Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Central Park Horror Stories

Episode Date: March 2, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3zCFjQc 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep �� Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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of 10 dollars, Veill I'm responsible. The conditions apply. Before I tell you what happened, it's important to mention that Central Park is a pretty safe place. Many people think Central Park at night is dangerous. Mostly, the people that think this are tourists, and they can't be blamed for not knowing the details about the park

or the surrounding city. Central Park and New York City in general used to be a very dangerous place back in the 80s and 90s. But things have changed since then. And while no place you'll ever go is 100% safe, if you stick to the lighted paths in Central Park at night, you'll find that most of the people around are runners and cyclists, not drug addicts or criminals. I've lived in New York City since 2003, and Central Park is one of the places I came to run regularly. I'd never had any issues or felt unsafe in the park, until one night two weeks ago.

I was out for my nightly run, bundled up against the winter chill in my warm running gear. Since it was so cold out, I was one of the few people in the park that night. Only the die-hard exercise freaks come out in freezing temperatures. I manage a restaurant, so it was late by the time I got off work and made it to the park. And before I knew it, one o'clock in the morning was creeping up. The park would be closing at one, and I'd lost track of time. So I decided to break my cardinal rule and take an unlighted shortcut back to West 77th Street, from where I could get home quickly.

Cutting off the main running path and onto a smaller path through some woods, I checked all around for people, not seeing any. Granted, it was dark on the path ahead. but I was confident that I would see someone if they were lurking in the dark. I came to the Oak Bridge and slowed down to catch my breath as I started to walk across. Here, out in the open, the clear winter sky provided a sickly illumination. I noticed movement on the other side of the bridge, seeing a man about my size coming toward me.

We were wearing similar exercise clothes, and we both slowed for a moment on our respective sides of the bridge, looking warily at each other. There was no one else around, and I just figured this guy for another runner like me, so I kept on going. I kept my eyes up, but not fixed on the man. My mom had always told me that staring is impolite.

But as we grew closer to each other, I noticed that our clothing wasn't just similar. We were wearing the exact same get-up. There was something eerily familiar about this man, and a sickening feeling constricted my throat and made my palms sweaty in my gloves despite the cold weather. I couldn't keep my eyes averted any longer. The feeling of deja vu was simply too strong. And when we were about 20 feet away on the bridge, I glanced at the man's face, and I froze.

My mouth opened and closed, my brain trying and failing to give me a reason for what I was looking at. The man had my face. He looked back at me with eyes I knew from every mirror I'd ever looked into. But it was more than just my face. He was wearing my clothes. He had the exact same build as me. He even walked like me. Whereas I had stopped on the bridge near the halfway point, the man kept coming.

If he was shocked to see someone who looked exactly like him, he didn't show it. He kept his eyes, my eyes, fixed on me as he approached. approached. I leaned against the bridge railing, still trying to say something, anything that would lessen the shock of the encounter. The man walked up and stopped, the toes of his running shoes, two or three inches from touching mine. What? What? I managed, my voice cracking, the effort of speaking pushing smoke-like water vapor into the air. The man looked into my eyes for a long moment, and a small smile came to his face. But it wasn't. a happy smile. It was a look of disgust, poorly disguised by the twitch of his lips. He looked me up and

down. Then his right hand shot out and gripped my throat. I gasped. More water vapor erupting from my mouth and into the man's all too familiar face. With his left hand, he produced a knife, one that I recognized. It was the first real pocket knife I'd ever owned. It had a three-inch folding blade and the stylized drawing of a black widow on both sides of the handle. I got it when I was 13 at a truck stop while on a family road trip. It was the very same knife I always carried in my pocket for protection whenever I went on a run. I could feel its weight in my pocket, even as I looked down in shock at the identical knife. The man flipped the knife blade out and then plunged it into my chest, just over my heart. The pain was immense, and I could feel my heart

struggling inside my rib cage, thudding irregularly as the knife pierced it. Leaving the knife in my chest, the man turned me, bending me down over the railing of the bridge. I could see our reflections in the water below. But the man's reflection was no longer identical to mine. Instead of my face on his body, there was a bare skull. The eye sockets empty and black. The teeth, a permanent grin. The man flipped me into the river.

and my own face met that grinning skull as I plunged into the frigid waters of Central Park Lake. As the cold enveloped me, sucking away my breath, I struggled to swim, the knife in my chest, making every movement and exercise in agony. As I sank, I was vaguely aware of a large splash and a shifting of the water around me. Then everything went dark. Although the pain stayed with me, even as my consciousness faded away. I awoke in a hospital bed, gripping at my chest for the knife I thought was still there. I touched where the blade had been, but found no bandages, not even a tender spot on the skin.

Babe? My wife, Jeanette, said from a chair beside my bed, startling me. It's okay, Anthony. It's just me. Someone tried to kill me, I said, looking crazily around the room, expecting to see the man. My doppelganger, lurking in the corner. What? Jeanette said. Tony, you had a heart attack on your run.

You fell into the lake, but a passing runner saw it happen and risked his life to save you. No, I said, pulling down the neck of the hospital gown to look down at my chest. No, he stabbed me. But there was no wound there, no marks at all. Maybe that's what it felt like, but you weren't stabbed. You had a heart attack. but the doctor says you're going to be okay, although you've got to make some lifestyle changes. My mind reeled. It seemed so real. I could almost still feel the grip he'd had on my throat.

It took a while for me to accept that I hadn't actually been stabbed, but that didn't mean that what I experienced didn't really happen. Now, two weeks after the incident, I realize what it was. The grim Reaper doesn't come for you in a dark robe holding a scythe. He comes for you as you. So if you ever see someone that looks just like you, down to the clothes and everything, turn around and run, run the other way as fast as you can. But I doubt it will help.

You can never outrun yourself. I said to my friend, Sylvan, Let's check this last place, and then we'll go get some dinner. Sylvan sighed and looked around the park. We were at the Strawberry Field section of Central Park. We just spent a few minutes at the Imagine Memorial, taking a few pictures of the mosaic before moving on. Fine, Sylvan said.

But it's getting dark, and I don't want to be in the park after dark. You hear me, Greg? For such a big and imposing guy, Sylvan was kind of a chicken. We'd been friends since college, and we were even dating two best friends, much like ourselves. We had split up with our girlfriends for the day, the third day of our week-long vacation in the Big Apple, a vacation that I'd suggested and planned. The girls had been doing some shopping and were currently on their way to see a Broadway show,

both activities that Sylvan and I had no interest in. I hear you, I told my friend, let's just check this one more area, then we'll go to dinner. I'd managed to talk Sylvan into coming with me on what I knew was a bit of a wild goose chase. One of the designers of Central Park, Calvert Vox, had written a letter back in 1895, confessing to hiding a secret of great importance somewhere in the park. The letter also mentions the Central Park papers that would lead a worthy hunter to the secret. Or so, the story went.

I'd spent hours on the internet researching the papers, going down a rabbit hole, talking in forums to people who had way too much time on their hands. It was probably all made up, but I'd always imagined myself a kind of treasure hunter, like Nicholas Cage in those national treasure movies. But really, it was just a fun way to get to know Central Park, as opposed to simply walking around aimlessly and seeing the sights. This way, things were a bit more engaging. I had the supposed Central Park papers pulled up on my phone in PDF form,

and we'd been following the cryptic messages and clues for most of the day. I read and re-read the clue about strawberry fields and looked around. I could hear the faint sounds of traffic from Central Park West, although I couldn't see the streets, thanks to the lush trees and bushes surrounding us. This way, I said, heading off into a small copse of trees nearby. There's not even a trail here, man, Sylvan said as we forced our way into the brush. I know, I said. That means we're on the right track.

I snagged my foot on a root and fell through some bushes, sticking out my hand to catch myself on a boulder to my left. The big shoulders shifted under my hand like it weighed barely anything, and I went down to my knees. You okay? Sylvan asked, coming through the foliage behind me, helping me to my feet. Yeah, I said, distractedly, staring at the boulder that had moved. It was still rocking back and forth, as though it were suspended above the ground on chains. but I could see nothing that was holding it up. Granted, both sides of the gray rock were hidden by foliage. What the hell?

Sylvan said, looking down at the boulder. Yeah, I said, getting back down on my knees to look underneath the gently rocking chunk of stone. It looks like there's a hole underneath it. A big one. You're kidding, Sylvan said. Nope, I said, leaning forward and pushing on the rock. It felt like real stone. but it was very light, as if the inside had been hollowed out.

I cocked my head and looked under the boulder as I pushed it, the irregular shape of the rock, allowing me a gap about six inches wide in which I could see only darkness. Do me a favor, would you, Sylvan? Push on the rock to turn it like I'm doing now. I want to look down into the hole with my flashlight. Sylvan looked at me, apparently saw that I wouldn't be dissuaded,

and then pushed on the rock, shifting it on whatever hidden mechanism, allowed it to be rotated, as if on a spit. I crawled forward on my stomach and shined my phone's flashlight into the hole, seeing a thin stairway carved into the bedrock. I crawled back and stood up, smiling at Sylvan. What? What is it? he asked, letting the false rock settle in its original position.

There are stairs, I said. Oh, hell no, no way. I'm not going down some creepy stairs. Besides, we can't even fit down there. Yes, we can, I said. Look at how the rock is shaped. If we turn it all the way over and hold it like that, the divot and the rock will allow us to get in.

Screw this. We don't know where this leads, man, Sylvan said. You don't have to come with me, I said, still smiling. But I'm going down there. I can't not, man. This is awesome. Maybe there really is some secret to be found down there. Maybe the Vox letter isn't a hoax.

Damn it, Greg, Sylvan said. Fine. Sarah would kill me if I ever let anything happen to you. I felt a little guilty, but not much. I had been able to talk Sylvan into many things over the years, not the least of which was asking out Mary, his girlfriend. So I figured this made us even. Sylvan, being bigger and stronger than me,

helped me get the rock turned into the proper position so I could slip into the hole. I walked down the stairs, shining the light around. It was just a tight little passageway, but I could see that it continued on, heading towards Central Park West. When I was down far enough to leave room for Sylvan, I turned around and shined the light on the steps so he could see. He held the rock in position while he worked his body into the little gap.

Then he was able to slip down, sitting on the steps with his arms held above him, still holding the rock so it wouldn't swing down. down and hit him in the head. He shifted further into the passageway and then gently shifted the rock back into position above him. In its resting position, there was only a small gap between boulder and ground, maybe an inch and a half. This meant that the only light in the place was from my phone. I walked back into the passageway, and Sylvan walked down the steps until he could stand up straight.

Then he pulled out his phone and lit up his flashlight. I turned around and started walking. About 10 yards in, the tunnel opened up, and the ground turned from bedrock to rough concrete. There were old-looking drains placed at regular intervals down the tunnel, which seemed to continue on straight as far as our lights could illuminate. Seeing how straight the tunnel was made me realize something. Dude, I said,

If this tunnel keeps going straight, I think I know where it leads. Where's that? Hell? Ha ha, very funny. No, seriously, I think it leads to the Dakota apartments. Am I supposed to know what's significant about that? I stopped and turned. Seriously? It's where John Lennon was killed.

It was also used as the apartment that Rosemary and her husband move into in the movie Rosemary's Baby. Oh, that's not creepy at all. Right? But that's not all. It's supposedly haunted, too. And it was definitely here when Vox wrote his letter in 1895. Great, Sylvan said. Maybe we can exit through the Dakota apartments and then go get some dinner if we don't get arrested for trespassing. Oh, relax, I said. If there's an entrance to the Dakota, I bet it's been sealed off. Celebrities live in the building, after all. Can't be too careful. Got to protect those and important celebrities. Yeah, and you gotta protect the Antichrist, too. I laughed, surprised to hear

Sylvan make a joke, given that I knew he was nervous. We continued walking down the tunnel until it made a sharp right turn, at which point I slowed down. What's up? What are you doing? Sylvan asked. I think I hear something. I said, a sweeping sound. Do you hear it? Sylvan stopped and listened for a moment. Yeah, sounds like something mechanical. I peeked around the corner and saw that the rough concrete tunnel turned into a corridor with smooth concrete flooring and a few pipes sticking out of the ceiling and running off into the darkness. I knew where it was on the map, right across from strawberry fields. We moved tentatively around the corner as we crept forward.

The sweeping noise grew louder. The tunnel dead ended at a large metal door the color of old iron. The pipes disappeared into the concrete wall above the door. There was no handle on the door, no way to open it from this side. It's a dead end, Sylvan said. Now can we go back? I raised my fist and knocked on the door, hammering out a pattern in five strikes. What are you doing?

Sylvan said. Just bear with me, I said to him, without turning around. After several long moments, I heard a noise from the other side of the door. The sound of an old metal lock, disengaging was unmistakable. And as the door opened, the sweeping sound grew even louder. A man with a chubby face, old-style glasses, and a wiry beard opened the door. He looked to be in his middle 40s and was dressed in an expensive-looking modern suit. Beyond him, there were about a dozen people in the wide, circular room.

All of them were dressed in expensive evening wear. Three of them had large brooms. which they were pushing across an elaborate carving in the floor. They were doing it in unison. And the stiff bristles made a loud noise as they moved through the groves and the design etched into the floor. As the door opened all the way, everyone in the room looked up at us, and the sweepers stopped. Holy shit, it's real, I said. I knew it. I fucking knew it.

What the hell is this? Sylvan said, his voice going up an octave. I stepped through the doorway and gestured at the man who had opened the door. Sylvan, this is Calvert Vox. Pleased to meet you, Vox said, reaching a handout towards Sylvan. The other people in the room were still staring at us. Calvert? Sylvan said faintly, reaching out on reflex to shake Vox's hand.

Wait a minute, he said as they shook. How could he be alive if you said? Vox yanked Sylvan into the room with savage sense. strength, causing my friend to cry out. Vox dragged him swiftly to the center of the elaborate carving in the stone floor, knocking him down onto his back like Sylvan was a child. I watched this with interest, my eyes wide and my heart rate increasing. What's going on? Sylvan said, looking up at me. Tell them to stop, Greg. Tell them to stop. Sorry, man, I said. I truly didn't think this was real. Honestly, I didn't. I thought the whole thing was just a fun role-playing game.

online, a silly game about gaining immortality and powers, but it's real. As soon as that door opened, I knew it was. What? Sylvan said, looking around at the people now surrounding him. His eyes went wide as he recognized a well-known actress, a couple of politicians, and a famous billionaire. Calvert Vox retrieved a sledgehammer offered by one of the politicians as four people held Sylvan to the ground. I mean, it's immortality, buddy. I said, to my friend. I can't pass this up. They only do this once every 50 years, and without a sacrifice, I can't join this little club. Vox pulled the sledgehammer over his shoulder and looked down at the center of Sylvan's forehead. Then he looked up at me. I repeated the words I'd

been told to memorize, although I had no idea what they meant. The others in the room, all except Vox and Sylvan joined in. Sylvan screamed and struggled, but the people were just. too strong for him. He could barely move at all. And on the last line of the incantation, Vox swung the hammer down. I looked away as it met its mark, but there was nothing I could do about the gruesome cracking sound of the hammer hitting my friend's skull. The power poured into me, and I felt alive for the first time ever. I arrive in New York City on a bus. Walking through the Port Authority bus terminal, I glit glance around at the surroundings, walking to find an exit.

The terminal is a large sprawl, a mixture of sleek modern architecture and utilitarian design. People rush all around me, surrounded by the muted colors of the terminal, living lives that, from the outside, seem better than mine in every way possible. I only carry one bag, but the most important possession on my person is a small 22 Ruger pistol that I stole from my father's closet. I keep the pistol in the right pocket of my large olive green military jacket. At 18 years old, I know the few people that glance at me, see only another young person, a tourist, maybe, or a bomb. Back in Iowa, I'd watched movies set in New York City. I'd read articles, watched interviews, and stayed apprised of news

reports from the bustling metropolis. When I finally made the decision to come here, Spending almost every penny I'd saved on the bus ticket, my only hope was that I could get lost in the streets. I wanted to become just another face in a crowd until I got to my final destination. Now, as I step outside of the terminal and on to 42nd Street, I'm not disappointed. The impersonal nature of the city is unmistakable, and the people walking past me only see an object to dodge so they can be on their way. unimpeded by such an inconvenience as another person in their path. I pull up a map on my phone and orient myself.

I see that Central Park is about 17 blocks away, so I start walking. I take a left on 8th Avenue and let my feet carry me, my backpack secured on my shoulders, and the gun in my pocket bouncing gently off my hip with every step. As I walk, I think about putting the Ruger's barrel in my mouth. Or maybe I'll just put it in my temple. I've heard that it's possible to survive when shooting yourself through the mouth,

but the temple is pretty much a sure thing. And with a 22, the bullet should bounce around inside my skull, destroying my brain. I smile at the thought, but it's a forced smile. Deep down I know that, and I realize that I'm grimacing, so I let my face go slack. After a while, I look up from the side, sidewalk and see trees beyond a roundabout ahead. It must be the park. I make it across 59th Street

and find a path into the park. There are plenty of people out on this early spring day. I see a little boy and a little girl playing, chasing each other on the grass and screaming delightedly. Two adults sit on a bench nearby chatting. They glance up at the kids occasionally. What if a little kid finds my body? I think. It would traumatize them for life. This thought terrifies me, and I stop walking. People weave around me. The image of that little girl stumbling across my dead body fills me with dread. So that's why we're going to the cave. A silky, snake-like version of my inner voice says, that was always the plan. It still is the plan. Go to the ramble, find the sealed-off cave, and put a bullet in my head.

I force myself to walk again, trying to ignore the happy screams of the children. I look at the map on my phone, zooming in on Central Park. The ramble isn't too far ahead, so I keep going. I know that the cave I'm looking for was sealed off in the early 20th century,

after a few people committed suicide there. Some even call it the suicide cave. It was also a place where robberies and sexual harassment or common, but I don't think of those things. I'm here. I made it to New York City and to Central Park. Now I'm going to do what I came here to do. My legs are getting tired as I make it to the bow bridge, passing a young couple kissing as I cross it. I put my head down, grumbling at the public display of affection. More walking brings me near the suicide cave, and it takes some

wandering around to find the semi-hidden path down. I have to climb over a railing near a boulder and push through some tree branches to uncover the old stone steps. Going down the steps, I see the old brick wall where the cave entrance used to be. The realization that I'm really here brings with it a little ball of excitement, or is it dread? A duck around a rock overhang and see a little shoreline sandwiched between two big boulders where boats used to be able to park so people could explore the little cave. Hearing a giggle, I turned my head to the left, seeing a couple about my age sitting on a little blanket. I've clearly interrupted their private time. I realize I'll have to wait for them to leave before I kill myself. This thought

brings both relief and trepidation. I move out of their line of sight, throwing my backpack down against the brick-up cave entrance. I lie down and put my head on my pack to wait for these people to leave. It doesn't take long for my eyelids to grow heavy. What little sleep I managed to get on the bus out here wasn't quality sleep by any means.

I don't resist the urge to sleep, instead letting the anxiety of my pending death melt away. at least for a few minutes. Little bugs are falling on my face, squirming around on my cheeks, and trying to get under my closed eyelids. I jolt up, rubbing at my face with both hands, feeling little bug bodies fall away. More of them fall into my head,

and I brush them out of my short hair, realizing that they're not bugs at all. It's dirt or grit that's falling on me. I look around, finding that I'm still next to the old bricked up cave in Central Park. It's dark out now, and there doesn't seem to be anyone around. More dirt falls on my head, and I look up to see where it's coming from. It's hard to tell in the dark, but it looks like there's a ragged hole in the brick wall, as if someone has been removing bricks.

Suddenly, darkness pours out of the hole, and it takes me a moment to realize that the darkness is really cockroaches, hundreds of them. I scramble up to my feet, backing away as the cockroaches dispersed in the darkens. into the night. Looking harder at the brick wall, I see that there is a hole there. It's at about head height and big enough for a person to fit through easily. I step closer, wondering whether I should pull out my phone and use the flashlight feature. A ghostly white hand emerges from the darkness of the hole, grabbing one of the bricks and pulling it into the hole. What the fuck? I whisper, stepping back. No way this is real. I pull my phone out, holding it at my side,

not yet shaking it to make the light turn on. Hello? I say, Who's in there? There's no answer. All is silent. The hand doesn't appear again. I step up to the hole, shaking the phone to turn on the light.

I shine the light inside the cave. The eyes of a dozen or more people reflect the light of the flashlight. I can tell they're all dead by the pallor of their skin. Most of them are men, but there are a few women there too. Their fatal injuries still shine with moisture, reflecting the light off of tiny irises. I jump back, hitting my head on the rock outcropping behind me and dropping my phone. The light shines straight up, illuminating the hole and the brick wall. I back away, rubbing my head absently as my mind tries to process what I've just seen.

Maybe I'm still asleep, still dreaming. But the pain in my head feels so real. A man's head emerges from the hole upside down. I realize as the rest of him moves through the hole, crawling like a spider, that his head is only attached to his body by a thin strip of flesh near his severed spine. He stops his spider-like crawling as he reaches the ground. Standing up to his full height, his eyes never leaving me. His head seems to shift on its own, keeping his gaze fixed on my face. I notice his old clothes, a dusty brown suit that would have been.

been in style a century ago. I back up toward the lake, my whole body shaking with fright. The back of my foot runs into something that shouldn't be there. I can tell by the feel. It's not a rock, not a branch, but it is organic. I risk a glance behind me and let out a long gasp that turns into a low, desperate scream at the end. There are bodies floating on the lake as far as I can see. The moon shines down on them, allowing me to see them packed together on the surface of the water. Some wear clothes and others are naked. Some look like they belong in this century, while others are clearly from the distant past. But they all have one thing in common.

Their eyes are open, heads are turned, and they're all looking at me. The one I hit with my foot, just where the shore meets the water, reaches up and tries to grab me. I back up, immediately feeling impossibly strong hands grip me. I catch a glimpse of my assailant, seeing his nearly severed head staring at me with furious determination. Then he's lifting me off the ground. My struggle's doing nothing to hinder him. He brings me back to the hole in the brick wall and shoves me through. Hands reach out as I'm pushed inside, grabbing me and pulling me down.

I'm on my back in the cave, surrounded by the dead. They all look down at me, their eyes wide, and I can tell they want. want something. I just don't know what it is. Their mouths all open at the same time, and a black liquid sludge pours out, coating me. It's freezing cold, immediately soaking through my clothes as I struggle and scream. Their wide eyes all turn black at once, and then liquefy as more of the black sludge pours out of their eye sockets. I'm immersed in the liquid now, and I can feel it paralyzing me, squeezing the life from me, stealing my breath. Suddenly, I remember my father's gun in my jacket pocket.

I reached through the thickening black sludge with a numb right hand. My fingers feel like sticks, the joints nearly impossible to move as I managed to shove the hand in my jacket pocket. I feel the gun there and managed to get my fingers around it as the sludge reaches my chin. I tried to hold my head higher, straining my neck upward, but the dead tried to push me back down. Pulling the gun out of my pocket requires all the strength I have left. The sludge reaches my mouth. The taste of it is somehow everything foul I've ever smelled or tasted and the absence of taste all at once.

It forces its way into my mouth, and I can feel it sliding down my throat and into my lungs, erasing everything I am and replacing it with endless pain and darkness. Choking, I pull the gun up out of the tar-like substance, forcing my numb index finger into the trigger guard. The sludge reaches my eyes, and I have to shut them or lose them forever. I pull the trigger, but nothing happens.

The safety is still engaged. I feel for the safety catch with my thumb as the liquid comes up to my forehead. I can no longer breathe, and the need for air is nearly all I can think about. I feel the click as the catch moves, and I pull the trigger again. The gun fires, and I feel hands release me. I shift the gun and fire again. More hands release me. I fire again and again.

And again, emptying the clip within only a few seconds. The hands are no longer holding me down, and I managed to get my heavy legs under me. Emerging from the sludge, I take a deep breath before scrambling through the hole in the brick wall and falling out onto the hard ground outside. I snap my head around, expecting more corpses to attack, but I'm alone.

I look down at my body, which is slowly regaining feeling. The sludge moves off of me, slithering back through the hole in the brick wall, leaving me dry, but shivering. I grab my phone and my backpack and run back up the stone steps, jumping over the railing at the top. I realize I still have the gun in my hand, so I put it back in my pocket while I run. I find a lighted part of Central Park and sneak into some nearby bushes, suddenly exhausted. I don't know what time it is, but I can still hear the occasional runner or cyclist pass by, on the path as I fall asleep.

It's light outside when I wake up. Morning joggers and walkers are in the park. A woman looks at me strangely as I stumble out of the bushes, reliving last night's events in my mind. Was it just a nightmare? The product of an overactive imagination belonging to a depressed young man? I find my way back to the cave,

the morning sunlight giving me the strength to investigate. The hole is no longer there in the brick wall. There are no bodies floating in the lake. Everything looks as it did when I first came down yesterday, minus the young couple. It was just a nightmare, I say, then turned to leave. But I see something strange on the brick wall, where the hole had been. It looks as if the bricks are loose, as though someone broke all the bricks out, but then put them back up without mortar.

I push on the bricks with a hand, and they tumble inside the cave. My heart speeds up, but I force myself to look through the hole in the wall. There's nothing in the cave but the fallen bricks and something else. Something shiny. I pull my phone out, shining the flashlight into the dark cave. There are shell casings on the floor of the cave. Shell casings from a 22 pistol. I pull the gun out of my pocket and eject the clip.

It's empty. For the first time in a long time, my smile is genuine. I head back up the stone steps and away from the cave. On my way out of the park, I tossed the pistol in a trash bin.