Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Stay away from the Fair Exchange Clinic…

Episode Date: March 10, 2023

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Welcome to aboard, Viarai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoy. Admire. Admire. And profite. Viaray. The voice that we love. I got the call from my father while I was on my smoke break. Odd, I thought. He knew I was at work, so why would he be calling? I need you to come by and get me. My father was a carpenter, a veteran of the Vietnam War. He wasn't the type to throw around phrases like,

hurt bad lightly. I could hear the fear in his voice. My shift manager chased me out the door as I hurried to my car, yelling something about how if I left now, I'd never be coming back. The screech of my peeling tires drowned him out. My father's small home was a 15-minute drive from the call center where I worked. I made it there in seven.

My father hadn't been exaggerating. More blood than I'd ever seen in my life poured from a wound in his forearm. The rags he'd wrapped it in were soaked crimson. I carried him, pale and shaking to the car, then made a beeline to the hospital. If I hadn't been speeding, I might have had time to dodge the twisted chunk of metal in the road. I winced when my tire rolled over it, and seconds later, I heard the telltale thump of a flat tire. We were forced to do what I'd been dreading since I'd seen my father's wound, call an ambulance.

He nearly fainted by the time the EMTs arrived, but they got him to the ER in record time. And while my father recovered, just fine, the combined costs of losing my job, fixing my car, and helping him cover the ambulance bill cleaned out my savings. That's why, when I got sick myself a few months ago, I needed the cheapest option available. I didn't have an extra $100. Plus, who knew how much more to spend on a doctor? And driving to the nearest free clinic would have cost me almost as much in gas. I searched online for a second time, telling myself that there had to be an alternative.

That's when I saw it. Fair Exchange Clinic. How had I missed it before? According to the website, the clinic didn't charge money for its services, only an honest trade for services rendered. I didn't know what that meant, but I was too excited to care. The coughing and crushing sensations in my lungs were getting unbearable. Maybe, just maybe. This fair exchange place would be the break I needed to get back on track.

The clinic was located in a strip mall in an ugly, industrial side of town that had seen better days. If it wasn't for the fair exchange sign above the door, it could just have easily been the nail salon to the left or the pawn shop to the right. Gray carpet, white walls, fluorescent blights. A few other no-hopers like me slumped over. over in ugly blue chairs, a nurse behind a reception desk. Up until that point, fair exchange was just like every other urgent care clinic I'd ever visited. Can I help you? The nurse's smile was so big and cheerful that I took a step backward. I, uh, think I have pneumonia, I explained. Oh no, I'm so sorry to hear that. We'll get you in back as soon as possible. We just need you to

fell out these forms. She went on, all the while, that wide-eyed, cheerful expression never left her face. I frowned at the mannequin-like woman in front of me as I flipped through the pages of fine print. Was she making fun of me? Just to confirm, I don't have to pay anything for this, right? Oh, no, of course not. The nurse shrugged my question off with a phony laugh. All we ask is a fair exchange. Another cough racked my car. chest. I was running out of time. I signed on the dotted line. Listening to the eerie elevator music in the waiting room, I wondered if I had made the right decision. 30 minutes later, I was called back to see the doctor. He burst into the exam room in a whirl of white,

clapping my back, shaking my hand, and talking so fast I could barely keep up. Nasty cough, eh? Dr. Lucerne sounded genuinely concerned. That's no good. No good at all. That'll spoil those strong young lungs of yours, but don't you worry. We're going to get you fixed right up. It should have been impossible to be so chipper at 9 a.m. on a.m. on a dreary morning, but Dr. Lucerne whistled while he worked, lifted my arms, looking in my nose, and listening to my chest. He stepped back, and on his chin, like a butcher preparing to carve up a particularly tricky carcass. Just as I suspected, pneumonia. Well, we've got just a thing for you. Dr. Lucerne, winked and rushed out the door, returning two minutes later with two plastic bottles.

These'll fix you right up. With an arm around my shoulder, he whisked me out of the exam room. Next! He shouted. I looked dubiously at the pills in my hand. The whole thing couldn't have taken five minutes, and Dr. Lucerne had already disappeared. Looking back, I saw an open door leading down to a dark basement. I don't know why the sight unnerved me so much. But it did. I scurried down the hallway, already replaced by another sad sack from the reception room. So, is that all? I asked the nurse.

That's all. She said, through her perpetual smile. You'll receive a letter regarding what we need from you in just a few days. A tear ran down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with a tissue. Are you all right? I ventured. Never better.

Thank you for choosing the Fair Exchange Clinic. On the drive home, I did my best to explain away the strangeness I'd seen. The nurse might have just been trying to shrug off a bad day by being positive. The doctor might have been on some uppers. But then, a lot of people in the medical field took legal or illegal drugs to keep up with their grueling schedules. And the swinging door to the basement? No, better not to think about that. My skepticism of Dr. Lucerne turned out to be misplaced.

After three or four days of the pills he prescribed, I was feeling better. By the end of the week, I felt cured. I resumed my job hunt and landed an unglamorous but less stressful job taking phone surveys. I wasn't going to lose my apartment. There was still a long road ahead, but things were starting to look up. Then the letter arrived. Dear patient, it read, enclosed you will find a medical envelope in which to place your age.

exchange. You may prepare the exchange in any manner you wish, but the full and undamaged exchange must be included. If not, a penalty exchange will be applied to your account. Service provided. Respiratory infection diagnosis and treatment. Exchange required. Pinky finger left. Ring finger left. Due date March 14th, 2022. Thank you for choosing the Fair Exchange Clinic. I blinked twice and read it again. Was this some kind of sick joke? The address on the medical envelope was different from the one I visited. No phone number was provided,

and when I searched for a fair exchange clinic online, there were no results. It was like the place had never existed. The next day after work, I drove by the clinic's old address. The lights were out, the sign removed, and the interior had been gutted. There was no sign that the place.

The Fair Exchange Clinic had ever existed. I read the unsettling letter for a third time. A prank. It had to be a prank. I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moyance-moyerned for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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Sontio! Sontier the pleasure, Play-O-Joh! 108 and plus, 1,000, expanse in Ontario. 50 tours gratis on the machine a sub-Begbas Bonanza.

Depos minimum of $10. Vealier to play a way responsible. The conditions so apply. No. The devil wears Prada too. He's the movie event

20 years in the making. Honestly, can't with the secrets anymore, so I think we just, we should tell her. Will you two please spit it out already? Um, this Friday,

be the first to examine. Experience it only in theaters. In light of the recent scandal, I'm here to restore your credibility. Oh, because we're a team now? That's a nice story. The Devil Wares Prada, too, in Theaters Friday. Two weeks later, I got a reminder text from the Fair Exchange Clinic, although I couldn't recall ever giving them my phone number.

Dear patient, it read, this message is to inform you that your exchange of one left pinky finger and one left ring finger is due in three calendar. days. If you are unable to prepare this exchange yourself, please let us know, and a representative will be sent to assist you. Be advised that if your exchange is not received by the above date, additional penalty exchanges will be applied. No one answered when I called the number, but they replied immediately to my text. I don't want to make an exchange. Can I make a payment instead? I asked. We don't take payments, read the response. Only exchanges.

Neither my ensuing rant about unfairness and illegality nor my threats of a lawsuit got any kind of response from the mystery number, apart from a single chilling text. A representative has been dispatched to assist you with your exchange. I went straight to the authorities with the texts, the letter, and my bizarre story. Everyone I spoke to was friendly and sympathetic, but no one seemed able to provide any information about who exactly was behind the Fair Exchange Clinic. You hear about stuff like this from time to time, a stout, mustached officer said between bites of his footlong sandwich. You know, like those family planning clinics that are really set up to just bully a woman into having a baby, whether she wants it or not,

or that cult out in California that brought people to their compound for free treatment and wouldn't let them leave. But these people aren't pro-life activists or some weird religion, I exclaimed. Didn't you read the message? They're sending somebody to cut off my fingers. We'll look into it. He flashed me a winning smile and a thumbs up. And we'll send a patrol car by tonight. So ended our conversation.

I only realized what a fool I'd been after I'd already parked my car. I should have asked for an escort home. Every stranger in the lot suddenly looked suspicious, even dangerous. But nothing unusual happened until someone knocked on my door around 2 a.m. I crept grogly out of bed and grabbed a kitchen knife on my way to the door. The knocking resumed, more insistent this time. I put my eye to the peephole, but it was covered up. Who is it? I rasped.

Good evening, sir. I'm here to assist you with your exchange. Whoever was out there was using a machine to disguise their voice. I don't want any help. I shouted. Go away, or I'll call the police. There's no need to be. afraid, sir. The warped voice growled. I am a professional. I assure you, it will be over before you know it. I am not making any exchange. I screamed. There was a long pause. Are you sure, sir?

The interest on missed exchanges can be extremely penalizing. A mechanized sigh. Very well then. Enjoy your evening, sir. I heard footsteps. walking away from my apartment. But it was an hour before I dared to open the door and remove the tape that the representative had placed there. I spent a sleepless night researching Fair Exchange online. I got the strangest impression that someone or something was attempting to wipe information on the clinics from the web. But there were traces, comments hanging on to long-deleted threads, chat room logs, screenshots. They were all variations on the same two themes. Is for real? And please, someone help me. There was no further evidence of their presence, but I was

terrified of what might come next. About a week after the exchange date passed, I found a large box on my doormat. It contained a pre-addressed medical transplant container, along with another letter. Dear patient, your exchange is now overdue. Please see your new exchange total, updated with interest below. Exchanges required. Pinky finger left, ring finger left. Complete right foot below the ankle. One 10 by 4 inch strip of healthy skin.

Due date, April 14th, 2022. Please be advised that if we do not receive your exchange by the date above, a further penalty will be applied, and your account will be sent to collections. Fair exchange is not responsible for any damages caused by collection agents in the pursuit of the required exchanges. The police were less friendly on my second visit. I was accused of wasting their time, and one officer even insinuated that I made the whole thing up, but I knew I had to do something. I used a credit card for all my expenses

during the next two weeks. I needed money in the bank for what I had in mind, slipping through the grasp of fair exchange. I would move away, start over someplace new and unexpected. Maybe I could even change my identity somehow. I told myself it would be an adventure to avoid thinking about the grim reality of what I was about to do. Did it work? For a while, I guess it did. But then, when I was about to open the door of my van,

a black, gloved hand clamped over my mouth, and a needle plunged into my skin. The clinic's representative had been completely correct. Fair exchanges overdue penalties were indeed harsh. and their work was indeed professional. Despite the large patch of skin and the limbs that were removed, I didn't die of blood loss or even fall unconscious. Everything was sewed up nice and neat.

And to their credit, fair exchange took nothing more than what I owed them, according to their final letter. That's the one the collections agent held in front of my face, just before my vision blurred and my body went numb. I knew beforehand everything that they were going to take for me. I never found out who or what was behind Fair Exchange, or the reason behind their gruesome methods. But I do still see their clinics pop up from time to time. I hope others who have had an experience with the Fair Exchange Clinic will come forward to share their story,

or at least try to. Believe me, I know it can be difficult. It took me forever to write this with only four fingers.