Just Creepy: Scary Stories - True Scary REDDIT Stories Told In The Rain | Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 23, 2023

Try Magic Mind today and go to ► https://www.magicmind.com/justcreepy And get up to 50% off your Magic Mind subscription for the next 10 days with my code: JUSTCREEPY20 These are 8 True Scary REDDIT Stories Told In The Rain | Reddit Horror Stories Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/ApatheticCapybara/►https://www.reddit.com/user/jarofgoodness/►https://www.reddit.com/user/spookypiranhas/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Adomanzius/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:03:14 Story 1 00:09:57 Story 2 00:18:23 Story 3 00:23:32 Story 4 00:34:45 Story 5 00:44:46 Story 6 00:51:58 Story 7 01:01:03 Story 8 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #scaryredditstories #redditstories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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for the next 10 days with my code Just Creepy 20. Let's dive into the unknown with these. scary Reddit stories told in the rain. I don't know what came back to my home, but I do know one thing. That is not my dog. So my father went on vacation and left me his dog, a beautiful Vimariner named Bella. In case you don't know, Vimuriners are hunting hounds. They only really bond with one human, and the rest are at best, pack. The human Bella bonded with was my dad. Obviously he's the one she spent most of her life with, but still, she listens to me. When I call, she comes.

When I tell her to stay, she stays. Of course, a dog needs walking, and that's fine. My dad's retired, so he always walks her at the same time. And she's used to that. She has trouble doing her business if it's not her time. So I try to accommodate that. My job has pretty comfortable times, so having her around just means I need to get up a few minutes earlier.

There's a little strip of forest behind my home, so I can just open the terrace door, open the fence door, and let her run. All fine, all good, until she. last Friday. I had to get up at an ungodly early hour that day. Even worse, when I woke up, it was raining like crazy, the middle of the night and rain coming down in torrents. I was absolutely stoked to have to walk the dog, so I just put on some clothes and go outside with her, leaving the light on the terrace on, but pulling the door shut so she doesn't run in with her

paws all wet before I've had time to dry her off. I walk through the pouring rain into the garden fence. It's a tall fence, seven feet, and sturdy and enough that you can't see through it. I unlock the door, shove it open, and Bella is off like a shot, the way she always is. The moment I stepped past the fence, I realized how stupid of an idea this was. I can't see crap. It's dark, so dark I can barely see. The little porch light doesn't reach past the fence. Two steps out, and I immediately trip over a route that I've apparently always avoided in better lighting. I want to go back, but Bella's still out there, hopefully doing her business. So I walk out, stumbling around in the dark.

My optometrist tells me that I'm very good at seeing in the dark, but between the forest, the early hour and the rain, I can barely see six feet in front of me. A co-worker introduced me to the Magnus Archives recently, and the stories that always got me were the ones where people get stuck in these bizarre, endless dreamscapes. I feel like I'm in one of these, an infinite plain of cold, dark, wetness. I'm getting scared.

I call out to Bella. My voice barely reaches my own ears through the pouring rain. Bella always comes when called, but clearly she doesn't hear me. I can't even tell if she's coming closer because the rain is louder than the rustling of her paws on the forest floor could ever be. Oh God, what if I can't find her? What if I'm late to work because of this? Should have just let her poop in the backyard.

I call out to Bella some more to no avail. This is useless. I decide to go back home, grab a flashlight, and then, search for her properly. Stumbling and slipping, I feel more than find my way back to the fence and into the backyard and see the unmistakable shape of a Weimariner backlit by the porch light. Smart dog ran back to the terrace when she couldn't find me and was waiting for me in front of the terrace door. Relief floods me. If you've ever been worried sick about something and then you probably know the kind of relief I'm talking about. It's the kind that's like a warm shower over

your back. I'm so relieved, in fact, that I don't question the red specks on Bella's snout. It's Sunday now, and I'm certain that whatever showed up on my porch, it wasn't Bella. I only write this down now because I wasn't sure at first, but now I am. That thing... Looks like my dog, but it isn't. The first thing I noticed was off was the eating habits. Bella is not a picky eater, and her sweet tooth is almost as big as mine. So long as it's sweet, she wants a bite of it.

But this thing doesn't. It only cares about meat. Dried meat won't do either. The fresher, the better. It refused Bella's kibble. It refused the jerky I keep around for Bella. At first I thought Bella was just being a bit prissy. But then I accidentally cut myself while chopping some veggies for dinner.

And the picky eater was suddenly right there, licking up the red. I was mostly just happy that she wanted something. So I didn't question it until I felt her teeth scraping at the wound to make me bleak. more. I yanked my hand away in shock. Normally when she nips me, she gets this really apologetic look, but this thing just stared at me as if offended that I was taking its delicacy away. The eyes were the next thing that tipped me off. Bella has these beautiful, soulful, gray-green eyes, but this thing has eyes that are the most putrid shade of yellow. Its teeth are whiter and sharper than Bella's too, but the looks this thing gives me? I firmly believe that

dogs are incapable of being evil or mean. Even pit bulls, bred fighting machines that they are, think they're being good boys when they mull. But when this thing stares at me, it feels actively malevolent. I spent Saturday wondering why it didn't attack me in my sleep. I leave my bedroom door open for Bella so she doesn't wake me up at night by throwing herself against it. And she takes frequent advantage of that, coming into my room to lick my hand to get me to wake up and walk her. It's super cute. But this thing doesn't do that. It just stands right at the threshold, staring at me. Eventually I got an inkling of why that might be the case.

I kept a crucifix over my bedroom door. In fact, after trying it out, I learned that whatever room I hang the crucifix up in, the thing pretending to be Bella refuses to enter it. The worst part is that I have no idea what this thing is. Is there such a thing as a skinwalker for dogs? Or is Bella still out there while I'm taking care of this creepy changeling? I haven't walked this thing. I just open the terrace door and watch it.

I often have birds coming into my garden, sparrows, and blackbirds mostly. Bella has long since given up trying to catch them. She's just not fast enough. This thing is, though, it's already caught and mauled three blackbirds, two of them, a couple. First, it got the female, then it waited in ambush until the male came to grieve. The picky eater that didn't want its kibble devoured the birds without blinking. but the worst part is that I have no idea what I'm supposed to do about this.

My dad's vacation ends on Wednesday. I can't very well hand that monster over to him, but I can't exactly get rid of it, can I? It was getting near Halloween, and my buddy and I wanted to scare our girlfriends and find a good makeout spot in the woods. We were seniors in high school and all still lived at home, so we had to find out of the way spots to smooch. My buddy said he found the perfect place, but we needed bed. bolt cutters. My dad had some, so that Friday night I swiped them from our garage, and the four of us

set out for Old Hagman's Road. No one lived off of that old dirt road, which ran through the woods connecting two other roads. These roads themselves didn't get much traffic, but Old Hagman's Road got none at all because it was blocked off on both ends by fence-style gates, which were locked with chains and padlocks. Right on the gates were warning signs that read, do not enter by order of the Howard County Sheriff's Office. We pulled up to the south entrance and my friend got out, cut the chain with the bolt cutters, and opened the gate. I drove the car and passed the gate, which he shut behind us. He got back in the car and told us all that they closed the road off about 20 years earlier, but no one knows why. He said there were rumors that people had died back

there, and even the cops wouldn't drive down it. The road itself had gotten bumpy over the years, with dips and occasional branches lying across its width. My headlights shone up ahead only about 40 to 50 feet, revealing the autumn-colored leaves on branches overhanging the path mixed in with some evergreens. The darkness outside of the cone of light cast from the car was deep and foreboding, and the woods were thick and cluttered with vines, bushes, and various brush, all casting twisted black shadows onto the trees and litter behind them. The girls held our arms and cuddled closer, mildly intimidated by the spooky setting. At one point on a straight section of the road I briefly turned off the headlights for a laugh. The girls howled almost in

unison for me to turn them back on. My bud and I chuckled out loud, and I promised not to turn them off again. I drove at a steady 10 miles per hour, only because the bumps were too serious to comfortably handle any faster. I rounded a corner to the left when we all saw two red lights up ahead. They seemed like they were reflecting the headlights of my car, rather than being self-illuminating. I stopped to get a better look before going on. Was this the eye-shine of some animal? They seemed too far apart for that. I proceeded cautiously.

When we got about fifty feet from the lights, the body of the thing the lights were attached to faded into view from the thick darkness behind. It was an old car. The rear reflectors were the source of the red lights we saw. It was a dark blue sedan with its paint chipping off, a good bit of rust, and lots of leaves on its trunk and roof. The rear window was covered in dust, and as I steered to the left side of the road to go around it, we could see that so were the windows to the doors. But we all noticed that the driver's window was down about halfway. I slowed down a little as I crept past the abandoned car.

Looking over, the interior couldn't be seen through the dust-caped windows. As the inside of the driver's seat came into view through its half-open window, a sense of dread and anticipation swept through us all. The steering wheel was in view when my buddy spoke up to assure everyone not to worry. They wouldn't close the road without getting everybody out of here first. They were comforting words, and of course he was right. No need to worry. But as the headrest to the driver's seat came into view, we all stared at it anyway, transfixed and tight with suspense. The dust on the window prevented us from being able to see through it clearly so all we could make out was a sliver of the interior.

At first glance it seemed the seat was empty. But then I noticed just above the top of the partially rolled down window. You could see something on the backrest of the seat. It looked like dark hair on the top of someone's head who had slid down in the seat. But it was just an inch or so and it was dark, so it could have been something else. One of the girls asked if that was a person. No one answered her because we weren't sure. I had come to a complete stop so we could look at it a little longer and try to figure it out. Out of habit, I glanced in my driver's side rearview mirror and noted the dim red glow of my brake lights on the brush to the side of the

road and on the dirt, but something was off. I could see a dark bulge to the side of the car. It was protruding outward from the rear bumper. It seemed to be right up against the car. but it was too dark to make out any details. Then it moved. There was someone there, crouching. I looked with more focus to try to make out what it was when the brake lights revealed an opening mouth and the appearance of a set of teeth and long canine fangs. My heart started racing, and my hands were trembling. I started to move forward to get past the car, saying nothing so as not to alarm the others. I kept one foot on the brake to keep the brake lights on as I watched it in the mirror.

As I pulled forward it stood up. Its body was wide and thick. It stood on two legs and was humanoid in its basic structure. It had large hands with thick claws at the end of each finger. It was covered in hair except for its chest, which was reminiscent of a gorilla's chest. Its head was exactly like the head of a bison, only with thick fangs and an angry grimace on its face.

It even had horns. It stood there as I drove off. No one else had seen it. With a wavering voice, I asked my buddy to have the bolt cutters ready. I said we needed to get out of there fast. He suggested we turn around, but I informed him that there wasn't room on the road for that and I wasn't going back that way no matter what. I increased my speed and held it there, even though the bumps were making the passengers angry. My buddy could tell something was wrong. He asked me if I saw something else besides the possible man in the car. I replied only to tell him to have the bolt cutters ready and to work as fast as he could

when we got to the north gate. Up ahead there was a small opening in the trees to the left, and as we passed it, a dark figure on all fours ran towards the car from the clearing. It slammed into the driver's side door hard, making a loud boom and pushing the car sideways about half a foot. The girls screamed. I put the pedal to the floor. I checked the rear view, and the thing was on all four sideways in the road. It looked up towards us and then gave chase. As we sped along the road, we passed an old police car off to the right in a ditch. The driver's side door was open, and several of its windows were broken. Around the next bend in the road, there was an old station wagon. The windows were all broken on this one, and it was positioned sideways across

the road almost blocking our way. Inside, we could see the decayed remains of a family. mom and dad in the front seat with skeletal smiles and two teenage kids in the back, both rotted and mummified. The girls were in full freak-out mode, and my buddy was now holding the bolt cutters up as if to use them as a weapon if need be. I was banging over the bumps and the beast was pounding on the trunk as it tried to catch up. We had the gate in sight when I realized that this wasn't going to work. It would be upon us by the time my buddy could get the chain cut. There were no other side roads and not enough room to turn around. The gate was far too sturdy to bust through with the car.

When I stopped it was going to break a window, and at least one of us was going to get hurt. There was no way around that now. I had to make a choice. A choice I hope none of you will ever have to make, a choice I have to live with for the rest of my life. Later a man in a black suit would show up at the sheriff's office, and I'd be released. No sign of me having been arrested could be found. in the public record. I had to sign a paper preventing me from talking about what happened for the rest of my life or face a 10-year prison sentence and a $10,000 fine. My father received a new car

as a gift from an anonymous stranger. The parents of the other three passengers who were with me also received anonymous compensation. But even now, years later, I still wake up in a cold sweat at night. I can still hear their screams. Late one night, in the quiet, dimly lit shopping center of Glendale, Colorado, I found myself stepping out of a Walgreens. The clock on my dashboard blinked 11.15 p.m. as I ventured into the almost deserted parking lot. Sparse streetlights cast eerie pools of light amidst the darkness. Little did I know that this ordinary night would soon transform into a nightmare. As I ambled through the lot, an inexplicable wave of terror washed over me, sending shivers down my spine. Panic gripped my heart, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread

that I couldn't quite explain. I began to scan my surroundings frantically, searching for any sign of danger, but there was nothing to rationalize my fear. Hastening my steps, I reached my car, flung the door open, ignited the engine, and hastily maneuvered out of the parking lot onto the desolate street. Almost miraculously the ominous sensation dissipated as soon as I left the vicinity. Perplexed and shaken, I pondered what could have triggered such an intense fear within me. I retraced my steps mentally, exiting Walgreens, scrutinizing the parking lot, walking toward my car, and finally opening the car door. I had examined my surroundings diligently, desperately searching for a cause, but nothing and no one had drawn my attention.

Nevertheless, the fear had vanished as swiftly as it had come, leaving me to wonder about the inexplicable source of my dread. The following night, my work concluded at 10.30 p.m., and as I headed towards my car once more, the terror returned with a vengeance. This time, I scrutinized my surroundings more carefully. As I reached the edge of the parking lot, where the path led to the street, I finally saw it. A man positioned about 10 yards to the right, near another store. He was leaning over a trash receptacle. His body hunched as if he were violently ill. The sight of him sent a shock of terror coursing through my veins, and without hesitation I leaped into my car,

turned the key, and sped away from the parking lot in a frantic frenzy. What was it about that man that filled me with such an overwhelming fear? What had he been doing that I interpreted as menacing, threatening, or life-threatening? The feeling of impending doom was undeniable, but the reasons remained elusive. The subsequent night brought the same routine, work late, exit Walgreens, and experience a surge of terror. This time I decided to investigate further. Instead of heading to my car,

I turned left and approached the man, studying him closely. As I drew nearer, I watched him with heightened scrutiny, yet there was no noticeable movement behind the trash receptacle that obscured his actions. Approximately 40 or 50 feet away, I heard a peculiar sound, an unsettling labored breathing. My steps faltered as I drew within five feet of him,

my heart pounding in my chest, Frozen in fear, I gazed up at this towering figure. He stood at an astounding height, perhaps seven feet or more, and his emaciated form had long, spindly arms that reached down to his knees. He wore black pants, and his head, crowned with long gray hair, seemed eerily human. However, his gray skin and pale, seemingly blind eyes made him anything but ordinary. As he slowly straightened himself, blood oozed from his mouth, coating his lips and dripping onto his attire.

An unsettling smile spread across his face, revealing blood-stained teeth. The image was a horrifying tableau that held me captive in a nightmare I couldn't escape. Paralyzed with terror I stood there, unable to move, as the grotesque being continued to lick the blood from his lips. He never uttered a word, his silence amplifying the terror that had taken hold of me. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the spell broke, and I regained control of my body. Without a second thought, I pivoted and sprinted to my car,

the engine roaring to life as I sped out of the parking lot and towards the safety of my home. In the aftermath of this haunting encounter, questions swirled in my mind. Had I imagined it? Was it a mere illusion, or had I truly witnessed something beyond comprehension? The answer was chillingly straightforward.

What I had experienced was undeniably real. yet the nature of the creature remained an enigma. Was it a man, a beast, or something from another dimension or realm altogether? I couldn't provide definitive answers, only describe the visceral sensations of fear and impending peril that coursed through me that fateful night. In hindsight, I can attest to the undeniable reality of the encounter. The palpable fear, the sense of physical threat,

and the surreal image of a tall, emaciated figure, covered in blood with a chilling smile. Whether it was human or something otherworldly, I may never know. But one thing remains certain. The horrors of that night were real. How many discounts does USAA auto insurance offer? Too many to say here. Multi-vehicle discount. Safe driver discount.

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while others argue that the lake itself possesses an ominous power that lures unsuspecting souls to their watery graves. Though the lake bears a proper name, it has long been forgotten by the townsfolk, who now simply refer to it as Dead Lake. The Dead Lake draws people in like moths to a flame. A dapper post office clerk once confided to me during a chance encounter at a local bar. It's like that Japanese forest. Some people drowned there and then it sort of created a strican effect where other sad people would go there to pass, mused a wispy university type at a quaint cafe. It's the devil, it's always the devil, proclaimed my aunt Shirley, a staunch believer that anything beyond the church's walls was the nefarious handiwork of Satan

incorporated. Though their tales carried an air of the supernatural, I was skeptical of their claims. In fact, I had ventured to swim in Dead Lake countless times, and I found it to be a rather charming spot. Thanks to the macabre legend that clung to its waters like a shadow, I often had the lake entirely to myself. In moments of jest, I would even imagine myself as the queen of dead lake, swimming amidst the memory of those who had perished there. It was all, of course, a rabies-ridden bunch of hoo-haws in my eyes. In our small, uneventful town,

where conversations rarely strayed from the monotonous routine of the factory on Grover Street or the local bar known as ducks, owned by a man known as duck, though he never referred to himself as such, adding a layer of small-town peer pressure to the establishment's name. Dead Lake was an ever-present source of intrigue. As Halloween approached, the legend of the lake was rekindled with fervor. Every conversation seemed to revolve around it, cautioning against nocturnal visits, daytime excursions,

or any interaction with the lake whatsoever. Tales of spirits walking on its surface, a blasphemy in the eyes of my aunt Shirley, who firmly believed it to be the work of the devil, trademark of Satan Incorporated, abounded. The lake was deemed cursed, double cursed, and then allegedly subjected to triple curses by witches and Satanists, who sacrificed babies beneath the ominous glow of the blood moon. All this spooky talk ignited an audacious idea within me. What if I went for a midnight swim on Halloween Eve? If Dead Lake was more than just a lake,

then this would be the time to uncover its secrets. Perhaps a part of me yearned for, for the unknown, even entertained the notion of escaping the monotonous tedium of our small town through a mysterious, watery demise. With no pressing matters on the horizon, I resolved to carry out my plan. On that spine-tingling October day, I informed my parents that I would be trick-or-treating with friends well into the late hours of the night. In our town, even high schoolers resorted to dressing up and seeking candy as a form of entertainment, a convenient alibi. Clad in mundane attire, adorned with glittering horns atop my head, I playfully informed my parents that I was masquerading as the devil, sticking my tongue out and forming horn symbols with my hands.

They chuckled at my antics, but warned me to avoid my aunt Shirley, whose religious fervor would necessitate six months of church attendance to appease. To be fair, my alibi was not entirely fabricated. I ventured out around 7 p.m. and met up with two friends, Sarah and Jake, who were dressed as red riding hood and the Big Bad Wolf, respectively. We roamed the town engaging in the time-honored tradition of trick-or-treating. As the hours passed, our candy bags grew heavier, and Jake produced a half-bottle of whiskey pilfered from his father's stash. We imbibed it in large swallows, chasing the acrid taste with candy to mask the flavor. In a comfortably buzzed state, I bade Sarah and Jake farewell around 11 p.m., informing them that I was

heading home, all the while intending to make my way to Dead Lake without their interference. I arrived at Dead Lake a short while before midnight. The silvery moon cast an eerie glow upon the water, its reflection shimmering in the gentle ripples that traversed the surface. Naturally, I was alone, and my sweat-soaked body eagerly sought respite from the heat of the night. The whiskey's warmth still coursed within me, and with nothing but candy to temper it, the buzz persisted. I consulted my watch, the digital display reading 1158 p.m. swiftly, I shed my clothing and descended into the water with anticipation. Initially, the experience felt rather ordinary. There was no immediate sense of foreboding, though the Halloween ambiance permeated my thoughts.

My mind conjured images of cheap, store-bought witches and bedsheet ghosts, with eye-holes, moth chomped in a feeble attempt at spookiness. The lake itself seemed unremarkable, its modest size enticing me to swim to its center and back. Perhaps I mused, being surrounded by the impenetrable darkness at the lake's heart, would provide a glimpse into the sinister legend of Dead Lake. As I swam, an unusual sensation coursed through the water, akin to an imperceptible current, gently pulling me toward the lake's depths. I attributed it to the lingering effects of the whiskey and continued my journey. After all, currents were the whims of the vast ocean, not a concern in the confines of a small town lake. Upon reaching the lake's center, I allowed my legs to dangle

beneath me, their languid movements keeping my head above the inky surface. I rotated to survey my surroundings, half expecting a miraculous encounter with the divine. However, no such revelation awaited me. Though I harbored no expectations, a sense of disappointment still nod at me. I resolved to swim back to shore and head home, savoring the candy as I went, hoping to wash away the whiskey's acrid taste. But then, after a few strokes, something peculiar occurred once more. The mysterious force, which I had dismissed as a mere current, intensified its grip, pulling me downward. It wasn't just my legs this time, it was my entire torso. It was as though the lake itself sought to submerge me. Panic began to creep in. Had my inebriation been more severe than I had realized?

Was this the grim reality of Dead Lake? A place where intoxicated souls met a watery demise? However, my resolve as a strong swimmer compelled me to press on. Not 50 feet from the shoreline, I found myself dragged beneath the surface. I could feel no physical entity clutching at me. It was as though the very water possessed a malevolent intent. In mere seconds, I was submerged to a depth of at least five feet. Panic intensified as I struggled to discern which way was up. The inexorable force tugged at me, urging me to gaze downward. As I propelled myself upward, or perhaps it was downward, I followed the unseen beckoning. What I beheld in the murky depths of the lake defied comprehension. The lake bed, bereft of rocks, aquatic vegetation or fish, was instead littered with faces,

hundreds, if not thousands of them, tightly packed together, their wide, but wide, black eyes appearing on the brink of bursting open. The crimson hue suffusing the water lent the faces a grotesque shade of purple, as if they teetered on the precipice of life, their mouths agape, struggling for breath in an agonizing silence. I couldn't tear my gaze away. All those faces stared at me with a thousand jet black eyes. A primal instinct, a need to breathe, surged through my subconscious, but I couldn't avert my eyes from the ghastly tableau before me. Time seemed, to hang in the balance as my lungs grew heavy with the pressing need for oxygen. It was a relentless battle within me, torn between the imperative to breathe and the magnetic pull of the horrifying

spectacle. In the end, the involuntary need to survive prevailed, and I gasped for air. But the two conflicting desires intertwined, and I drew in the crimson water instead. Panic erupted within me as I struggled to discern which way was up, as I sank deeper into the abyss. Then I felt myself rising, my limbs propelled by a force beyond my control. When I broke the surface, I found myself once more in the black, tranquil waters of the lake. I coughed up water and mucus, desperately gasping for air as I swam toward the shore. My muscles ached, and my strength waned, but I managed to pull myself onto dry land. I sprawled on my stomach, coughing up a vile mixture of water, mucous and bile, attempting to regain my composure. After my lungs were sufficiently cleared,

I heaved and expelled the remnants of the whiskey that had plagued my stomach. It was a far from graceful moment. Once my legs regained their strength, I trudged my way home. I slept for a full 12 hours, dismissing the night's events as a bizarre, alcohol-induced hallucination. It all seemed like a distant, nightmarish memory, something I had done while inebriated and only half-recalled. Perhaps it was a momentary lapse of sanity or a manifestation of psychosis. However, from that night forward, every time I closed my eyes, I was plagued by dreams of water, water that was tinted a deep malevolent red, water that ensnared and pulled me relentlessly, refusing to let go.

In some instances, I awoke in the middle of the street, precisely halfway between my home and the lake, a disconcerting phenomenon that became increasingly frequent. I live in constant fear that one day I will awaken from one of these nightmarish dreams, only to find myself submerged in the red waters of Dead Lake once more. The faces, those ghastly, suffocating faces, will greet me with their unrelenting gaze, and I will succumb to the watery depths. My desperate cries drowned by the silent chorus of a thousand eyes. Nobody will know where I have gone, and the whimsical legend of Dead Lake will persist among

the superstitious residents of this. town. Perhaps another bored teenager will, like me, challenge the confines of small-mindedness, and venture to unlock the lake's mysteries. If Dead Lake is destined to become my final resting place, all I can do is sound a warning to others. Do not go to Dead Lake, not merely due to the fanciful tales spun by the townsfolk, replete with colorful exaggerations of its malevolence. Do not go there, for the reality that awaits is far grimmer and more dreadful than any myth could ever convey, It is not worth the risk to find out. This is a Bose moment.

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Kayak, got that right. We grew up in the heart of New England, nestled by the side of an ancient four. that held secrets whispered through generations. Whenever we ventured into the woods, Mom enforced three strict rules. Stay on the path, always. Keep moving. Never stop.

Never approach the tall, emaciated trees. In my early years, we lived closer to downtown and rarely ventured near the forest. However, when my parents split up, we moved in with Nana, who lived alone by the edge of the woods, a place now considered a primeval forest untouched by time. The original settlers of New England had cleared most of the old-growth forests, but pockets

like these remained, shrouded in mystery and age. By the time I reached my teenage years, my friends began to explore the woods. They indulged in adolescent vices, beer, weed, fishing, and hunting. I, on the other hand, stayed away, driven by an inexplicable fear that you will soon understand. Our move to Nana's house came when I was eight. Although she had suffered strokes that limited her speech, she remained resilient and independent. Her house was bordered by the woods, and to catch the school bus, we had to trek through them, a quarter-mile journey that unfolded the beauty of nature, especially in the fall.

The path paralleled a narrow river, where beavers sometimes played, and the mornings offered sightings of deer, Canadian geese, and foxes. But as we left each day, Mom's words rang in our ears. stick to the path, keep moving, and for the love of God, stay away from the skinny trees. But why only the skinny trees? For years, we remained ignorant. As I strolled along, I pondered the concept of skinny trees. Were they simply young trees, or could some ancient trees remain thin? When you're a child, such questions can captivate your mind. Sometimes lost in daydreams, I'd unconsciously slow down, edging closer to the slender trees along the path's edge,

only to be jolted back to reality by Mom's warnings. Stick to the path and keep moving. After weeks of living with Nana, she managed to utter some cryptic advice, as if she had been carefully considering her words. Don't go near the branches, she muttered as Mom handed us our lunches and ushered us out the door. My younger sister, a year my junior, had a different approach.

She trusted Mom and Nana implicitly. To her, they possessed vital knowledge, and obeying their warnings was enough. She didn't delve into the mysteries, but my curious mind couldn't resist. Nana herself was an enigma. Her difficulty in forming words contrasted sharply with her razor-sharp mind. It created an unsettling atmosphere, one filled with unspoken secrets. Nana's family traced back to the Mayflower, and while she wasn't religious, there were certain things she knew,

how to make a soothing hot toddy, cultivate tomatoes in the shade, and avoid attracting the attention of the skinnies. What's a skinny, you may wonder. Even now, I can't say for sure. Mom and Nana were tight-lipped about them. Mom initially dismissed them as mere legends, but Nana broke that silence. Looking back, I believe they kept the skinnies hidden from me because they feared my curiosity might lead me to seek them out,

despite the terror they inspired. So, what are these skinnies? They are towering emaciated creatures with supernatural patience. Descriptions vary, but I was told they could be three to four times taller than a man, yet much thinner. When they stand still, they resemble slender poles, a fraction of the width of a telephone pole, except they aren't straight, instead bent toward a thin tree used as their camouflage. They can remain motionless for hours, with only their eyes occasionally blinking, and they watch with unyielding patience. Skinnies appear humanoid, arms,

legs, faces, but their ability to blend into the texture and shape of the tree they hide against is akin to an octopus. They move from one tree to another only when they're certain they're unseen. Mom and Nana were terrified of the skinnies because of the mark of death. According to legend, if a skinny touched you,

you were marked for a swift demise, a death sentence. If you ventured too close to the skinny trees along the path, a skinny could reach out with its elongated slender arm and touch you, sealing your fate.

As long as you kept moving and stayed vigilant, you were safe. not because they were slow, but because they abhorred being observed. Once I discovered the existence of Skinny's, my curiosity pushed me to inquire with classmates at school. Initially, no one had heard of them, and I dismissed them as mere tales. Then I encountered Lazarus. Lazz was a loner, not because he was an outcast, but because he exuded an aura of strength. No one dared cross him. He was the type of kid who had it all figured out, the first to own a dirt bike in our small.

town. Las was usually engrossed in comic books and approaching him was met with indifference. However, I couldn't resist asking him if he'd heard of skinnies. Lowering his comic book, he gave me a wry smile mixed with a frown. I've heard of them. Seen one too. My jaw dropped in astonishment. Without waiting to confirm if we were speaking of the same creatures, I asked where he'd encountered them. Where else? he replied. In the woods. Lazz described how he had gone fishing and felt an ever-intensifying sensation of being watched, something more than mere observation. It was hunting. He stayed still, fearing it might be a big cat or a bear that would charge if he moved. Minutes turned to half an hour, and he decided to leave, but right before he

did, he saw it. Against a skinny birch tree, bending one way, then the other, stood the towering entity. At first he couldn't comprehend what he was looking at due to its immense height. However, the vertical lines etched into the tree weren't natural. He noticed the creature's knees, resembling knots in the tree at eye level. As he looked further up, he discerned spindly fingers, gnarled shoulders, and an almost indiscernible face. He had to squint to confirm it was indeed a face. Just when he thought it was a carving on the tree, the creature blinked its eyes.

Las panicked, slid down the riverbank, and into the muddy water, drifting away, leaving his fishing rod behind. Lazz's story didn't unfold in a dramatic manner. It was just the two of us talking. When he finished, he returned to his comic book as if I hadn't been there. I walked away stunned. Skinny's were real. But what about the kiss of death?

That had to be pure superstition, right? The idea of Skinny's bestowing death with a kiss seemed like nonsense meant to scare children. What purpose would such an axe serve for these creatures, assuming they were real? So on a sweltering Saturday morning, I undertook extra chores for Nana, earning her favor. At lunchtime, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, I gathered the courage to ask her about the kiss of death. She shook her head sadly, but offered no further explanation. Several weeks later, in late August, when the woods teamed with undergrowth, my sister and I embarked on our familiar journey to the bus stop. My sister adhered to the rules strictly. Stay on the path, keep moving, avoid the same.

skinny trees. I followed the rules too, but I couldn't help scanning our surroundings closely. Suddenly a chilling cry pierced the air. We froze. The source of the noise was close, too close for comfort. We looked around, our eyes scanning the woods. The cry echoed again. I sensed my sister moving away, though I couldn't see her. My attention was drawn to a cluster of pine trees. There I spotted the source of the distress. A fox had trapped a rabbit in its jaws, and the rabbit's cries echoed through the forest. Desperation seized me, and I clapped my hands to startle the fox. It worked. The fox released its prey.

However, I assumed my sister was right behind me, witnessing the rescue. Instead, when I turned around, she was standing on the opposite side of the path, next to a tall, dark, skinny tree. She had missed the rabbit's liberation. I gasped, urging her to return to the path. She obeyed, but she rubbed her shoulder and looked puzzled. What happened? I asked. Something touched me, she replied. I was rendered speechless, haunted by the implications of her words. Throughout the remainder of our journey to the bus stop,

I watched my sister like a hawk, silently vowing to protect her from any harm. Until that moment, I had seen her as a nuisance, but now I realized I never wanted any harm to befall her. Later at home, I contemplated sharing the incident with Nana, but I hesitated. Perhaps I should have. maybe something could have been done. A few weeks later, on a fateful Saturday, my sister was in a car with her friend's mom, en route to the mall. It wasn't the mom's fault,

but a pickup truck ran a stop sign, causing an accident. Most occupants sustained minor injuries, but my sister hit her head and died instantly. In the days that followed, I revisited the topic of the kiss of death with Nana. She simply shook her head in sorrow, offering no further insight.

Driven by an overwhelming urge to understand, I turned to Laz at school. Even he seemed reluctant to share. But my despair must have swayed him, for he took me aside. He explained that the kiss of death was how Skinny's reproduced. If someone was marked for death, their demise was all but inevitable. Upon death, their spirit returned to the forest, to the very spot where they were marked. A transformation occurred. They became a skinny.

That moment was the catalyst for a growing idea within me. I would see my sister again. I believed I knew where to find her. Introducing the new best skin ever, ultra-slim precision concealer from Sephora Collection. It's full coverage with a matte finish and perfect for any look, whether you're building it up for a full glam moment

or targeting correction for a more natural vibe. At only $12, it's great for affordable touch-ups on the go. Get this new must-have concealer at Sephora, or at Sephora.com. today. I had always been a staunch skeptic when it came to the supernatural or anything that defied the realm of the ordinary. However, my unwavering disbelief was shattered into a thousand pieces when a series of chilling events unfolded, revealing a nightmarish truth I could no longer deny. It all commenced innocently enough, a curious pattern that I initially dismissed as just another

idiosyncrasy of my husband, Jack. For weeks, Jack had been rising from our bed at the stroke of midnight, slipping away into the quiet darkness without explanation. At first he'd mumble something vague about needing fresh air, and I, nestled in the comforting cocoon of our shared history, didn't think much of it. We all have our quirks after all. But the insidious change began to gnaw at the edges of my consciousness. Last night it all came crashing down around me. The eerie events of that fateful night shattered my illusions. I awoke with a start, the room-based, and I awoke with a start, the room in the haunting glow of the moon. The clock on the nightstand cast its accusatory red digits, 12.15 a.m. Panic coursed through me as I stepped into the living room, driven by the gnawing dread that

something was terribly wrong. There on the sofa sat Jack, an eerie silhouette against the darkness. His eyes, once warm and familiar, were now hollow and lifeless, like twin abysses devoid of any human essence. Fear crawled up my spine as I called out to him, my voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. Jack, are you okay? The words escaped me in a quivering breath. Slowly he turned his head to face me, and an unsettling grin slithered across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp, like the fangs of a predator. I'm fine, dear, he replied, but his voice carried an unsettling mechanical tone. Every fiber of my being screamed that something was profoundly amiss. This man before me, the love of my life, my partner for years, was no longer the person I knew.

He rose from the couch and moved past me with an eerie, fluid grace, heading towards the bedroom. My heart raced, pounding in my chest like a drum. I followed him, unable to quell my growing unease. In the dimly lit bedroom he stood before the mirror, his reflection a grotesque distortion of reality. His eyes were two obsidian voids, and his skin seemed to ripple, as if something malevolent pulsed beneath the surface. A gasp escaped my lips, and I recoiled, my fear intensifying. He turned to me once more, that disconcerting smile never faltering. You should go back to bed, dear, nothing to worry about. But how could I go back to bed when everything I knew was unraveling before my eyes?

I couldn't ignore the eerie truth that my husband had transformed into something utterly alien. I had to know what was happening. The following night I pretended to be asleep, my mind racing with fear and curiosity. At the stroke of midnight, Jack rose from our bed with silent precision. Clad in my coat and shoes, I trailed him, careful not to make the slightest sound.

He moved with an eerie grace, one I had never seen in him before, down the desolate streets, leading me into the heart of darkness. I kept my distance, hiding in the inky shadows, as he arrived at an old crumbling building on the outskirts of town. The place had always emanated an aura of malevolence,

an eerie presence that I could never quite put my finger on. Jack entered the building, and after a moment's hesitation, I ventured inside. What I witnessed within those walls would haunt my nightmares for all eternity. The interior was shrouded in shadows, dimly lit by an ethereal, sickly glow. A group of figures surrounded him, towering grotesque. beings with pallid, almost translucent skin, and eyes that glimmered with an otherworldly malevolence.

My breath caught in my throat as I watched in paralyzing horror. They seemed to meld with Jack, their forms contorting and merging until he was no longer recognizable as a human being. It was as if he was being absorbed into their sinister collective, consumed by their malevolent essence. The terror that gripped me was inescapable, and I knew I had to escape. Slowly I backed away. my heart pounding in my chest. I managed to return home, undetected, but the memories of that nightmarish encounter were etched into my mind forever. The following morning, Jack returned to our bed, seemingly oblivious to my discovery. I understood that I could no longer coexist with this

abomination masquerading as my husband. I packed a bag, leaving behind the life we had built together, vowing never to return to that accursed house. Now, I live in perpetual fear, forever haunted, by the specter of their malevolent presence. I constantly glance over my shoulder, aware that they may be watching, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to reclaim me. Whatever had happened to my husband that dreadful night had transformed him into something beyond comprehension, something monstrous. And now, I am plagued by the chilling suspicion that perhaps he had never been truly human at all. This morning, as I cowered in my unfamiliar apartment, heard a knock on the door. An indescribable dread gripped my soul, and I approached the entrance

with trepidation. When I opened the door, I was confronted with a vision that would haunt my nightmares for all eternity. Standing before me was a figure that bore the exact likeness of my husband, Jack, or at least the man he used to be. He wore the same clothes, had the same face, and yet I knew it was an imposter. His eyes, once a warm and inviting shade of brown, were now nothing more than empty, voids. He regarded me with a gaze that sent shivers coursing through my very core, a perverse mimicry of the affectionate glances he used to bestow upon me. I missed you, honey, please come home, he uttered, his voice devoid of any warmth or emotion. Terror surged through my veins like a relentless tide as I slammed the door shut, locking it with trembling hands. That thing

may have assumed my husband's appearance, but I was acutely aware that it was no longer him. Whatever had transpired that sinister night had transformed him into something else entirely, something grotesque and malevolent. And now, it seemed that this abomination had followed me, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to reclaim its prey. I live in constant dread, knowing that the entity wearing my husband's face is out there, watching and waiting, I can only pray that whatever it is, it never finds its way back into my life, or worse, into my newfound sanctuary.

The memory of my husband's ghastly metamorphosis and the terror in those empty soulless eyes haunt me each passing day, a chilling reminder that some secrets are best left buried in the abyss of the unknown. I want to preface this by saying that what I'm about to recount might sound unbelievable, but it's a story that I've carried with me for a while now. It all happened back in 2017 when I was 25 years old, and I was on a camping trip with my friends Jay, John, and Alyssa in the Colorado Rocky Mountains National Park. We were all outdoors enthusiasts, and we had been looking forward to this getaway for quite some time, but little did we know that this trip would turn into a nightmare that would haunt us forever.

I'd heard all the stories about people going missing in national parks, but what we experienced was something entirely different. Our journey started in Berks County, Pennsylvania, and it was a grueling, three-day drive to reach the Rockies. We endured long hours on the road, staying in rundown motels, and surviving on sketchy gas station food. Finally, we arrived at the National Park, but the cold was more intense than we had expected. We were well prepared with extra clothing and supplies to keep us warm in the harsh climate. Everything seemed normal as we started our trek into the mountains, aside from the occasional chilly breeze. However, things took a disturbing turn,

as night fell upon us. We established a base camp about 15 miles deep into the Rockies, where we gathered around a campfire to cook some food. It was during a late-night bathroom break that I felt an overwhelming sense of unease, a feeling that we were not alone. It gripped me even before my foot touched the ground. It was as if some invisible force was warning me, but I didn't want to alarm my friends, so I kept it to myself. As the night wore on, that unsettling feeling lingered but seemed to ebb away, I returned to my friends who were already indulging in drinks and food. Fortunately, the night passed without incident, and we all went to sleep. However, around 2.37 a.m., I was abruptly awakened by an intense sensation of being watched.

It was an indescribable feeling, like when you stare at someone, and they suddenly turned to meet your gaze. I cautiously unzipped my tent and peered outside, but I saw nothing unusual. My friends were all inside their tents, seemingly asleep. I crawled back into my sleeping bag trying to shake off the unease and eventually drifted back to sleep. The next day seemed ordinary at first. The sun was shining, but we noticed that it had snowed lightly overnight. I tried to rationalize my earlier feelings, attributing them to the mountainous terrain and wildlife. However, something felt off. The silence was deafening. In the woods you expect to hear the sounds of nature, but it was eerily quiet, and it sent shivers

down my spine. I turned to Jay, who had been drinking since noon, and asked if he noticed the unusual silence. He jokingly suggested that I was seeing monsters, referencing some of my past crypted encounters. My friends Jay and Alyssa were more open-minded about such things, but I didn't want to spoil the mood with spooky stories, so I brushed it off. We continued our journey deeper into the park, and all was well until nighttime. John was intoxicated, having pitched his tent haphazardly. By then it was around 6 p.m., and we were far from our starting point. Jay and Alyssa, Jay's girlfriend and I, set up our tents and started a fire to cook dinner. As I was outside tending to the fire, I decided to take a walk alone. I left my shotgun

behind with Jay, telling him to use it if necessary. I ventured out, enjoying the solitude and the setting sun, but the earlier unease still gnawed at me. After an hour, I realized that it was getting dark, and I should head back to camp. However, the feeling of being watched returned, intensifying with each step I took. It was as if an invisible presence was stalking me. Despite my discomfort, I pressed on, hoping it was just my imagination. But after an hour of walking, I decided to turn back. The sense of being watched was overwhelming, and I couldn't shake it. I retraced my steps and soon returned to camp. Alissa had woken up John, and Jay and Alyssa were in their tent, trying to relax. I joined them, relieved

be back at camp. We all shared a meal, laughing and enjoying each other's company. For a brief moment, everything felt normal again. As we finished our meal and prepared to sleep, John mentioned that he needed to use the restroom. I made a jest about there being no bathrooms in the wilderness, and he walked away towards the trees. A short while later, I found myself alone outside, tending to the campfire and lost in thought. That's when the feeling of being watched returned with a vengeance. It was so overwhelming that I couldn't ignore it. I called out for John, but there was no response. I shouted louder, but still, nothing. Anxiety gripped me as I realized something was terribly wrong. I didn't want to alarm Jay and Alyssa, so I decided to search for John myself.

I followed the direction he had gone, yelling his name and scanning the surroundings. It felt like an eternity, but I couldn't find any trace of him. Finally I stopped and looked around more carefully. The eerie silence was back, and it was now unsettlingly quiet. It was the kind of silence that you'd expect when predators were lurking nearby, but this felt different. I returned to camp and found Jay and Alyssa in a state of panic. They claimed to have seen a 13-foot-tall monster staring at them from the tree line,

about 200 yards away. Alyssa had sprinted back to camp, and the snow had started to fall heavily. I immediately grabbed my shotgun, ensuring it was loaded with the special Dragon Breath-style shells my cousin had given me. I instructed Jay and Alyssa to stay close together and handed Jay a cast-iron sheet for protection. I emphasized that they shouldn't break the line we formed, and that they should run to the car as fast as possible, leaving me behind. They were reluctant to leave me, but I convinced them it was the safest option. They took off running, and I watched them go, my heart pounding with me. fear for their safety. I stayed behind to confront whatever was out there, my shotgun at the

ready. As I waited, the snowfall intensified, making it even harder to see. But that feeling of impending danger grew stronger. Suddenly, I felt a force graze past me, and before I knew it, an enormous icicle, about three feet long, pierced the air. It missed me but served as a warning. I looked around frantically and spotted John's lifeless body, an icicle protrude from his neck. It was a gruesome sight and I couldn't fathom what kind of creature could inflict such damage. My mind raced with thoughts of cryptids and mythical creatures, and I remembered hearing about something called a wug in recent stories. But this was far from its usual territory. I thought of my friend Sam White Owl who had faced similar creatures in the past. He had the

scars to prove it, and I wondered if I should contact him for advice. But at that moment, my priority was survival. I heard Alyssa screaming in the distance, and I hurried back to camp. Jay and Alyssa were terrified, claiming they had seen the creature again. The snowfall had intensified, but I knew I had to protect them. I instructed them to run to the car and didn't mention John's fate to avoid further panic. As they fled, I remained behind, facing the monster alone. The snowstorm raged on, and visibility was limited. I remembered that Dragon Breath rounds were effective against wugs, which were weak to fire. I aimed my shotgun at the approaching creature, a behemoth standing at least 13 feet tall, and fired. The round struck its face and the creature burst into flames. It led out a horrific screech and

stumbled backward. I fired again, hitting it in the chest, and it emitted another agonized cry. I watched as it writhed in pain, muttering something about a horrible death. The creature's yellow eyes glowed briefly before it succumbed to the flames and went still. I knew it was dead, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. I apologized to John for not being a better friend, and I hoped he had found peace. I rejoined Jay and Alyssa at the car as dawn broke, and we drove away in silence. They were shaken, and I couldn't blame them for not fully believing my account of what had happened. A year has passed since that night, and I finally told Alyssa the truth about John. Jay and Alyssa eventually broke up, and I haven't heard from Jay since. The experience affected each of us differently,

and I've considered cutting ties with everyone involved. I've also contemplated joining the group of people who hunt down these creatures, hoping to make the world safer. Whether you believe my story or not, just remember that there are things lurking in the dark, watching and waiting. Be safe out there, for you never know what you might encounter. I can't believe I'm sitting here writing this at 3 a.m. But I need to get this off my chest. I don't know what happened to me and my friends and it's been eating at me ever since. Please forgive any grammar mistakes. I'm just trying to make sense of it all. Two days ago, I was with my friends, Jess and Andy, at my grandparents' house while they were out of town. I'm usually the caretaker of the house when they're away and my friends wanted to hang out,

so I invited them over after finishing my chores. I had this idea to take them to my old hideout in the woods. I'd warned them that the woods were off limits, and my uncle would be furious if he caught us there. Andy was hesitant, but eventually, they both agreed to come along. I didn't force them. We were just a bunch of teens looking for some adventure. We entered the woods, and I reminded everyone that it would be a challenging climb. Jess pulled out her phone and started recording, while Andy expressed his unease. Still, with some convincing from Jess, he decided to join us. Jess even jokingly screamed, Bring it on.

Little did we know, her words would come back to haunt us. As we ventured deeper into the woods, Andy suddenly stopped and mentioned an eerie feeling. I brushed it off thinking he was just overthinking things. We reached my old hideout in a few minutes, but Jess was getting loud and obnoxious. I had to remind her to be quiet because of my uncle's strict rules. Andy then asked if we could leave because his back was bothering him.

We reluctantly agreed and started to be quiet. our way back. But right then, things took a horrifying turn. I told them I didn't feel anything strange, but at that very moment, I saw an image that chilled me to the core. It was a shadowy figure, about six feet tall, muscular, with twisted horns crawling on all fours. I shared what I saw, and Jess immediately complained of a sharp pain in her stomach collapsing to the ground. Panicked, I looked at Andy, urging him to help me get her back on her feet. feet. She was conscious but disoriented. We started walking with her, but after a few steps, she regained consciousness and said, I'm scared. Then we heard a terrifying scream from somewhere in the

distance. Without thinking, we sprinted back to the house. Upon our return, Andy and I were freaking out, but Jess seemed oddly calm, as if the terror had dissipated. We asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn't respond. After about five minutes, she started mumbling. in a language I didn't recognize. Definitely not English. That was strange because I'd only ever heard her speak English. Her mumbling soon turned into eerie laughter. I told Andy to take Jess to the car while I rushed inside to lock all the doors. I secured the house and then sprinted back to my car. Andy had Jess buckled in and I quickly got behind the wheel. I accelerated heading to my dad's house to grab some sage because at this point we were convinced that something was wrong with Jess,

something otherworldly. I raced through both. back roads, realizing that the longer we stayed in the car, the worst Jess's condition became. She was unresponsive, catatonic even. We finally reached my dad's house, and I ran inside to grab the sage. I instructed Andy to take Jess to the backyard to avoid prying neighbor's eyes. I lit the sage and began smudging, reciting words like, this is her body not yours. You need to leave. I do not welcome you here. It took about 20 minutes, but eventually Jess started returning to her normal self. We asked her what happened, but she claimed not to remember anything and said she felt trapped. About six or seven minutes later, my dad called to say he was on his way home from work and

offered to get us some dinner. We started to calm down, and for a moment it felt like nothing had happened. But unfortunately, that wasn't the end of the story. The next day, Andy didn't show up. at school. I texted him to check if he was okay and his response sent chills down my spine. He said he was fine but had experienced something that kept him up until 3 a.m. His mom allowed him to stay home. Then he added, I think a spirit attached itself to me, an evil one. Jess also messaged me saying something felt terribly wrong at her house. She sent a video of her walking into her room where the blinds were moving on their own, objects were falling off shelves, and she was alone with her family out.

It was eerie. I couldn't shake the feeling either, especially when I was at my dad's house. My guinea pigs were behaving strangely, displaying more aggression towards each other and even towards me. I couldn't explain any of it, and it was all driving me insane. Ryan Reynolds here from Mint Mobile, the message for everyone paying big wireless way too much. Please, for the love of everything good in this world, stop. With Mint, you can get premium wireless for just $15 a month. Of course, if you enjoy overpaying, no judgments, but that's weird. Okay, one judgment.

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