map shows me as a blue dot on a blank canvas, us, stranded on an empty plain with no roads, no mountains, no anything. I know that's not true. The town is here. But this place, if this is a place, and not something far from it, isn't of our world. This perfect little town is just a nightmare in disguise. It started, days ago, I think. Time moves like liquid here. It bubbles through the cracks and turns everything into a refractive blur. The sun sets at hot hours and rises when it pleases. Nothing moves like clockwork, or if it does, it moves like a broken clock, stuttering, stopping, and lurching onward in strange intervals. For me, it started the

minute I turned 18. That was when I left the trailer park behind. I didn't have much, the clothes on my back, the overnight bag on my shoulder, the cigarette on my lip, and the mason jar of petty cash I'd save from summer jobs. But it was enough. It was all I needed to get out of this abusive cesspool to leave the tapestry of awful memories behind. I had no idea where I was going to go, but the place didn't matter.

All that mattered was putting this dead end in the rearview mirror. I lived in a stretch of Ozarks that deserved its unofficial motto, meth, death and liquor breath. It certainly described the man formerly known as my father. the man I wished was dead. So, that was that. I was off to start my life, anywhere but here.

I walked at the bus station and thought about things. Where I'd go when I got there, what I would make of myself. I didn't have any answers when I hit the bus station in the early evening, a wooden pillbox sitting on a desolate stretch of road hemmed by dense woods. The place was mostly empty. There was a scabby homeless guy crumpled out. on a something high by the front door, a few olds inside, and the attendant, a pimply girl who looked no older than I behind the counter. I set my back between my feet and scanned the departures.

Where, too? she asked in a jaded, nasly voice. The rest of my life was at my fingertips, a bottomless well of possibilities, Los Angeles, New York, El Paso, Seattle, and a place called Quinnsville. What the hell was Grinsville? It sounded like something had ever rejected Dr. Seussbuck. Where is that? I asked, indicating Grinsville on the board over the ticket window. I don't have x-ray vision, she sighed. The overnight bused to Grinsville? The girl frowned.

Don't know, when we'd look it up. I hesitated. There was a certain alert to a place called Grinsville. I could almost picture the manicured lawns. so startlingly green it hurt a stare. The baby blue sky dusted with clouds, the postcard perfect homes arranged in neat rows. It was a place I wanted to be,

a place where people grinned at the neighbours and always waved hello. If it turned out to be some slimy smear of a town, I rather not know until I got there. Because, not knowing meant it could be perfect. Not knowing meant I'd be able to stand at the bus ride, dreaming about what might be. No, I said, but that's why I'm going.

One ticket to Grinsville. There's something strange and uncanny about an empty bus stop in the dead of night, like it's a portal to another place, what lies between our world and beyond. And it's only by sheer luck you don't stagger over a crack in the facade. It was late and I was getting nervous. Darkness had settled in, stealing away the light and the buses which had been sweeping through all day.

I hadn't seen a car for at least an hour, and my bus was late, 30 minutes late. It was supposed to be here at 9.45 and... Just then, headlights splashed down the road like two glowing eyes. A little ball of excitement manifested in my gut as the ancient bus, looking like a sad, abused dog, motored down the quiet road. I scrubbed out my cigarette and grabbed my overnight bag as the bud sidled to a stop. The driver cranked open the door. He looked. Strange.

No one thing I could pin my finger on, but he was like he was assembled in a mannequin factory. Perfect jet of black hair, starched uniform, porcelain skin, big toothy smile greeting me from behind the wheel. Going to Grinsville? He asked in a voice that was high and squeaky,

but not unpleasant. That's right, I said, as I boarded the bus and offered up my ticket. "'What's the runtime?' He frowned like he didn't understand. "'How long's the ride?' I clarified. His smile brightened. "'You just settle back and I'll get you where needs getting.'

I started to turn away, hesitated. "'One thing,' I said. "'Where is Grinsville?' His smile widened, growing into a long grin. "'It's right where it needs to be,' he said. Okay, weird. But I shrugged it off. Some people rodballs.

God knows I met plenty in the land of meth, death and liquor breath. I thanked him, scanned the bus for an empty seat, of which there were many. There were only two other passengers, one near the front of the bus, the other towards the middle. Both men in long coats, with padoras shrugged low over the rise. If I had a hat, I might do the same. Instead, I stretched my Eisenhower jacket over my head, and I settled down into the back of the bus for the night ride to Grinsville. I blinked awake and found myself beneath an open sky, a deep, cool blue fluffed with clouds. My head was pounding, slowly and rhythmically, beating against the walls of my skull like a terrible drum.

I winced against the headache as I shifted up and took my bearings. Standing beside me in the shade of a bright green awning was a wooden bench. A bus stop. One that looked like something out of a 1950s catalogue. Unweathered, unblemished, unvandalised. In other words, it looked brand new. And so did the patch of grass beneath me. The one splashed in sunlight and...

Something was off. As I dug my fingers, I realised it was fake grass. It felt dead and grubby beneath my palms. I grimaced and pulled my hands away, like I grazed a hot griddle. I was all forgotten when I saw the postcard start sign, the one painted in garish colours that depicted the town of my dreams. Perfect lawns, houses, smiling folks waving to one another,

a place where the people didn't know the meaning of meth, death and liquor breath. It was a perfect little 1950s suburbia. The cars old and round, the women in dresses, the men in suits. That was what the sign promised, anyhow. arching letters read, Welcome to Grinsville. Smile like you mean it. I shaded my eyes and looked past it,

bracing myself for disappointment, expecting some dying town as cracked and blistered as a boot heel, maybe some giant waste factory pumping oceans of gunk into the sky. But no. No, of course it wasn't that. It was perfect. A movie set too delicate for this world. But it wasn't a set.

It was real. It stood before me like the Emerald City. Streets paved in brick, suburban outcropping surrounded a cozy main street, a steeple church growing from a trimmed lawn. All of it divided into neat little sectors that all seemed so right. And beyond the town. That was the thing.

I couldn't see beyond the town. It was out of focus, hidden behind a strange shirring haze like heat pouring off asphalt. But I didn't notice. All I saw was the small town of my nightmares. It was just as the sign had promised. Old cars, perfect homes, a main street lined by soda bars, penny arcades, dress shops. But it was a ghost town. Nothing moved, nothing breathed.

The wind sighed through me as I strolled into town with my bag on my back. I scanned for signs of life. A bird, a stray cat, a rat, rooting through the trash. I saw nothing. Nothing but... People. People in shops, behind the wheels of cars,

and the counters of a diner, posed mid-meal, frozen forever in silent routine. Because they weren't people at all. They were mannequins. The first thing that sprang to mind was Call of Duty Nootown. The second was the Sin Against film

that was Indiana Jones, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I thought, about Indy, staggering into a town just like this one, only to leave it in a lead-line refrigerator as the raging breath of an atomic blast avowed everything in sight. I pulled out my phone, expecting to find reception was a thing of the past. I had one bar. I typed in Grinsville and hoped for...

Something. Anything. Grinsville didn't exist on Google. Panic rooted itself in my gut. I punched 911 and got an answering machine A plastic voice saying plastic words The sound of something imitating human manners and courtesy It made my skin crawl hearing it say

You reach Grinville's finest We're out right now But if you leave your name and I killed the call and stood on the main street in the dead place Everything felt awful The freshly painted signs The freshly paved roads All of them felt so wrong

My mind was white, unease and confusion had turned my brain to static. Rational thoughts had abruptly fled, leaving me to flounder through my thoughts for any plan of action. None came. What did come, dancing at the front of my brain and flashing red neon, was the realization that something was very, very wrong here. Then, something moved on the corner of my vision. My head snapped around. I found myself facing my own drawn expression in the diner window.

It hadn't been my reflection moving. I was certain of that. It had come from inside the glass, inside the building whose doors held a sign reading, Welcome, we're open. I moved closer. Sunlight glared off the soaked glass, turning the inside of the eatery into a dark chasm

where shapes did not exist. I copped my hand to the window and peered in. At first, I didn't realize what I was seen. scene. A dreadful, slimy shiver crept on my spine. My gut curled with dread as I stared at the mannequins eating their plastic meals. Their heads had turned, and every single one of them was staring right at me. I jumped back and did what my lizard brain told me. I ran. A blind, full tilt scrambled to somewhere, anywhere but here. The building shifted into a cul-volved scroll as I felt the plastic men and women and their children turn their plastic heads to watch me go.

I could feel their dead eyes pouring into my neck as I fell off the main street and into a quiet alley. I collapsed against a trash can, one that had never, and would never know the taste of garbage. I stuffed air into my lungs and wondered what I should... The bus stop. Yes, I'll go back to the... Where was the bus stop? I peered out around the lip of the alley and looked at. both ways. Main Street pulled away from me and shifted into the suburban outcroppings,

broken only by a few prominent buildings, the church, the courthouse, the bright red fire station. The town shrank away into a dull green pinprick, stretching as far as the eye could see. There was no bus stop. There was nothing but... Grinsville. I stared at the perfect town, as still and lifeless as a painting. I felt my hopes and dreams crumble like a city under siege. This was supposed to be my new life. It was... Hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me back into the alley.

That was when I started to scream. The man in the suit was covered in blood, drenched in it. I hardly recognised him. His face, a gory, mangled mess, hung in shredded strips and tangles from his bone-white skull. He had been on the bus to Grinsville. There had been two of them. Fedora smoked over their eyes, overcoats draped over their suits.

And now this one, this nameless G-man, was dying. He moved like an expiring animal, one of the being clipped by a semi. He gricked my shirt in bloody hands and tried to drag himself to his feet. I don't think he realised that both of his legs were gone, crudely shredded off above the knees. nothing more than mangled spigots spilling his blood in hot buckets. Please, he groaned, voice rough with agony. He grumbled to the ground, a puppet with cut strings, and I heard a muffled thud from inside his jacket.

I swallowed, wanting to bolt, and not wanted to touch the tatter suit still warm with his red life. But I was from the land of meth, death and liquor breath, and I instantly knew what that sound was. Grimmissing, I gingerly peeled open his jacket to reveal the 38th special he kept snug in a shoulder holster. Beside it, tucked into the jacket pocket, was a badge. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The acronym C leapt out at me.

Supernatural enforcement agency. What the hell was that? I didn't care. I wanted the revolver. It would feel good in my hands. It would be a comfort. I unbuckle the holster and reach for the gun. Don't be cross, said her plastic voice.

I looked up and saw the man's partner standing in the mouth of the alley. His face, blank and featureless, instantly betrayed what he had become. One of them. Everyone here smiles, he said, it's our only rule. Then his face tore back and I realised he wasn't just a mannequin. It was something far, far worse. I snapped out the gun as the mannequin's face broke apart, splitting back as if on a hinge to reveal a mouth of jagged, needle-sharp teeth. Teeth made a broken porcelain set into a mouth of just that.

Its eyes, black and lifeless, creased into slit, as four huge, insectile appendages erupted from the sides of the plastic parasite. The grinning thing fell forward and caught itself, searching toward me on all fours like some nightmarried. insect, one that operated like a hermit crab, using the mannequins husk as a shell. It scuttled up the alley, a high rattling shriek, issuing from the back of its throat. More shrieks called out reply. Tens, dozens, scores of cries rang out from every house and street, every store and building in the Greater Grinsville Township. All those fake people, with their fake lives and their fake clothes, were infested by something.

something which writhed and squirmed just behind the plastic smiles. It hit me like a freight train, a bolt of fear which swallowed my tiny, imperfect world like a black hole. The walls of the alley flew away. The revolver disappeared from my hands. Curtains of darkness fell over my vision as the plastic parasite pumped toward me. I had to move. I couldn't move. Fear was all I felt.

Raw, tingling. I sawed air through my lungs and bolted it into a roar. A revolver materialised in my hands, firm and sturdy. I levelled it and found the trigger. Bang, bang, bang! Three 38 caliber rounds tore through the creature. Sprays of plastic and blood erupted from its form as one insectile limb blew off of the joint

as half its face tore free and went tumbling to the ground. The world around me shot into clarity. I fought to my feet and ran like the wind. I found myself on the main street, facing down an army of mannequins. There were hundreds. Men, women, children, as he of summer dresses and khakis and polar shirts and suits. A wall of smiling, plastic faces, barely masking what nested beneath. I had three bullets in the revolver, which hung glimply at my side.

I would need 3,000, and even still, I wouldn't have a fighting chance. As if, to punctuate this point, the denizens of Grinsville change. Their heads split back in unison, bearing jagged teeth. Insect arms forced their way out to plastic sides, tearing through clothes, testing the air. The army of picture-perfect people transformed. The plastic parasites had made themselves known. The air filled to the wall of rattling shrieks as I tried to run, turned to find myself surrounded as dozens of smiling things skittered down the sides of the buildings around alleys and storefront.

This was the end. The end of a kid who wanted nothing more than an eraser, an eraser to scrub away the past and start anew. It was heartbreak, a crushing realization that, here and now, there was only one thing I could control. I stuck the revolver beneath my chin and saw the gutter set into the curb. I didn't think. I planted my feet and lunged, lunged as the plastic parasites crushed in on all sides.

Using the forward momentum, I kicked out my feet and dove, aiming for the narrow gutter, hoping I wouldn't bounce my skull off sharp concrete. The sky and all its like whisked away as I dove in through the storm drain and tumbled into darkness. The ground flew into my stomach and drilled out all the air. I weased and staggered to my feet, desperate to lose the bar of sunlight cutting into the gutter. Shapes wiped across the drain, shrieked overlapped. I fell forward through the gloom, wondering the maze of filth and slime hiding beneath the postcard perfect town. The streaks faded as I navigated grimy corridors and sludge-drenched catwalks. I followed a river of thick, brown muck gurgling downstream.

I hoped it would spit me out into sunlight someplace far, far away. But the only sunlight I saw was that which stole through the sewer grates. Sometimes I paused to look out on the town that was a little. supposed to be my new beginning, the one filled with mannequin things now frozen in time, frozen until whatever lived beneath their plastic skin decided to wake up. It was that way for a while, a blur, a broken memory, my journey through the Grinsville sewer system. A while later, I found the boiler room.

Through a narrow corridor and down a spiral set of stairs, I found myself in a wide, cavernous space. It was drenched in strange subterranean light and wrapped in thick pipes and tanks, dials and levers. It was biblical, a huge living organism, hissing steam, belging smoke, all of it throbbing with awful industry. The heat was unbearable and... My God, I whispered as I realized what lived behind the equipment. Thick pools of flesh pulsed and throbbed through the spaces in between pipes and vats, as though something huge, some awful mound of hot meat was wearing the metal like a husk.

I could smell its sour reek. It filled my throat and tunneled into my lungs. I was agonizing. I couldn't take it. I shoved the revolver against my temple and pulled the trigger. The gun didn't fire. It didn't paint the floor in my thoughts and feelings. It offered an inbitant click

that made me feel like doubling over in a bout of insane laughter. When I had fallen into the sewer, I must have rolled the cylinder. That was an easy fix. I squeezed the trigger twice. Click. A stray bullet whizzed across the room and pinked off a vat. An angry spray of steam hissed out in a boiling cloud and... An idea slapped me in the face.

There's no one. No one for me to call. No one but... You. My nameless, faceless co-conspirator. My phone is clung to life long enough for me to finish writing this. I'm down to 2% to tell you how it ends. When I started this, I wasn't sure how it would end.

Now it sealed, cast in blood and guts. It certainly isn't a happy ending. Those stories, the best kind, usually don't grace people like me. My life was written from the moment it began. I tried to rewrite the ending and look where it left me. in the heat of a dying boiler room. I spent the best part of an hour crangling every dial and leather I could find.

And now this place, the one concealing that massive flesh thing is brewing its guts into something powerful. An explosion I'm hoping will banish this town once and for all. Every dial in sight is in the red zone, its needle trembling fearfully, the steam sprays and heat rises. I don't know if that living flesh thing

the one behind the pipes is the town's mistress or its mother or its brain. But I do know, fire is the cure for wrongness. And once I'm done treating Grinsville, none of its plastic parasites will smile ever again.