Lighthouse Horror Podcast - My Dad Left Me His Tape Collection | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 2, 2023

Today I finally listened to his tapes... there was something horrifying on them.       Story from archie_sunshine Make sure to check out more of their work at u/archie_sunshine                         Original Post: My Dad Left Me His Tape Collection (Part 1) : r/nosleep   Original YouTube link: My Dad Left Me His Tape Collection        For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new weekly episodes featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

Cassette Tapes. My dad died three months ago, and we only recently found out what he was leaving behind for us to inherit. My mother got the house, as was fair, she had cats to care for. Toby got Dad's car, a vintage Mercedes in mint condition if you didn't count the root beer stain on the back seat. And what about me? What about his oldest son?

Cassette Tapes. I knew Dad was a strange man, only getting stranger with age. He wasn't that old when he died. Just 52 when Mom found him dead as a doornail in the backyard, but when I'm left with the inheritance of over a dozen boxes of useless tapes, I begin to think he must have just went senile early. For as long as I could remember, he'd been collecting them. Cassette tapes, of every make and model stuffed into shoe boxes and labeled from A to Z. They just aren't any old tapes, Matthew.

These tapes are special. He'd always told me when I asked. But why are they special? I never got a straight answer from him. Just a cryptic smile or wink, and I'll tell you when you're older. He would never play the tapes for us. Whenever we'd ask, he'd get this serious look on his face. The expression looks so out of place on him.

He was usually so jovial, a party kind of man, a joking kind of man. I got older, and he never told me. He never got the chance to, I suppose, so here I am. Stuck with a seemingly endless supply of cassette tapes. They're categorized in his ledgers titled as incidents labeled with various numbers and given a nickname. It always struck me that they were labeled as a set, even with dozens of different brands coming from dozens of different places.

It was baffling to me how dad could go to me. to any thrift store or Salvation Army and sift through the shelves of tapes and find exactly what he was looking for. He'd only find one or two if he was lucky, which he'd slip into the pocket of his old bomber jacket before offering to buy me ice cream in exchange for joining him on his hunts. The boxes are stacked in my office, about 14 of them in total, all full of the tapes. Dad's cassette player sits on my desk next to the pile of ledgers, battered and scratched in places, a strip of yellowing masking tape with his name written on it pasted to the side. I pull my chair out from the desk and sit down in it heavily, letting out a long sigh.

I take off my glasses and set them on the table, pinching and massaging the bridge of my nose. My headache has only gotten worse since this morning. Where am I supposed to put the boxes? I don't have any use for them, but I can't bring myself to toss them, not when I know they meant so much to my dad. My housemates have been understanding enough, giving me the space I need to process my father's death, but I can't exactly ask them to let me use the limited storage space we have, to stow 14 boxes of junk.

I lean back in my chair, leaning my head against my hand. I regard the stack of boxes like I'm trying to win a staring contest. Why tapes? Couldn't you have collected something more useful, like vintage toys or antique books? Something interesting. A conversation starter that didn't involve me explaining my father's unique kind of crazy that led him to spend most of his disposable income on tapes. After a long, quiet moment, of giving the stack of boxes my best rendition of the Kubrick stare. I finally stand up, picking out box A. I set it down on the desk and remove the lid. They're just how I remember them, neatly packed in the cardboard box in two rows going down the box lengthways. They fit snugly,

without any space to shift or rattle about. I run my fingers down the row of tapes, making that pleasing zipping noise of nail against plastic. I pull out a random one and flip it over. Incident number 038, Box A. Aurora Borealis, 1968. I sit back down and shift to face my desk. I fidget with a tape in one hand, taping my thumb against the side of it as I crack open Ledger A. It's catalogued on the second page, Aurora Borealis, 1968, Confession of Sam Ketterman. from page 40 to 42. I flipped through, finding the page quickly, then turning my attention to the

cassette player. The lid of it pops open, and I insert the tape with a soft click, watching the player whir to life with a sizzling crackle. Is it on? Okay. The man's voice is hoarse and tired. My name is Sam Ketterman. I was told to, uh, Record this tape by Dr. Leth, my therapist, as a way to process my trauma. There's a long pause, the sound of shuffling papers. This tape is in regards to the incident that occurred during my hiking trip in Alaska. In 1968, he clears his throat.

We, Phil and I were hiking near Fairbanks. It was a clear few days out in the woods, snow coat in the ground, and our bags heavy on our bags. It was just going to be a two-day camping trip to hike out to where the light pollution wasn't so bad, and we could see the stars and the lights. I was a little younger than Phil. I was in my early 20s, that. Phil was in his 30s. He was more experienced with the trails than I was, so he took the lead.

helping us get up the foothills surrounding Mount Hayes. That first day, well, it passed without incident. But then I started getting the feeling we were being watched. When we were trekking that first day, it got so quiet. Just the sound of wining the trees and the crunch of snow under our boots. When I brought it up with him, he said it was just in my head. But I didn't buy it. There was just something wrong.

to me. When we found the wreck tent, we should have turned back. But we didn't. It's probably just a bear or something, or they left it behind. We made camp a few miles away from the wreck tent. Little firemen got ready to sleep. I only got about an hour of rest before Phil shook me awake. I want to go for a walk, he said, just a little walk to enjoy the lines. I agree. They really were beautiful, flickering and shimmer in overhead. The woods were calm and quiet until they weren't. We heard the footsteps through the trees first. I was on edge, so I immediately turned to look.

It looked like a person at first, a shadow. Phil spoke up first, calling out to it. night for a wall, call? He was always a friendly guy. I think maybe if he didn't say anything, he'd still be here. It shambled out into the beam of Phil's flashlight, and the man takes a shaky breath. It hurt to look at. Even now, it hurts to think about. It was like an empty snowsuit, But where the person inside should be, there was only light, glowing bright lights, shifting in color like the northern lights. Up above, I stumbled back, and Phil stepped in front of me, holding his hands out as if he could stop it. I hate to say it, but I ran.

I turned tail and ran as fast as I could back to the campsite. Here in Phil screaming only made me run faster. I grabbed my bag half full, leaving the tent behind. I didn't stop running until I passed out in the snow. And when I woke up, I was in the hospital. Some hikers had found me, luckily before Frostbind could sit in. They never found Phil. Just his flashlight, right where he'd been when it showed up.

up. That's all. That's it. There's a click and the tape is over. I feel a pit in my stomach as I close the ledger and set it aside. There's a morbid curiosity brewing in me. I'm hardly even paying attention. When I pop open the cassette player, take out the tape and put it back in its place in the box. I don't know what to say, other than that I'm going to have a lot of listening to do. A few of you showed interest in learning more about my dad's collection. It's a pretty formidable amount of tapes. I counted about 30 in each box, except for box N, which I suppose he was still working on when he, you know, died. I've been avoiding going in my office since It's where I'm keeping them, but I'm honestly too curious to keep it up.

One of you suggested I perform a blessing before playing any more tapes. I'm not a religious guy, but my housemate, Raff is, so I've borrowed one of his crucifixes, which now sits on my desk next to the cassette player. I did give the first ledger, or read, though, at least just through the names of them. Some are labeled with town names from around the states and Canada, but a lot of them don't have a lot of them don't have a read, that information to go with. An even smaller amount of them have addresses to go with them, but when I looked into them they were all different therapist offices or psych wards. So then now what? I'm looking at the desk with the ledgers, my laptop opened to Google Earth and the cassette

player. My head hurts just thinking about that stupid tape. Some of you suggested that my father had been living some sort of secret double life, but I just can't. I can't wrap my brain around that thought. By all accounts, my dad was a normal guy, a father of two living in a suburban neighborhood with his wife, happily married, working as a librarian. He was just normal, boring, even, except for those tapes. I finally get up and walk over to the stack of boxes. I pick up Box B along with its corresponding ledger.

I don't waste any time fudson around, picking out a tape, Incident 228, Box B, Backyard. I find the transcript. Incident number 228, Box B, Backyard. Testimony of Amara Walsh. Here we go. Okay. So I just... Oh, okay.

It's a woman's voice, fairly young. I'm Amara Walsh, recording this statement as suggested by Dr. Umbra regarding my previous place of residence. It feels like she's reading from a script there, just like Sam. So, um, about a year ago. I moved into an old house with my boyfriend and his roommate. It was a pretty nice place all things considered, a pretty home on a pretty big plot of land. My boyfriend and his friend are lawyers.

I work as a pediatrician, so the three of us make a decent amount of money. At the time, though, I wasn't able to work because of an injury I sustained during a car accident two weeks before. It was a broken arm and concussion, nothing fatal, but enough to keep me from going to work for at least a little while. It was for the best, seeing as it meant I could spend time making the house nice. The house, it was on a hill, backing onto an acres worth of land for the backyard. There was a flower bed with lilies and tulips, an old bird bath, a rusty set of wings.

It was like a fairy tale dream come true. And then my boyfriend and his friend had to go to a conference in Ohio and I was alone for a few days. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle. I was an adult, but I got the feeling I wasn't alone. On the second night I went downstairs around 11, I think, just to get an ice pass. back from my head. There's a window in the kitchen that faces the backyard, and on my way to the freezer, I passed by it. Something caught my eye out there. It looked like...

I nearly jump out of my skin as someone knocks at the door to my office. I quickly pause the tape and get up to check who's there. My roommate Dan stands in the doorway, holding a letter in his hand. It's for you, he says, a slight quizzical tone. to his voice. I rarely receive physical mail. I thank him and take the note. He closes the door behind him as he leaves. I sit back down and hit play on the tape. Like a figure almost, like a person standing in my backyard. I held the ice pack against my head while I looked out at it. It was like a person wearing a bed sheet, like a cartoon approximation of a ghost. It didn't move, just stood there, sheet blowing in the wind lightly.

I reached for the light to the backyard. I flicked it on and it was gone. It must have been my imagination, just my nerves about being alone in the house. I decided to just forget about it and take my ice pack back to my room. I flicked off the light. I started walking back towards the stairs and then I heard it. A tapping noise. When I turned, it was... Her voice falters for a moment. It was standing at my back door. It's... Its arms lifted up from under the sheet. It looked. It makes me sick just thinking

about it, but it looked like someone had peeled the skin off of their arms as if it weren't orange. But it wasn't fresh. The muscles were rotting, turned gray and blackened at the fingertips, all smudged with dirt, like it had just crawled out of its grave. I screamed. I didn't know what else to do, but my closest neighbor would be too far away to hear me. It just kept tapping, not even aggressive, just tapping. I started to hear it breathing too, labored and desperate, like its throat was too tight to drag in enough air to keep it alive. I yielded it, asking what it wanted, why it was there, but it just stood there. My eyes off it. I don't know how long I was standing there, staring at it. It felt like hours. Finally, I worked up the courage to step forward, and

I turned down the back light, and it was gone. It didn't give me any relief. I knew if I turned off the light, it might. She lets out a choke noise. I don't want to think about it. I went back upstairs, leaving the light on. I couldn't sleep that night. I didn't even think about telling my boyfriend. I knew he'd just call me crazy. We stayed in that house for two years, and every time I was there alone at night, I could

hear it tapping. I'm not crazy, doctor. The tape clicks off. The pit in my stomach is back and my head hurts, but the only thing I can think of is why? Why were these important enough for my father to pass them down to me? Why did he collect them? And why do I feel like there's eyes on me right now? Every time I come into my office, I feel it.

Like the tapes themselves are staring. it may. I feel as though the answer to why my father kept these things is just out of reach. Like if I could only remember, everything would be made clear. I take the cassette out of the player and put it back in the box, setting it back with the rest of them. I close the ledger as well, and then I look at the letter. It's a white envelope with an address and name written on the back. XXX Berchwell Street from Mr. Pleasant, head of the PSO trauma initiative. It sounds familiar, but the pit in my stomach only grows.

I open my desk drawer and put the letter inside. I don't think I can handle reading it yet. If any of you know what that initiative is, I hope you'll let me know. I've been having trouble sleeping now. It's not surprising. Listening to people's trauma has always been tough for me, especially whatever kind of crazy shit is going on with those tapes. But it's less about not being able to sleep.

Sure, it takes some tossing and turning. It's more about staying asleep. I keep having nightmares. One's bad enough to wake me up in a cold sweat, but when I wake up I can't remember what happened in them. All I know is that my hands are shut. And it feels like I didn't get any sleep at all. I suppose you could tell I was losing sleep, seeing as I made a mistake in my last post

when I was transcribing the incident. I didn't catch it. I was half falling asleep, writing everything down. But that's not relevant, I don't think. I don't want to believe that the last thing I have of my father is somehow doing this to me. Some of you thought that maybe knowing my father's cause of death. would help me solve whatever's going on. I figured maybe I could elaborate a little for you. My mother told my brother and I about it a month ago after she'd recovered from the whole shock.

She said it was at 6.32 in the evening. They'd just finished eating dinner and my dad had gone out to the garden to walk around. He liked to do that when he was alive, just pace around the backyard so it wasn't strange to her. When he didn't come in after an hour and a half, my mom got worried and went to check on him. He was laying on the ground, face down, bleeding from the nose. His eyes had already gone cloudy, almost white, and there was a shock of hair turned white on his head, one that wasn't there before. His hands were covered in mud. She begged the coroner to do an examination on him, but my mom still refuses to tell us what was wrong with him. Something was wrong with his brain, she said, maybe a tumor or a hemorrhage.

But I called her up to ask and no matter what I said, I got nothing from her. I can't blame her. It still hurts. I'll try reaching out to the coroner. I looked more into that PSO thing. I found postings about it in a few old internet forums and one of the ones. and one or two on Reddit. Most forums were people expressing confusion about some peculiar advertisements they'd seen posted,

on bulletin boards and hospitals and university, posted on telephone poles and sent with flyers in the mail. They were all described in similar ways. A picture of a silhouetted person laying back on Chase Lounge titled in block letters with a question, something keeping you awake at night. The irony of this title is certainly not lost on me. Usually under the picture was a paragraph asking all manner of strange, wide-sweeping questions, like, do you have something you feel like you can't tell anyone, or have other therapists

turned you down? Underneath that, there was a phone number, an email address, and another set of block-letter text proclaiming, don't wait, get mad at it. with the therapist now. And finally, at the bottom of the page, there was that line of text stringing it to the tapes, courtesy of the PSO trauma initiative. I couldn't find any post describing what this place was, nor could I find anyone who knew exactly how long the initiative had been going on. I think the earliest tape I could find was from 1964, just a year after cassettes were invented. I figured I might listen to it now. It's from Box J, incident number zero-zero-one.

Box J. Hitchhiker, testimony of Franklin Boyd. The click of the tape being set into the player is almost comforting now. At least the oddness of whatever is happening is contained to a short tape rather than spilling out into the real world like all this PSO stuff. I try to shake the thought out of my head and hit play on the tape. Okay, you again, Dr. Leiser. It's an honor, too. It's a quiet voice. Meek, belonging to a young man.

There's the sound of shuffling papers. Right. I'll get on with it. I'm Franklin Boyd, recording this statement in partnership with the PSO trauma initiative, as suggested by Dr. Lacer, regarding a hitchhiker I picked up last summer. He clears his throat a little. I don't usually pick up hitchhikers. It's risky to do it. You never really know what someone's going to do to you when you're out driving in the middle of nowhere.

But I'm a pretty big guy. I've never fought once in my life, but I'm fairly imposing due to my height and bed. body type. I digress, though. Well, it was about half past nine in the evening, and I was driving from Brooklyn to Rochester to see my parents over the summer break. It was a pretty warm night, but it was stormy out, so I had my headlights on while I was heading through a long stretch of woods. It was real quiet out that night, aside from the rain and thunder. I was listening to the radio to pass the time. I noticed a figure standing on the same. side of the road. He was a few inches shorter than me, wearing a gray rain coat and jeans, holding his

thumb out into the road. I pulled over to the shoulder to let him in. You can't exactly blame me, right? It was poor in rain. The poor guy was going to catch a chill. I asked him if he needed a ride, and he said yes, climbed in the passenger seat, unzipped his coat, and pulled the hood back. He was a normal looking guy, but he was pale in the face, a wild, queers. He was a wild, queers. He was a look in a pair of eyes that kept darting to look out the window, like he was being followed. So, uh, what brings you out to the forest this late? I asked. He whipped his head around to face me with that look on his face. It made me jump. I was going for a walk. He said. His voice was rough and shaky. I didn't believe him for a second. Where are you headed? I asked. He just shook his

head a little and went back to glancing out the window. Anyway, to the nearest gas station, I suppose. I could do that. I prayed it would be there quickly. I didn't try to make any more small talk. I didn't try to speak or engage with him. Hell, I didn't even want to look at the guy. Well, after what felt like hours, but was probably 30 minutes, I finally glanced up at him.

He wasn't peeking out the window anymore. He was staring out the wind. shield and up slightly at the clouds. There he was. He was bleeding from the nose, and it wasn't just a thin stream either. It was all over his chin and mouth, making a dark puddle on a shirt, but he didn't even seem to notice. He was breathing heavily, throat dry and hoarse as he did. I opened my mouth to tell him he was bleeding, but before I could, he grabbed my wrist. His hand was cold as eyes. Pull over.

He demanded. He didn't have to tell me twice. I did what he told me and he let go. He slammed the door open and rushed out into the rain, thunder cracking overhead as he stumbled into the ditch and fell to his knees. He started screaming, laughing, looking up at the sky, yelling that he knew it was there, that it could kill him all it wanted, tear him apart until nothing was left. You're going to think I'm crazy. But when he was shouting up at whatever it was, I saw the forest move.

It was like a warp in my vision, like a mirage, a movement in the shape of something gigantic. It was like seeing something that was there. but that I wasn't supposed to see. The man screamed at the top of his lungs, and I saw him crumple forwards, hitting the ground with a splash as he lay there in the mud. The thing, it turned to me, and for a moment I could see its open, glowing orange eyes staring me down. I closed the car door and hit the gas as hard as I could. and I didn't dare look back. I still think about that guy sometimes.

He left a bloodstain on my passenger seat. Just drop. But sometimes it feels like he's still sitting there. The tape clicks off. And once again, I'm sitting in a silent room. My head hurts again and my hands shake. As I take the tape out of the player, I feel sick to my stomach when I put the tape.

back into the box. I clenched my hands a little before opening the drawer and pulling out the letter. I reach over to my cup of pencils and take out the letter opener. The paper slices open easily, and I enfold the piece of paper inside. It reads as follows. Mr. Bradshaw, I would like to express my deepest condolences regarding your father's death. Deaths in the family are difficult to overcome, so I thought I might reach out to you on behalf of the PSO trauma initiative. However, there is a pressing matter I would like to discuss with you. Your father was in possession of some missing property of ours. As we understand it, he was making a collection of some very pertinent documents

that are strictly confidential to those working at the initiative. We would like them back, Mr. Bradshaw. You're a smart man, so you can likely understand that keeping these would be detrimental to your health. Please respond to this letter as soon as possible to negotiate a drop-off point for these tapes and perhaps schedule a session with one of our psychiatrists. I will offer for you to have this session pro bono as a token of my appreciation of your cooperation. Regards.

Mr. Pleasant. I fold the paper back up and set it back in the drawer. I eye the stack of boxes, feeling them stare back at me. Was that a threat? If they're confidential, what if I'd listen to them? I don't know what to make of all this. I only know I'm not going to be giving those tapes back. I think I've only scratched the surface.

If any of you can make heads or tails of this, I'd appreciate your help. My sleep hasn't exactly been improving since I opened that letter. If anything, it's only made things more complicated. Every time I try to get any rest, that stupid letter pops into my mind, that thinly veiled threat, all over some weird tapes. I try to keep my mind off it for a day or so, spent some time with my friends in some stayed out of my office. It brought me some relief for a little while. I was starting to think if I could just ignore the whole thing. And then I went on a walk. It wasn't too long or anything,

just up and down my street. You know what I found? Flyers. Over a dozen of them, all just how I'd seen them described in these posts, down to the phone number. I felt like I was going to be sick. They were posted on telephone poles in the windows of the convenience store, glued to walls in alleyways. They were everywhere, mocking me. I've lived on that street for three years and never seen a single one of them. And yet, overnight, there they were. I took one down to bring home with me and get a closer look. It's laying on my desk as I turn on my lamp.

When I unfold the flyer and smooth it out, it feels as though the tapes are looking at it over my shoulder. The paragraph is different from the ones I saw online. Are you losing sleep? Do you feel like you can't tell anyone what's happened to you? Does your heart feel full of cold lead? Do you know what you've done? Do you regret ever accepting that gift?

Do you feel them looking at you while you sleep? Do you remember what they looked like in your dreams? Can you see them? Can you hear them? Are you listening? Are you listening to them? Do you wish you could just forget? Don't wait.

Get matched with a therapist now. I know why they left them there for me. I know what they want. I know they meant to scare me, to intimidate me into giving them back. But my fear is crushed down by my anger. They're taunting me. It feels like they're laughing at me. I listened to what you all said.

I bought enough cassettes to copy them all over, different kinds from different eras, just to get the variety of them right. Spent a small fortune on them. After reading that stupid flyer, I know what I have to do. It takes a long time to do it. I've spent hours doing it, putting the tapes into a cassette deck I found at Goodwill, then the blank tape, copying it, and then writing down each of their titles. Some of you said I should keep the copies, but I'm too sentimental to do that.

As strange as my father was, I loved him. He was a good dad. I can't just give the originals up, knowing my dad wanted me to have them. I moved the originals to the cassette racks my dad left me to store them in. Up until a few days ago, I was planning on just leaving the tapes in their boxes, hiding them in the attic or basement. They deserve better than that. While I'm putting them away, my mind wanders back to thoughts of my dad. I remember when I was younger. I spent a lot of time with him.

I always got along better with him than my mom. We were both a couple of pointexters. We could spend hours just sitting in silence near each other, doing our own thing. Usually I would read and he'd be writing in his ledgers. I remember one day when I was around nine. My mother had taken Toby out to a movie that I didn't want to see, so I was staying home with my dad. I was reading an old comic book that my dad had got me and he was writing in his ledger when the landline started ringing.

I hardly even looked up when he went downstairs. to answer it. I only really started paying attention when he started shouting. I walked down the stairs, still holding my comic in my hands as I peeked around the corner into the kitchen. He was holding the receiver up to his ear, listening to someone talking on the other end. After a long moment of quiet speaking from the other end, his hand began to shake. He balled into a fist and slammed it on the counter making me jump. I swear to God, James, you stay the hell away from me and my family. Don't bring my goddamn kids into this. Whoever was on the other side, James, I guess, he laughed at that. My dad's

shoulder stayed tense when he talked. You're a damn monster. You should have left when I did. Now look what's happening to you." His voice was cold and full of anger. He slammed the phone down onto the receiver and turned. When he saw me, he was startled. He asked me how much I'd heard. I lied to him. I told him I'd only been there for a few moments.

He said he was sorry for yelling. I remember lying awake in bed that night. We lived in a forested area on the outskirts of town, so I'd go to bed to the sound. So I'd go to bed to the sound of wind in the pines and owl calls. That night I didn't hear any birds. If I focused hard enough, I could faintly hear the sound of whistling, not like bird song, but like a person whistling. I didn't look out my window, but it felt like something was waiting for me to see it.

I called the coroner yesterday. After another sleepless night, I dialed him up, hoping to get a little closure. When I told him who I was, Dr. Peterson's tone changed on a dime, a note of reservation in his voice like he knew it was coming. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to know. Part of me wishes I didn't say yes. He said he'd never seen anything like it before. When he'd done an autopsy on my father.

There were no wounds, no bruises, no punctures or bullet holes anywhere. In his stomach there was his dinner, only partially digested, no poison, no alcohol, no drugs. It wasn't a heart attack. It wasn't a tumor or a stroke. His eyes were completely shot, like something had blinded him. But the thing that really caused his death, supposedly, was in his head. When they opened it up, what greeted them was a pool of fleshy, pinkish sludge that was once my father's brain.

Like someone had taken it out and put it through a blender before pouring it back in. That's how he described it. He couldn't think of anything that could have done that. Neither could I. I slide the last cassette into place and let out a deep breath, looking back at the waiting boxes of copied tapes. I take a seat at my desk and pull out my phone. It takes a moment of psyching myself up to key in the phone number on the flyer.

There's a long beeping sound before someone picks up. Hello, this is Mr. Pleasant speaking. How can I? He doesn't get to finish before I speak. I have the tapes. He's quiet for a moment before letting out a little laugh. Good. I'm glad you came to your senses, Matthew. You have my address. Be there at 9.30 p.m. on Friday and I'll take them off your hands. While I have you, did you want to schedule an appointment? You sound like you need one.

His voice is dripping with a smug condescension. I swallow thickly. My throat feeling dry. No, I'm all right. I'll be there. I hang up the phone and set it down on my desk. I don't have the willpower to listen to a tape today. Once I get these PSO people off my back, maybe then I'll start listening again.

Maybe then I'll be able to get some rest. Calling the coroner and talking to this place has only left me with more questions than answers. If I could just put all of this together, I could see the full picture. I don't know where to look next, but maybe you do. I need all the help I can get. Thank you. I'm sorry for leaving you all hanging for so long. I should get you up to date on what's happened in the day.

days I've been missing. He wasn't lying. The building was just where he'd said it was. A tall office building on the seventh floor past cubicles of people hunched over their desk, talking soothingly into their phones. In the office, with a brass nameplate on the door, he was there. He stood, looking out the window like he owned the city below, with his hands folded behind his back. Good evening, Mr. Bradshaw. Why don't you take a seat? He said, without even turning to look at me. I did what I was told, finding no comfort in the blocky, unyielding armchairs that his office had to offer. He turned away from the window after a moment, taking a seat behind his desk and steepling his fingers. He was maybe in his mid-50s. He—there was something wrong about him.

His smile lines a little too deep, hands too spinly, his teeth a little too white in his mouth, as he grinned welcomingly at me. It was less like a greeting and more like a threat. I cleared my throat to speak, but as I did he cut me off. I'm so glad you had a change of heart. You really did the right thing by handing those over. He said. I'm glad to give them back.

I replied, reaching into my pocket. I could feel the weight of the tape recorder in there felt reassured by the click of the record button. I was curious about them. I didn't get the chance to listen to them when I was a kid. I just wanted to ask why they're so important. Mr. Pleasant smiled broadly, even wider than he already was. It made my skin crawl.

Hmm. I thought you might ask that. They're recordings of our patient's therapy sessions. Very personal. You know how it is. Client confidentiality and all that. Do you mind if I ask why you record them then? He was quiet for a moment, smile deteriorating ever so slightly. Then he chuckled softly. Sardonic and charismatic in a way that made me want to hit him." You're a very curious man, aren't you, Mr. Bradshaw? He said, reaching across his desk and adjusting his stapler. It's just part of our special kind of therapy. We find it's easier for patients to forget their trauma through recording these tapes. In the past, our patients have found them very useful.

for processing their issues. In fact, I know I asked you before, but perhaps you'd like to book a session for yourself." When he said it, my stomach dropped. I could feel sweat beating on the back of my neck. I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, he cut me off again. It really is a shame what happened to your father. All that work for a futile goal. It really is disappointing, isn't it, Matthew? He didn't give me the space to respond, continuing as he got up from behind his desk and walked around towards me.

It's difficult to put myself in your shoes, losing your father so abruptly and with such a strange cause of death. You must be holding that weight with you, Matthew. I felt myself nodding. before his words even registered. I shook my head, feeling stinging pain pushing in against my temples. It's all right, Matthew. You're probably very stressed. Maybe it would help to let your emotions out. I can get Dr. I'llio to come right away if you need. I got up to my feet quickly. I didn't even notice how close he'd gotten until he was resting his hand on my shoulder. When I looked at him,

I could feel my ears start to ring. He had that smile on his face, wide and white, and too many teeth. I felt sick, like having him so close was hurting me. You're bleeding, Matthew. His mouth didn't move, lips drawn tight over rows of snowy white teeth, too defined, too perfect, too straight, too perfect. I heaved weakly, managing to tear my eyes off him and down to my shirt, blood staining the fabric and dripping over my lips and chin from my nose. I stumbled backwards, shoving his hand off my shoulder and holding my head. The ringing stopped.

His face was normal again. I swallowed thickly, staring at him. I... My throat felt like sandpaper. I need to go. His smile waned again, but he nodded, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. I understand. Here.

He reached behind him and picked out a small calling card, presenting it to me. We should keep in touch. Any family of Julian is a friend. friend of mine. I took the card. When I walked out of the office, holding a hand up to my bleeding nose, the room of cubicles was silent, all sitting facing the wall in front of their desks, holding their phones up to their ears, but not speaking a word.

I ran. I took the stairs, not wanting to wait for an elevator, rushing down the steps through the foyer where I'd left the boxes of copies with a receptionist and out the door. That was about as much as my stomach could handle, so it seemed. I threw up in the nearest bush as soon as I got out of the door. I'm not ashamed to say that doing it gave me some sense of retribution. My car wasn't parked too far away. I was thankful for that, climbing into the driver's seat, buckling the belt and hitting

the gas. I drove until I was far away from that place, until I was out on the outskirts of town, pulled over onto the shoulder of the road, and I broke. I curled in on myself, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing shallowly as my heart tried to climb its way out of my chest. It felt like being squeezed into a shoebox, like the world was too close around me. pressing the breath out of my lungs and making me panic. I've had panic attacks before, more frequently in the months since my father's death.

But there were none like this. They never made my skin crawl and my stomach churn as badly as this, never made my ears ring so loud. I couldn't hear the cars passing by. This couldn't be happening. This whole conspiracy, this whole delusional. initiative. It couldn't be real. But it was. It was, and I jumped in head first without noticing how murky the water was. It took me a long time to calm down. I stayed like that,

curled up in the car for almost half an hour. I remembered the recorder in my pocket and turned it off. It brought me comfort to know that what had happened had been documented. I drove home in silence, and all the while my frustration overcame my fear and anxiety. When I reached the driveway, there was a package on the doorstep, a padded envelope. I picked it up, taking it inside with me and locking the door. I tried to be quiet when I walked up the stairs to my office. When I enter it, it feels like home. It feels like the tapes there have been waiting for me patiently, knowing all of the room.

I'll be there eventually. I open the package. I'm not surprised to see. It's a tape. Written on the side, though. It's not an incident number. It reads, To My eldest. My hands only quakes slightly when I put it in the player and press the play button. There's that familiar buzz of an old cassette tape, the click and a light shuffling. Is it? Oh, good. Perfect. My dad's voice, light and jovial.

This tape is recorded for my son, Matthew Bradshaw, and only Matthew Bradshaw. I hope you're listening to this, kiddo. I wanted you to receive this tape after you got the other ones, so I hope my friend to listen to my instructions. I want you to listen very carefully. If you're hearing this tape, then it means I'm already dead, and I failed what I'm planning on doing. In that case, I want to say I'm sorry, and I truly wish it didn't have to be this way, but it is. I don't doubt that you've taken the liberty of listening to the tapes, maybe not all of them, but at least a few of them. You might already know about the initiative. These tapes are recordings

of the victims of the PSO trauma initiative, or paranormal supernatural or occult trauma initiative. This organization seems well-meaning at first. Their mission is to help patients with trauma from unexplainable or supernatural sources forget their problems. They pretend that they offer for these services out of kindness or charity. But they're lying. The initiative is using those tapes and the traumatic events recorded on them for a different purpose. When patients at this initiative give their statements, they truly do forget their trauma.

The cassettes hold whatever event they witnessed, taking a piece of their memory and leaving a blank spot where it was. initiative is an elaborate cover-up for the existence of unexplainable and dangerous creatures that exist in and around our reality. Before I met your mother, before we had you and your brother, I was an archiver for that place. We were supposed to keep those tapes. Over the time I worked there, I became close friends with James Pleasant.

He was higher up the food chain than me. I was supposed to just keep my head down and work, but he took a shine to me. I remember him telling me things that I wasn't allowed to know little things at first, but after a long while, he got comfortable. He took me aside one day and asked me if I knew why we were keeping the tapes, why we were really keeping them. I told him I didn't. He asked me if I could keep a secret.

Of course I could. I still remember the smile he got on his face when I said that. He leaned close and whispered it to me. Food. I didn't understand what he meant, so I told him and he just laughed. He said, it's food, Julian. Eternal food for something bigger than us. Bread goes stale, milk goes sour, meat goes rotten, but fear will never expire.

He told me, if we feed it what it wants, if it lives forever, so will we. I didn't believe him at first. I thought he was crazy. But then I began to see it. Movement, just out of the corner of my eye, just behind that tree, just around that corner, a mirage, like something's there, but you aren't supposed to see it. It got to me, and I knew I had to do something about it. Late one night, after everyone in the office had gone home, I went into the archives.

There were thousands of tapes, all neatly tucked away into five. cabinets with their transcripts. I tried to work quickly, piling them into trash bags and skipping town in my shitty van. I knew I couldn't keep them all in one place. They'd find me that way, and all my work would be for nothing. So I did what I could. I spent a year driving around the continent, leaving the tapes in small burst in second-hand shops and Salvation armies, pawning them off where I could, leaving a trail of cassettes all over, hoping it would keep them at bay. Things were all right for a while. I settled down with your mother, got married, had you. And then I moved on to the second part of the plan. With the tape spread out, I'd pull the rug

out from under them, keeping whatever it is from forming, keeping them as distant from me as possible while I began to collect them again. I wanted to test my theory. I found one of the tapes closest to me, and I destroyed it, burning the tape and crushing its plastic casing. The room went cold around me. For three days after, I didn't see the mirage following me. I was gearing up to burn the latest batch again. I'd do them in small increments so your mother wouldn't get suspicious, when Pleasant called. He threatened to hurt you and your brother, threatened to kill you both if I didn't stop what I was doing and give them back.

You were too precious to risk. I stopped burning them. For a month I stopped collecting them. And then I had an epiphany. I didn't have to destroy them. Just collecting them would be enough at first. You were always a curious kid. I remember how badly you wanted to know about the tapes.

I kept collecting, knowing that eventually you would grow up. You would know how to protect yourself. When you moved away, I redoubled my efforts, writing the transcripts and leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow just in case I failed my plan. The plan was to burn them tomorrow night, to deal our first big. big blow to whatever this thing is. Clearly, since you're hearing this, I failed. The mirage caught up to me and, well, I'm dead.

I need you to carry on what I've started. You know what you have to do. In two days, you will receive a box with the supplies you will need and the instructions to do what you have to. I know you can do this. I'm so proud of you. I love you. Son, the tape ends with a muted click. I rub at my teary eyes with the back of my hand, taking a shaky breath that rattles in my chest. I clear my throat as best I can and gingerly remove the tape from the cassette player. I know what I have to do now. I had trouble sleeping those nights. It's unsurprising knowing what I have to do.

I want to hold under my father's memory more than anything. He was always there for me, no matter what. So burning what I have left of him is painful, but it has to be done. So I'll finish what he started. The package arrived right when he said it would. It wasn't huge, a little smaller than a shoe box. In it were more tapes. My dad's old Aviator-style glasses, a set of car keys including a labeled key to a storage unit and a beat-up old journal. The address to the storage unit was scrolled on the bottom of the cardboard box.

I loaded the tapes into the back of my car in boxes. followed the address of the storage unit to find what my father had left me. During the drive, my phone wouldn't stop ringing, the number displayed on the screen being from exactly who I'd expected. It seemed like the initiative wasn't keen on giving up yet. They could call me all they wanted, but I paid them no mind as I pulled into the parking lot of the run-down Excalibur storage units at the outskirts of town. The garage-like door rattled as I unlocked it and pulled it up manually, wincing at its squealing groan.

It wasn't cluttered, just my father's old van from when he was young, and four gasoline tanks, in a neat row next to the car. There was a Polaroid taped to the van with an address hastily written on the bottom. It was a picture of a wide-open field, someplace nobody would look to find burnt, cassettes. I was glad he knew a place. I wouldn't have known where to start. I shifted all the cassette boxes into the back of the van, followed by the gasoline tanks, and then me. The drive to the field was less like a drive and more like a funeral march. After weeks of torment and anxiety and sleepless nights, tonight it had to end, in some way or another, no matter how small.

Tonight was the night it would end. I thought about my father, thought about how the initiative had taken him from us all for whatever thing they were serving. When I was in that van, listening to the gasoline tanks clunk against each other and the cassette tapes chattering in their boxes, I wasn't afraid of anything. For all I cared, I could die just like my dad, as long as I took down at least a portion of whatever that stupid initiative was with me. It was dark out in the field where I parked the van.

The moon high above and the stars shining in the sky were the only things there to light the way. The tape stacked up nicely, in a wide patch of dried dirt, a pyramid of boxes jutting up defiantly towards the sky. The tank was heavy in my hands when I poured the gasoline onto the pile. It felt surreal. I found myself laughing deliriously when I looked at the stack before me. I was staring it down again, just as I'd done in my office. This time with no curiosity or fear or dread. This time with a knowing, superlative hatred that churned in my stomach and made me grit my teeth. I found a lighter in the glove box of my father's van, right. next to his gun that I held tightly in my hand with assured victory within sight and I don't think you want to do that Matthew my hair had already stood up on end before he

even spoke I didn't turn to look at him I didn't have to far away across the field his master was there there in a way I didn't see but felt like the drop of your stomach before the plunge of a roller coaster, but a million times worse. I think I do, I said. He walked toward me slowly, and I turned only slightly towards him. It's not the man I met in that room. He smiled wider than I'd ever seen anyone stretch their lips, teeth like piano keys, or like the tines of interlocking forts.

He was taller than I remembered, stretched like taffy, with hands hanging limp at his sides. Just give them back, Matthew. You've come so far. Just give up. He hissed out, mouth not moving, but beady black eyes squinting at me with unfettered malice. My hands were shaking. When I reached into the pocket of my coat, pulling out my full. father's revolver and pulling back the hammer. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, ringing out like a

cannonball. I thought I was going to vomit when it hit him right between the eyes. An easy shot. He was so close to me. He reeled backwards and I snatched up my lighter frantically attempting to flick it on. Across the field, the creature wailed like the sound of rending metal and echoing fury. I flicked and flicked and flicked, and then Mr. Pleasant tackled me to the ground, sending my lighter bouncing away over the uneven dirt. I tried to roll over, feeling his arms wrapping around me like boa constrictors as his neck popped and cracked behind me. I screamed, knowing nobody would hear, writhing in his grasp until I could worm my way free. I kicked at him, slamming my boot into his face and rolling to my side. When I finally caught sight of him, I felt my ears begin to ring. He'd gotten even worse,

where he was hunched over on the floor, grunning and panning, his neck ballooning and stretching up and outwards, thickening in the middle as his jaw unhinged. Teeth like razors lined all over, as long, spindly, fleshy legs worked their way out of his mouth. I didn't have time to dwell on the horror that was once Mr. Pleasant. I had tapes to burn. I lunged for the lighter, stumbling to snatch it up. The cold metal in my hand was comforting, as I righted myself on my feet and tried to flick it on again. Matthew!

Mr. Pleasant roared. I didn't look back, but I began to run, stumbling through the grass away from him out of instinct, cupping my hand around the flickering fire of my lighter. I could feel blood running down my lips and chin. I could see the tall grass bend and bow where the creature in the field ran. It's glowing orange and yellow eyes staring me down with a hateful glee that made my stomach churn. Finally, the fire flicked on, bright and warm in my hands. I let out a triumphant laugh, making a U-turn to run towards the pile,

before I felt long, clawed hands grabbed me by the shirt. Mr. Pleasant's body was hanging by a group of six spider-like, creaking, spinly legs, his long squirming fingers gripping me tight as he, laughed, voice echoing like there were three of him behind me. I wanted to cry. I was so close. I was so close. The creature came to a halt in front of me, laughing at me like a pack of hyenas. Mr. Pleasant's other hand shifted up, tangling in my hair and wrenching my head back to stare up at the creature's eyes before me and the only way I can think to describe it is when you're a child and you're in a dark room, it's less the fear of

what the room is and more the fear that the room is full of something you can't see that wants to hurt you. I hadn't felt that type of fear in a long, long time. It towered over me and didn't. It was there and it wasn't. It was going to kill me just by being in my line of sight. Look at it, Matthew. The thing behind me howled with laughter, yanking on my hair and forcing me to look every time I tried to turn away. I could feel bile rising in my throat, blood cascading from my nose. I heaved my eyes burning with pain, and in that moment I saw white.

My ears stopped hearing, my eyes stopped seeing from the burning hot pain that rose into my head, and there was peace for a long, deathly moment. It was a fig tree in the eye of a storm, a moment's silence before the worst came. And in that moment I squeezed my eyes shut, and with a certain flick of my thumb, I felt the lighter ignite, and I let it fall from my hands. To say that those monsters screamed would be like calling a rainstorm, a typhoon. The lighter hit the gasoline, and the boxes went up in a split second. I felt the thing that was once Mr. Pleasant dropped me to the ground and begin to convulse,

shaking and shuddering and screaming as its legs began to crack apart, falling to the ground along with its master like a puppet with cut strings. I heaved, vomiting all red and shaking from head to toe. I couldn't bring myself to get up and run, so instead I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the dark night sky. There was a seam in the sky. Like someone had slashed a long curved line in it. It opened, and I felt the breath leave my lungs.

An eye, as big as the world itself, slid open, glowing orange with a pupil full of all the stars in the sky, lined with teeth that made up its mouth. It shifted to look down at me. Blinking once before letting out a long, bone-chilling, whistling, tone. I wanted it to kill me. I wanted to die, so I didn't have to see it anymore. But it wouldn't let me.

Instead, the monsters that lay around me began to crack and convulse even worse, screaming out in a language I didn't know, but could understand perfectly. They were forsaken by it. Their trust turned against them as they compressed and compressed and compressed until there was nothing left of them but the scars they'd left on my psyche. And then it slid shut and the seam in the sky was gone. I had laid there in the field for hours.

I didn't move until the fire had burned away all that was left of those tapes until I knew there was nothing around me for miles but grass and ash in my van. When I got to my feet, I was shaking, drenched in blood and sweat. All the stars in the sky were golden orange eyes peering down at me with judgment. for what I'd done. The sound of the van door closing behind me is like a coffin being closed. I start up the car with a sputtering noise and fix my father's old glasses where they sit on my nose.

I take a deep breath and my hands shake on the wheel, but I don't break. I don't cry or scream or panic despite the pounding heartbeat in my chest. I pull out of the field slowly, trying to keep my breathing even, even though he isn't here to say it. I know that my dad is proud of me, wherever he is. I wanted to thank you for your help and your interest in my research. There's a lot of work ahead of me if I want to try to keep anyone else from succumbing to a fate like my father's. His journal should hold the answers to what I have to do now. There's a lot I still don't understand and your input has been life-saving on a few occasions

honestly. But all I know is that I'm going to have a lot of driving to do.