Snook - 3 Hours of Disturbing Reddit Stories

Episode Date: July 10, 2026

This was 3 Hours of some Disturbing Reddit Stories! These stories were so scary! What was your favorite story? And would you like to see me make similar videos in the future? Leave your thoughts down below in the comment section, and make sure to like and subscribe! Credits! Go give some support to these talented authors! Saturday - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1si38e1/a_knock_on_the_storm_cellar/ Alias-TommySteele - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1slo8sg/i_found_a_video_rental_store_in_a_small_town_what/ somethinggoeshere2 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nm6106/my_grandfather_froze_to_death_on_the_kitchen/ Horrorjunkie123 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1sr77er/growing_up_my_grandparents_had_one_rule_dont_look/ Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1t17mde/three_days_in_the_dark/ SunHeadPrime - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1lxmpqt/if_you_find_a_painting_of_your_childhood_home_do/ I was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors. Make sure to subscribe to the Patreon for early access videos and many more perks! patreon.com/SnookYT Also! Go follow me on Spotify and Instagram! Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to the channel. And today we're getting into three hours of some disturbing Reddit stories. And oh boy, these are some of the best stories I have ever read. And honestly, scariest stories I have ever read. They're horrifying. They're creepy. And like the title says, they are disturbing. So you're going to want to make sure to stick around.

And I appreciate you stop by means the world. And make sure you like the video and subscribe to the channel. The channel subscriber goal is 1 million subscribers. before the end of the year. So please subscribe and all right. Like the title says, this video will be long enough already. So sit back, relax, and grab a drink and grab a snack. Without further ado, let's get into three hours of some disturbing Reddit stories.

A knock on the storm cellar, written by Saturday. My daughter, Cleo turned 12 not too long ago. She has lived in this house her entire life, and now we're moving out. It's not anything dramatic, we're just moving into a bigger place. She's growing up and deserves a better space, and Molly and I are in a position where we can afford it. But as we're packing up our things and looking to the future, I want to acknowledge something that happened in this house when we first moved in. Cleo was closing in on her first birthday. Molly and I were working around the clock, juggling a child, two-folds.

full-time jobs, and a remote part-time job on the weekends. It was rough, but that's to be expected. We had planned for this family, and we were ready to pay the price. It doesn't mean we weren't acknowledging the hardships. We just moved to this house on the northern edge of Tornado Alley. While it did get the occasional storm, the place itself was safe enough that the house had never needed any serious repairs, not from the weather at least. We got the place a little cheaper than expected.

It was an 80-style brick-and-water kind of building with a solid concrete storm cellar. One floor, separate garage, solid outer walls, cheap interior. You can feel the heat from the kitchen while standing in the hallway, all the way through the paper-thin, foul wooden wall panels. That first month, as we moved in, we ran into our first problem. The storm cellar was having some trouble with cracks in the northernmost wall. Nothing serious, but just enough for there to be a sort of bulge. We had a guy come check it out, and he acknowledged it that it needs to be reinforced

if we wanted to utilize the space safely. Luckily, we caught it early. The neighborhood was great, though. We lived at the end of the street near five other houses, identical style, different colors, ours was the green one. While fixing up our storm cellar, we had our first reminder of just how close to a tornado alley we were. While those across the state lines of the south were bunkering down for a possible tornado, we only had to prep for a nasty storm.

Perfect start to the summer. On the day of the storm, we had a neighbor come by, collide. Salt to the Earth kind of guy, had lived there his entire life, just a couple of years short of retirement. Clyde had the proportions of a walking meatball sporting a baseball cap, and yet, he always seemed to be out and about, mucking around in the garden and carrying things in and out of his garage. Clyde stopped by our place and handed me a walkie-talkie. Everyone on the street has one, he explained, just so we can stay in touch if things get bad. You guys thought, of everything. I smiled. Stay prepared. You don't got to get prepared. Boy Scouts? YouTube.

He winked, gave me a pat on the shoulder, and lumbered away. Now I had a fancy new walkie-talkie. Nothing expensive, and the channel was a preset, but it carried a bit of weight. Solid stuff. Molly called out when she noticed the first drops of water on the kitchen window. I was already downstairs, doing my best to prepare us for a long night ahead. There were three rooms, one of which we were later going to turn into a laundry room. That'd have to wait until we fixed the wall, though. For now, I had to make sure Cleo would be comfortable, and that we had all these supplies we needed. I tested the walkie-talkie a couple of times and got a response not just from Clyde, but a couple of other neighbors too. An older woman jokingly telling us she'd come by with a

casserole once the storm was over and a grumpy middle-aged man that firmly reminded us that the channel was for emergency use only once everything was prepped i waited upstairs cleo was having the midday fussies mollie was firmly fixated on the kitchen window looking out she had this cat-like feature like she was seeing something i wasn't i have expected her to tap at the window You all right there? I asked. Yeah, she mumbled. I just don't like how it looks.

The dark clouds were closing in. We were at the birth of the storm. But that didn't mean we'd have a walk in the park. Things could get bad, and we couldn't take any chances. Not with Cleo. The wind picked up. I changed Cleo and got of things all packed up. I pulled Molly away from the window as we hurried out back.

The storm cellar had this thick, tilted metal door. We hurried downstairs and I locked the door from the inside. Not that there was a reason to. It's just what you do. Cleo settled down. I'd brought down an air mattress. And there was a cooler with a couple of drinks, baby food, and snacks to keep us going. We were going to fix the place up later, but this would have to do

for now. Cleo had a cozy little cot in the corner, a plastic thing that we usually brought when we traveled. Not that we had a lot of time for that kind of thing. I did a double check on all the lights and our chargers. There was this large locker in the far-off room with the bulging wall. I presumed that locker held the fuse box. The thing was old as hell, and the warning stickers had long since faded, so I didn't want to touch anything. Still, I figured it was good to know where to go if the power cut out. We didn't get very good reception down there, but Molly had a couple of shows preloaded on our iPad so we could watch some reruns later in the night. The wind kept going. I could hear it cut along the corner of the house, rattling the gutters. The raindrops had gone from

tapping on the door to passing us by. as the rain turned sideways. Staying down there was just a precaution, but by the way things were going, we had the right idea. It got pretty bad, pretty fast. People started talking over the walkie-talkie. Even the grumpy middle-aged guy.

Looks like the tree in the yard is going down, someone said. Fence is shaking something awful. Another one said. Clyde, on the other hand, just kept checking new with people. We had an hourly roll call, and when he noticed one of us wasn't responding, he decided to go do something about it.

There was this older man living down the street that hadn't picked up, and Clyde was getting worried. Old guy lives on his own, surrounded by floppy discs and TV dinners. I'll head over to check on him in a bit. A couple of people protested, but Clyde wasn't having it.

Apparently, he used to be an army medic. Molly was sitting in the other room, rocking Cleo back and forth. She had this song about a blue sunflower that her parents taught her, and it always put Cleo to sleep. A couple of tunes from that lullaby was all it took. It was like a magic trick or an off switch. I sat down next to them as the wind raged outside.

Molly turned her attention to me. Did they say anything, she whispered? About what? About what's going on up there? It's pretty rough, I admitted. Clyde is heading out to check on someone. Did something happen? Not sure.

Maybe. They're not responding. Molly nodded, looking up, as if staring out an invisible window. I don't know, she whispered. I got this bad feeling. Like today is special. as if responding, the electronics locker in the other room made an uncomfortable noise, a stark reminder that this was just the beginning.

The sun was setting, but the storm raged on. It wasn't speeding up or slowing down, but there was this constant pressure on the side of our house. You could hear the way it was blowing, pulling at the roof tiles. Every now and then, you'd hear something heavy fell over, or scrape against the facade. Molly was taking a well-deserved nap with Cleo while I was sitting in the other room walking by the walkie-talkie.

I wasn't exactly expecting anything, but someone had to stay prepared if something happened. So far, we were doing pretty good. There were a couple of alarming sounds coming from the locker, but I chalked that up as protests of an old house, or cheap wiring. As long as the light stayed on, I wasn't touching it. Breaker boxes and I don't get along. The others were chatting a little back and forth,

checking in on each other and waiting for cloud to return. When he finally did, I could tell something was wrong. He was winded. Someone broke in, he weased. Front doors busted. The whole place has been turned upside down. Holy shit, are you sure?

The middle-aged grumpy guy quickly changed his tone. There's blood on the floor. but there's no one there. I don't know what's going on. I called the police, but they can't do anything until the storm passes. The old woman chimed in. Everyone makes sure your doors and windows are locked tight. As we reassured one another,

I could hear one voice disappear into the background. I wasn't sure about who they were, but I could tell I'd heard them a couple of times before. They were a neighbor, but I couldn't pinpoint their hands. house. Someone's knocking, they said. Trying to speak over the buzz of voices. Someone's knocking on my door. Don't open, Clyde said. You stay right where you are. Storm's getting bad. I barely made it back. Ain't no way no sane person is running around out there at this hour. You sure it's someone knocking? The older woman asked. It's not just a branch. I'm sure the man repeated. They did the tap, tap, tap thing.

Just making sure you heard me, Cloud repeated. You don't open that door. I hear you. A storm can easily play tricks on you. If you listen long enough, you can start hearing things. It's like watching static on a TV. After a while, you start imagining one side gaining strength or conscience movement. The same goes for a storm.

It can almost seem alive. Cleo woke up for a little while. I made sure she was fed and cared for, giving Molly some well-earned rest. Baby in hand, I wandered back and forth. Listening. There were these little creeks and cracks everywhere. The bulge in the wall, the metal door, the roof tiles. Anything could be a knock.

Or hide a careful step. What had happened to the old man down the street? Had Clyde really walked in on the aftermath of a murder? Cleo wasn't happy about being carried, so I turned to get her back to her mother. As I walked past the stairs leading up to the cellar door, I stopped. Looking up, I perked my ears. Was that a knock? Strange things were being talked about on the walkie-talkie.

Someone else had heard a knock. The old woman wasn't sure. She might have heard one too. And most recently, one of them stopped responding entirely. They tried to discuss the disappearance rationally, but Clyde wasn't having it. There ain't nothing wrong with my walkie-talkies, he stated. If someone ain't responding, something's wrong. He's been here all day.

I can't see why he'd go away now. Didn't he say you heard a knock two? The old woman added, that don't mean anything. The middle-aged man sighed, be prepared. I'm calling the police again, Clyde said. Soon as the weather clears, I want cars lining the street. I don't know what to think. It could be nothing.

There could be a hundred reasons why you stop responding. The button could be broken, or the battery ran out. Maybe he fell asleep or left it in the other room. But then again, why would he? It was a tense situation, and we all knew it. No one was taking this lightly. As I checked in on Molly, I noticed her mumbling in her sleep. Nothing big, but it was unusual for her.

She was a heavy sleeper. As I backed way to give her some space, I noticed a pattern of what she was saying. She wasn't just mumbling nonsense. She was talking. Come in. She mumbled. Come in.

As the hours passed, there were less voices on the walkie-talkie. A couple might have fallen asleep, but I got the feeling that there was something more to it. Clyde was having the same idea, but couldn't bring himself to go back out. It's one thing to be out in the storm. but another thing entirely to be out in the dark. I'm telling you, there's something out there, Clyde said. There were tears in the wallpaper. The kitchen doors pulled straight off the hinges.

Someone went berserk in there. I'd been quiet for some time. I didn't want to wait Cleo, but she was out cold. You sure it wasn't the storm? I asked. Yeah, yeah, Clyde responded. A storm don't break down the front. door and leave the living room, you know. I was about to respond when I heard something. I turned my head and took my thumb off the receiver. That was definitely a knock on the cellar door. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

I sat there, listening. After a couple of seconds, the knock came back. Twice this time. Harder. Then I noticed something in the other room. Molly was getting up. She held Cleo tight and walked towards the stairs. She must have heard the knocking. There was no way she'd miss it. Honey? What are you doing?

I asked. It took me a moment to realize she had her eyes closed. She was heading for the door, still mumbling to herself. Come in. I put my hand on her shirt. shoulder and saw the white in her eyes light up. She turned my way, blinking away the sleep. What are you doing? I asked again. What? She looked around, just as confused as I was. Once she realized she was on her feet, she turned back towards the mattress without a word.

Were you going upstairs, I asked. It felt like the right thing to do. What are you talking about? I'm sorry, she sighed. I'm talking. I'm talking. I'm talking. tired. Don't listen to me. The moment she sat down, the knock came back. Louder this time. Incessant. I walked up the stairs and made sure the door was locked. I could hear the wind outside, threatening to grab hold of the door and break it open. But there was another sound too. Something just on the other side. I'm not sure if it was some kind of breathing, but it was something heavy, something that didn't have the same rhythm as the storm. Then again, I could have just been listening for too long. It's like when you say a word

too many times, and it starts to sound just like a noise. Going back down, I peeked in on Molly. She was out like a light. Clyde, you there, I said? Whispering into the walkie-talkie? Yeah, what's up? There's someone out there, I said. There was a knock. Who the hell is outside in this weather? I don't know, but I don't like it. I don't know what to do.

I'd come over, but it's too risky. What do I do? Clyde came up with a couple ideas. He suggested I make sure I knew where the flashlights were in case the power cut out. I wasn't too worried about that, seeing as I had. the locker with the electric stuff in the other room presumably he also suggested keeping a low profile but only up until the point where someone is clearly trying to break in if it was a burglar making your presence known would probably scare them off i didn't tell him about molly and her

unusual behavior i didn't know what to make of it and just talking about it out loud would make me me sound paranoid. Maybe storms make people behave strangely. They say crime goes up during full moons. Who's to say sleepwalking doesn't go up during storms? It's you thereafter and not your things. Be prepared, Clyde said. They'll try to trick you. They'll probably pull the power or do something else to grab your attention. Don't fall for it. Grab my attention. Like what? The most moment I said it, a new noise cut through the wind. My car alarm. I asked Clyde if he could see it from his house.

Turns out he could. My car was in the driveway. Flipped over. No other car on our street had flipped over. I could hear the wind scraping against the walkie-talkie as he called back to me. It's on his side, he gasped. Driver's side. The storm wasn't strong enough to do that, but then again, neither was a person.

You see anyone? Anyone at all? It's hard to tell. There's just this big clothesline. Closeline? Yeah, there are these gray metal pole sticking out. I think it's... There was a short pause. We didn't have a closed line. That's what our upcoming laundry room was for. Clyde's voice came back. Never mind. Must have been debris. It's gone. I can't see shit.

Over the next hour, things started getting weird. I heard glass shatter upstairs and what sounded like someone climbing in through a window. There were footsteps and the sound of furniture falling over. Someone slammed a door. Molly and Cleo slept through the whole thing.

I wanted to wait. her, but just to make sure she was prepared, but something didn't seem right. She wasn't herself. None of this was normal. I was trying to hear Clyde, but I could barely make out what he was saying. I had to hold the walkie-talkie up to my ear as the noises grew louder. He was telling me to keep quiet, to listen, and to wait. If they were ransacking the house, they most probably probably wouldn't be looking for me or my family. Hopefully it was just some opportunist trying to make a quick buck. Then the power cut out.

Molly, I whispered. She didn't answer. I fumbled from my flashlight as I held down the button on the walkie-talkie. Power outage, I said. Is it just me or did you? Nope, it's just you. Clyde interrupted. You know where the breaker is?

Yeah, it's right here. I'm in the cellar. There was a pause. I turned my flashlight to the big locker. No, it ain't it, Clyde said. It's near the back door. You sure? Our houses are built the same.

The breaker is by the back door. I would have to go upstairs if I wanted to turn the power back on. That made sense. I'd mixed up the breaker room with some kind of storage locker. I'd imagine hearing all kinds of weird electrical noises coming from it, but that's just the kind of tricks the storm plays on you. I figured I might check it anyway just to be sure. I placed my hand on the locker as I did another knock.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, and echo from the cellar door. Right upstairs. The wind suddenly intensified as a gust rush, down the stairs. Hurrying out to see what was going on, I realized the cellar door was wide open. Sweeping the rooms with my flashlight, I couldn't see Molly. I called out to her and Cleo, but there was no response. I checked every corner to make sure, but there was no doubt about it.

She was gone. My mouth went dry as I ran up the stairs. Poking my head out into the storm, I noticed a small silhouette walking. away in the distance. It was holding something. It had to be Molly. I called out to her again, but still, no response. I followed her into the storm, feeling the water rushed through my shoes. The wind almost overwhelmed me, but I managed to keep my balance by leaning into it. There was no way she could hear me. I could barely hear my own breathing. I tried to hold on to that phantom image of Molly and Cleo, but they were getting further and further away.

Now, I don't know the area that well, but I knew there was a wheat field straight ahead. There was also a storage shed. I couldn't imagine what compelled her to head that way, but it was the only structure out there. In the moments where I lost sight of her, I headed for the shed. That would get me a glimpse of her again, and again, making me think that's where she's My feet were going numb from the cold, and my teeth kept chattering. I didn't know if it was just the cold or the stress. I couldn't think straight.

There was no world where Molly would take our daughter into a raging storm. The walkie-talkie crackled and complained. I crossed a knee-high fence swaying in the wind, raindrops peltering the left side of my face, as I saw the shed further down a trail. And right next to it, Molly. I hurried up to the shed, dashing through the wheat, letting it soak straight through me. I got to the door, slammed it open, and hurried inside.

Molly was right there, curled up on the floor right next to boxes of farming equipment and old iron tools. She was sleeping soundly, and Cleo was too. They were both soaked right through. But neither seemed bothered. I got down on my knees and wrapped them up in a hug, trying to whisper through my panting breaths. What were you thinking? Molly didn't wake up.

She just adjusted herself. Sound asleep. Muttering. Mother's no. The door swung wide open. I must not have closed it enough. Something snagged on it and the wind grabbed hold. I looked back at Molly, but she didn't seem bothered.

Turning around, I could have sworn I heard something through the rush of the wind. The windows were shaking in their frames, and the wheat swayed back and forth, but there was something else. Something rhythmic. Footsteps? There was movement in the corner of my eye. Someone outside the window. I got up, grabbed a spade from one of the shelves, and readied myself. My blood ran cold as my teeth kept chattering.

The adrenaline was getting to me. My fingers cramped around the handle of the spade. Another thump. Something was on top of the shed. I saw a hand. A big gray hand. It reached down from the roof, down the front of the shed. I could see it open the door.

The arm was impossibly long and single-jointed, thin, like a broom handle. I couldn't take my eyes off it. Slowly but surely, it grabbed a hold of the door and gently closed it with a firm click. Seconds later, it climbed down. As it did, I heard Molly stir. She mumbled again. Thank you. A noise in response. A knock. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. I sat next to Molly and Cleo for hours as the storm died down. We spent the entire night in that shed. It wasn't as bad idea to take shelter there. This thing had been built to last. If something can survive 40 to 50 years of bad weather without toppling over, it has to be doing something right. Clyde's voice came through somewhere around 4 a.m.

The police were coming. They just had to clear the roads. Apparently, there had been other people calling about disturbances. Home invasions. No one seemed to be hurt, though. They were all accounted for. The middle-aged grumpy guy and old lady included. When Molly finally woke up, she seemed just as confused as I was,

As the wind died down, she looked up at me with half-closed eyes. I had the strangest dream, she yawned. Where are we? Going back to the house, I got a clear view of the damage. Something had torn through our back door and ransacked our house, just like Clyde described. Molly didn't want to go inside. Thinking it probably wasn't safe for Cleo to be around a bunch of broken foot. furniture and glass, so she decided to wait in the car.

Turns out, she hadn't heard the part about it being flipped on the side. She settled on waiting at Clyde's place for the time being. Meanwhile, I went into the storm cellar to check the extent of the damage and to get Cleo's things. But just a couple of steps down the stairs, I noticed something. Blood. Turning on my flashlight, I went downstairs, being careful not to touch the red trail. At the bottom of the stairs, it took a sharp turn to the right.

It led straight to the storage locker. The one I thought had been the breaker box. There was a dead man in it. When I say dead man, I don't know for certain. The body was completely destroyed. destroyed. A couple of limbs lay strewn across the floor, and most of the skin around the face have been peeled back like a ripe orange. And there, by what I guess had once been, his feet, was a gun. A loaded gun. I could barely see it for all of the viscera. I ran out of there as fast as I

could. When I saw the squad cars, I pointed and screamed. When I got to Molly, I held her close and stroked her hair, more so to calm myself than anything else. She was safe. Cleo was safe. That's all I cared about. As I held her close and watched the flashing lights descend on her house, she whispered to me. I dreamt there was someone coming to warn us, she said. Someone who lived with an old man and was terribly, terribly sad. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to tell her what I'd seen. Not yet. There'd be plenty of time to look into it later, but for now, I just held her. The future could wait a little longer. In the days that followed, a lot of details emerged. The old man Klein went to check on had been found shot. It's

seemed to be a failed home invasion. The perpetrator had fled, as if chased by something. He had hidden in our basement. He must have slipped in while I was going up and down, moving Cleo's things. Bad timing, I suppose. He probably just saw an open door and rushed inside. He must have been desperate. He'd hidden in the storage locker, waiting for the night to pass. He'd been a couple of feet away all night With a loaded weapon Ready to take me down If I so much as touched the handle

Of that locker He probably would have done it too He had plenty of ammo to spare And he was known to be a decent shot But there was something else Something I can't quite explain There had been something out in the storm something he was fleeing from,

something that had come to warn us, knocking on that door, trying to find a way to get to us. It had been looking for him all down the street, tearing through every house to find him, even flipping a car, like he was checking under a carpet. Not to hurt us,

not to tear us apart, but to stop him. And for one reason, or another, Molly heard that warning. I suppose in some ways mothers just know. The strangest detail is his death, though. Despite all the horrificness of it, the man in our storm cellar didn't die from having his arms torn off. He died from S-word.

Now that Cleo has turned 12, we've decided. to leave that house. The storm cellar looks very different today than it did all those years ago. The storage locker is gone, and the laundry room is all set up. The wall is fixed, haven't had a problem with it for a long time. Whoever buys the place will have a very different first impression of it. Clyde is still around. Our old neighborhood is pretty close knit, and I'm sad to leave them all behind.

But sometimes, you have to turn. trust your gut, even when it tells you to move, or more importantly, when it tells you to walk into the storm. Cleo is almost a teenager now. It's impossible that she would ever remember something from that night, but I still get the impression that it left something with her. Whenever she knocks on a door, she uses that same pattern. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. and sometimes, in her sleep. I hear mumbling things like her mother did that night. Just little things.

I'm okay. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow. Looking back, there are so many things that scare me about that night. The thought of losing my family. An armed man waiting for an opportunity. A long gray arm. opening a door.

And what it did to a man, it despised. I found a video rental store in a small town. What was on the tape shattered my family, written by Alias Tommy Steel. I've always wanted to make this trip. My whole life, Seattle, has been home, and I never ventured far before now. A coast-to-coast road trip with my husband and children

had been a fantasy of mine since I first started dating the man decades ago. It slowly became clear over the years that, despite his promises, the trip would never be happening. At 50, I'm finally on the road. But I never wanted to be like this. Not under these circumstances. I am alone. It's only happening now because my son is dead.

After the divorce, my children were, in my mind, old enough to choose where they wanted to live. John, my oldest, chose to stay with me. My daughter, Bree, went with my ex-husband. I tried my best to maintain a relationship with her, but she never seemed interested. God only knows what my ex was telling her about me. Growing up, John was my world. I seldom dated after leaving his father. I just never had the time. As I worked, two or three jobs while raising him, it was worth it, though.

John knew about my dream trip. He brought it up several times along his journey to becoming a man. You'll get your trip one day, Ma, he'd say, even if I have to take you myself. His funeral was the worst day of my life. My ex-husband and daughter were there, and a piece of me hoped I would have at least some support from them. But it wasn't to be.

The glare my ex gave me said everything, even though he didn't speak the words. It's all your fault. I couldn't even bring myself to speak at the podium after that. My daughter gave a eulogy instead. Through sobs, she lamented her rocky relationship with John, and how much she regretted her role in them not being close. She even went as far to tell everyone that he had been her inspiration to become a paramedic.

John had never married, so I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he had appointed me the executor of his estate. It was then I learned he had listed me as the beneficiary of a million-dollar life insurance policy. I didn't give a shit about the money, or really much of anything. I spent a lot of time watching videos of my son on my phone. Every time I pressed play, I wish the house fire hadn't destroyed the old tapes from when our family was together. I would have given anything to see those again. It was at this low point, I knew it was time for that road trip.

It started off normally enough. I made the usual tourist stops as well as many off the beaten path, discovered through years. of research. It wasn't until the Midwest that the problems started. I won't name the state just in case. I'd been driving long enough to not remember what time I had started that day. The sun had long since set when my low fuel warning pinged from the dashboard. The timing was perfect, as I could barely keep my eyes open. I pulled off at the first exit I saw that listed a gas station and slowly followed an empty road for miles towards a promised town.

Jonestown. Seeing the name made my spine shiver, but a glance at the gas gauge decided the matter for me. After several uncomfortable miles, the lights of a gas station appeared along the main road into town. As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed the absence of a credit card reader. While I did not want to enter the small building before me as a woman alone at night, the 32 Tomcat pistol in my purse gave me enough nerve to go inside to buy fuel. Though outdated, the inside was surprisingly well maintained.

I went straight up to the counter where a young man in a camo hat stood, looking thoroughly uninterested. Hi, I said, forcing to smile. Can I get some gas on the pump out there? The man stared at me without a word, though I held my smile. I felt the hairs on my neck standing up. I could have sworn the lights inside dimmed slightly when he began pushing buttons on the register. How much?

He asked in a monotone voice. Fifty, I said, sliding cash onto the counter. Keep what's left, if there is any. Without breaking his gaze to so much as glance at the bill, the man slowly reached for it. For a moment, the image of him snatching my arm and pulling me over the counter flashed across my mind. But he simply opened the drawer and placed the bill inside. Anything else? No, sir.

That's it. Thank you. I said before speedwalking back to my car. Though I kept my head down, I could feel his eyes on me as I pumped. I considered making a break for the highway. But my eyelids began to flutter once more, once back inside my car. I could see the town ahead and decided it wouldn't hurt to at least see if the motel seemed safe. As I made my way down the main street, every building was dark except for the motel.

It was an unassuming rectangular building with two floors. Most of the windows were dark, but the few rooms with lights on were somewhat reassuring. I sat in my car for a moment. The engine still running. Nothing seemed unusual as I scanned the parking lot. It seemed safe enough to walk inside. I grabbed my backpack, stepped out of my car, and paused for a moment. I couldn't help but think of how much safer I would feel if John had been with me.

When I walked towards the entrance, I looked back towards the street. To my surprise, the closest building was lit. I guess I'd been too tired to notice it before. The neon sign out front read True Video. A video rental store still open in 2026? Wow. Guess the towns are you. a little behind, I thought.

The motel manager greeted me as I stepped inside the front entrance. To my immense relief, she seemed to be a perfectly normal lady, roughly my own age. Now much more at ease, I opted to rent a room, and she gave me a physical iron key. Room 211 was exactly what you might expect. Old, small, with decorna updated. since 1970. What paint that was visible in spots above, the dreadful floral wallpaper, was a weathered yellow. A queen bed sat against the back wall, facing a dresser with a TV on it.

I set my backpack on the bed before turning back towards the TV. It had been years since I had seen an old tube television, and right next to it, an honest-to-god VCR. My mind went straight to 1999, when John was little. Once a week, I would take him to the blockbuster, and we would choose a film for a family movie night. I thought back to True Video across the street. The nostalgia was too enticing. I made my way out into the cool night air. The hum of the neon sign soon broke the silence of the empty street as I approached True Video.

A bell on the door dinged as I stepped inside, but nobody approached the empty counter. I paid little attention, instead focusing on finding the family movie section. After a brief search, I held in my hands a copy of my son's favorite childhood film. All dogs go to heaven. I stared at the tape as I stood at the counter, lost in my memories. Anything else for you tonight, ma'am? Came a familiar voice. My eyes snapped upboard to see the same young man from the gas station

smiling at me from behind the counter. I felt a chill, raised throughout my body. I couldn't respond. While the young man's clothes and demeanor were entirely different, it was definitely him. This time, however, I noticed a small circular scar on the side of his neck. as well as a name tag, Michael. My silence seemingly didn't affect the man,

as he held his warm smile for several silent seconds. I regained control of my body and shook my head vigorously. All right then, he beamed. Your total is 537. Quickly, and with a shaking hand, I pulled a five and a one from my purse and dropped it on the counter, ignoring his outstretched hand. The man simply scooped the bills off the counter as if I hadn't been so rude,

and handed me my change. Thank you for your business, ma'am. Michael said cheerfully, have a wonderful evening. I hurriedly left without a word, tape in hand. I didn't stop until I was safely locked back inside of my room, now wide awake. it probably took half an hour to calm down, but eventually I reasoned to myself that the men must be brothers, or maybe even cousins.

It made sense with the limited employment options in a town this small. That had to be it. While still on edge, I was finally relaxed enough to push the tape into the VCR and settle myself in the bed. Of course, I was crying within the first five minutes of the film. It was like being brought back in time without my son there waiting for me. I cried harder as I thought of his heart attack. He wasn't even 30 yet.

The coroner said that it had been quick, but John had still died alone in the dark. In an hour into the film, I had run out of tears. In a way, the brutal experience had made me feel closer to my baby boy. It had been worth it. I closed my eyes, ready to drift off as the movie played in the background, when I heard it. Static. I guess that's why we got away from the tapes, I thought.

But before I could even open my eyes, I heard my ex-husband's voice from the TV speakers. He's beautiful. Good job, Grace. I'd know that moment anywhere. Sure enough, when my eyes snapped back. Back to the TV, there was the home video my husband had taken when John was born. The image of me holding our son in my hospital bed came into focus. Every fuzzy pixel matched the old tapes I'd lost in the fire.

As I watched myself beam on the screen, the video again cut to static. After a moment came a video shot on the day we first brought John home. My ex gave a tour of the house on camera, proudly showing off the nursery we had built and decorated together. The screen cut again. My cheeks were soaked in tears. I was entirely transfixed. It hadn't even entered my mind how impossible this was.

John's first Christmas. My dearly departed parents beamed as John happily beat the hellfire out of the toy they had gifted him. I saw the pride and joy on my own face. The video ended just as I remembered it, with John shitting himself loudly in his high chair. My parents' laughter was broken by another wall of static. John's first birthday played next.

Then his first words. Well, we recorded those later in the day when he did it a second time. A video I had taken of him racing through the house and his father's cowboy boots came next. Then the day his sister, Briano was born. Three-year-old John grinned ear to ear as he held his little sister. The scene played out just as I remembered, but there was one difference. And that difference became a recurring theme. Whenever my daughter's face looked directly at the camera,

the entire screen wavered and slid out of focus for a moment before returning to normal. Every video I had ever taken of the kids played in order. Every single one. Their dance party at ages 6 and 3. Their first bike rides. The silly moments. Each of their milestones. The blog I filmed for 7-year-old John.

Wherein he rambled about how the Easter Bunny must be a trained killer. I remembered how hard it was to keep a straight face during that. I moved to the edge of the bed. leaning forward as the next film started. I knew this was the final tape, but I didn't want it to end. In the video, my children were playing pirates. My son was sword-fighting my daughter,

and despite being a full head taller, he had been letting her get strikes in against him. John had clearly intended to lose, throwing an exaggerated lunge and leaving himself wide open, holding that pose to give Bree a chance of strike. She saw the opportunity and stabbed him in the chest with her foam sword. John died in the most over-the-top way he could,

falling dramatically to the ground and announcing his defeat. Bree straddled him and paused. I thought she was making sure he was dead, or maybe even legitimately concerned. Then she brought her sword down on his face in a rage, over and over shrieking die, die, die, die. The video ends abruptly then. As I shut the camera off to separate my kids and explain to breed that there was no need to be so violent.

The screen went black. I stared into it, barely holding myself together. This impossible, one-way conversation with the past had drained my soul. I tensed to stand up. But then the screen began a new video. One I had taken on my phone. John's 16th birthday. He sat with a scow as I sang happy birthday to him with his friends.

I grimaced. The moment was key for me. But John had gotten a lot of flack for that video on social media. I was brought back to the moment I came to regret posting it. The screen flickered again. this time the video wasn't one i recognized in it my teenage kids were arguing he held a sandwich bag of something i couldn't quite discern and a look of utter disappointment answer me he said what is this where did you get it screw you my daughter shouted you're not our dad give that back sis this stuff can get you arrested i don't care it's my life not yours i don't answer to you i'll tell me mom, if you don't tell me where you got it right now. Go ahead, Bree shouted.

I don't give a fuck what mom thinks. Dad won't believe either one of you anyway. At this, John winced. The camera zoomed in on his face. He looked helpless. I just don't want you to lose everything, he said quietly. I'm not gonna, you idiot, she screamed. You think I've ever done this stuff before?

I'm gonna party if I want, and you can fucking deal with it. before I could acknowledge the frozen brick that had fallen into my gut, the video changed again. It was the home I shared with John after the divorce. The shot came from somewhere across the street. The house was dark, and nothing seemed amiss. Then an orange glow appeared in one corner of the house. The fire.

And worse, a figure passed by the flames, fleeing the scene. My heart nearly fell out of my body. The fire department had suspected arson, but no concrete evidence had emerged in the investigation. At the time, my ex-husband and I had been in legal battles to increase my visitation with my daughter. Once John had told me about the drugs, I tried to get more involved in her life. My ex fought me every step of the way. The police immediately questioned him, but told me his alibi had been rock solid. I was numb, but I didn't have time to dwell on the revelation as the next video began.

John's high school graduation walk. A happy memory out of place for this time, but one I had filmed myself. His father had chosen not to attend, but his sister had. Then the final video appeared before me. John sported the same new haircut as he had the year he died. My two kids were sipping vodka at John's kitchen table. Things have been strained between them for at least a decade. But my daughter had grown up quite a lot after she moved away from my ex and his influence.

It was nice to see them getting along. The two were playing a card game, with the loser having to take a sip from their glass every round. My daughter pounded down the last drops and excused herself to refill her glass. The camera followed her to the counter, with her back to John. She filled her glass from a water bottle. The frame stopped with a smirk on her face as she did so. I assumed she was proud of cheating in their contest.

The screen glitched again. And there was John. My son was sprawled on the floor, drooling over himself and giggling profusely. Hey, sis, he swirled from the ground. I'm so glad he came over. I miss drinking with you. My daughter's face wavered on the screen again.

No thank you, bro, she said, slowly reaching into her bag, before kneeling down beside her big brother. You've done your part perfectly. Part, he said. Oh, I'm an actor now. The camera suddenly shifted to my daughter's point of view. Sure, she said, glancing down at the syringe in her hand. A real A-lister.

John grinned, his head flopping onto his shoulder. I'd like to thank the Academy for, he started, but the alcohol had taken its toll. My heart thundered as I watched Bree take the cap off the syringe. I've got you, bro, she said soothingly. Just sleep. I watched helplessly as whatever she gave him took effect. I saw my son cough. convulse, froth at the mouth, and die.

Reaching out to his sister for help the entire time. That bitch will get the money. Re-whispered after John stopped moving, I'm sure of it, but I'll figure something out. The screen abruptly went black. The VCR ejected the tape. Tears flowed freely as I came to terms with the horrors I'd just seen. I sobbed in the darkness of my hotel room for several minutes. I snatched the tape from the VCR and sprinted out of the room.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes shot across the street to True Video. The storefront was entirely dark. I didn't care if they were closed. I would be getting my answers. I stormed up to the building, but stopped dead when I drew close. The windows were shattered and boarded up from the inside. The neon sign was broken and clung to charred brick by a single rusty bolt, ready to give way at any moment.

When I tried the front door, it was unlocked. When I stepped inside the store, I found it completely destroyed. Half the inventory was long gone. What remained was caked in dust and ash. My eyes fell to the counter. I had stood at hours earlier. On it, a small television flickered to life. Michael came into focus on the screen.

Get her messages, he said. She never deleted them. She had helped get in the drugs. Her boyfriend also knows she set the fire and will break under pressure. Good luck. When he finished, the TV went dark. I don't know how long I stared at it.

It might have been minutes, maybe even hours. When I finally regained my senses, I went straight to the only local I could speak to. Bursting through the motel entrance, I stomped up to the counter and threw the tape down on it. What the fuck is going on in this town? I shouted at the manager. Where did that freak at true video get this? The manager turned ghost white, but said nothing. Answer me.

She took a deep breath. What did he see on the tape? She asked in a voice barely above a whisper. I saw my daughter, I said, as my voice cracked. I saw her murder her brother. Did Michael give that to you? Yes, I said, raising my broken voice once again. And what the hell was he doing at the gas station earlier?

I want to know what sick game that bastard is playing. I want to know right fucking now. Please don't talk about my sons like that. The manager interrupted quietly. She sighed. Daniel and Michael are my twin boys, she said. Daniel works at the gas station and Michael. Michael worked at True Video.

He was killed in a robbery two years ago. He was shot before they burned the store down. She paused for a moment. I recognized her pain. One grieving mother to another. They caught the killers, thanks to the security cameras. But last year, another traveler said he rented a video from that store. He said it showed the murder of his sister.

She looked at me. The tape will be blank now, she said. But Michael was never one to lie. Please leave. Get justice for your son. And with that, she turned her back to me. No amount of screaming made her turn around again. So I went home.

Drove all through the night and all day until I made it home. I found the information I needed. I got the man to talk. The guilt-ridden coward fessed up quick. My daughter was arrested and charged with John's murder. Last month, the jury convicted her and sentenced her to life in prison without parole. That same day, a VHS tape appeared on my doorstep. With shaking hands, I pressed play.

My son appeared on the screen. He said nothing, but he didn't have to. He smiled gently and waved once before the video. went black. My VCR word and opened to eject the tape, though nothing came out, but I got the message. My grandfather froze to death on the kitchen floor in the middle of the summer, and I'm the only person who knows what happened. Written by, something goes here too. My grandfather froze a death on the kitchen floor in the middle of the summer, and I'm the only person who knows what happened.

My mom found him early on the morning of July 15th, stretched out between the refrigerator and the breakfast table like he'd been reaching for something. His skin was blue-white, ice crystal still clinging to his eyelashes when mom screamed from the doorway. The thermometer on the kitchen wall read 82 degrees. I'm Theo. 17. Part-time sandwich artist at Subway. Full-time disappointment to my parents' college fund expectations.

Normal kid from a normal Midwestern stock. The kind who knows the difference between a blizzard watch and a blizzard warning. Who can drive in snow before I can parallel park. I play JV basketball badly and work the closing shift three nights a week. Biking home past empty storefronts and gas stations at close at 10. Nothing about my life prepared me for finding my grandfather's body that morning. Or for understanding what had it happened. My grandpa, Isaac, had lived with us for four years.

Ever since grandma died and dad decided the old man should have be rattling around their farmhouse alone. Grandpa was 74. With arthritis in his hands and a habit of falling asleep in his recliner with a TV remote balance on his chest. He'd worked 20 years managing the local IGA before retiring. Knew everyone in town, remembered their kids' names, and which checkout girls gave the best customer service.

He was practical, steady, unremarkable in every way that mattered. He was also dead in our kitchen. Ice cold in 80-degree weather. The coroner, Dr. Willettus, spent 45 minutes examining the body. He took photographs, checked the thermostat, questioned mom and dad about grandpa's health, his medications, whether he'd seemed confused or disoriented lately. He measured the room temperature three times with different. thermostats, frowning at readings that made no sense.

Hypothermia, he announced finally, signing papers with the kind of confidence that comes from three decades of determining cause of death. Severe hypothermia due to unknown environmental factors, possibly a neurological episode affecting temperature regulation. Dad asked the obvious question. How does someone freeze to death when it's 80 degrees outside. Dr. Willettis adjusted his glasses

and delivered the answer that would satisfy the insurance company. The death certificate. And everyone except me. Sometimes, the body's regulatory system fails catastrophically. Medication interactions, undiagnosed conditions,

stroke affecting the hypothermus, the body can literally lose the ability to maintain core temperature. Mom mentioned the frost she'd seen around the body, but Dr. Willett has dismissed it as condensation from the air conditioning. I didn't correct them, even though our AC had been off for three days. The funeral was on Thursday. Half the town showed up.

Finally passed the casket to pay respects to a man who'd bagged their groceries and remembered their faces for two decades. They spoke about his kindness. His reliability, how he'd given their teenagers first jobs and second chances. None of them knew about the temperature of his skin when they found him, or the thin layer of frost that had formed around his body like he'd been lying there in January instead of July. None of them had seen what I saw when I came downstairs that morning, when Mom's screaming brought me and Dad running.

I saw my grandfather's final expression. Frozen on his face in the moment death took him. He wore no peaceful look like most people would imagine. His eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling, and his mouth was open like he'd been trying to say something important. He looked terrified. Strange things started happening two months ago. May 28th in Minnesota.

means tornado watches and sudden thunderstorms. The kind of weather that keeps you checking the sky every few minutes. It doesn't mean finding patches of kitchen floor so cold they make your feet ache through wool socks. But that's exactly what I found that Tuesday morning after Memorial Day. A circle of tile near the sink that felt like stepping on January pavement. Mom blamed the air conditioning. Even though we hadn't turned it on yet. Dad checked the basement for broken pipes, crawling around with a flashlight, and muttering about

foundation settling. The cold spot vanished by Thursday, but another one appeared in the hallway upstairs, then another in the living room by the weekend. Old houses settled, Dad said when I mentioned it, foundation shifts creates drafts you wouldn't expect. Our house was built in 1987. It wasn't exactly old by anyone's standard. Dad liked cheap explanations that didn't require calling repair service. I pressed my palm against the frigid patch of living room carpet, watching my breath form small clouds in the 70-degree air. When I called Mama over to feel it,

her hand passed through the cold like it wasn't there. Feels normal to me, honey, she said, giving me that concerned look parents get when they think you're coming down with something. But I could see the frost forming on the carpet fibers where my breath hit them. The winter winds started a week later. I'd be watching TV or doing homework and suddenly smell snow in the air, that sharp, clean scent that comes before a blizzard.

The smell would drift through rooms like invisible smoke, caring whispers I could almost understand. Once I followed the scent upstairs to Grandpa's room where he was sitting on his bed looking at old photo albums His face pale and distracted You smell that I asked him He looked up from a picture of him and grandma at some company picnic His hands were shaking as he closed the album

Smell what Like snow Like winter It's May Theo but his voice cracked when he said it. And I noticed he was wearing a sweater despite the warm afternoon. The whispers came with the wind that smelled like snow.

Voices so quiet I couldn't be sure I was actually hearing them. Sometimes they seemed to be calling a name. Sometimes just murmuring like people having a conversation in another room. I turned my head to catch the words, but they'd fade into nothing. leaving me wondering if I'd imagined them entirely. But Grandpa heard them too. I'd find him sitting in the chair at midnight, eyes wide open,

responding to things the rest of the family couldn't detect. I'm sorry. He'd whispered to the empty room. I know you're cold. I know. When I asked him who he was talking to, he'd look at me with the desperate, expression of a drowning man.

You can hear them too, can't you, Theo? His voice barely above a whisper. The voices in the wind. I nodded. And something between relief and terror cross his face. Then you know she's coming. The shivering started in June.

I'd wake up at three in the morning, teeth chattering, pulling my covers tight around me. The room would feel normal to everyone else, maybe even warm, but my body acted like I'd been sleeping outside. When I mentioned it to mom, she immediately started checking for fever and asking about my appetite. Growing boys need more calories, she said,

adding extra bacon to my breakfast. Your metabolism's probably just running high. She couldn't see the frost forming on my bedroom windows while the thermostat read 75 degrees. Grandpa started acting strange around the same time, but this was different from the whispers. This was paranoia. He began looking over his shoulder when we watched TV together,

checking the locks on doors that nobody ever used. During dinner, he'd paused mid-sentence and listened to sounds the rest of us couldn't hear. His fork halfway to his mouth. eyes darting toward the kitchen doorway. Nothing there. He'd mutter when I followed his gaze. Just tired.

But tired people don't spend 20 minutes staring at the same photograph. And they don't whisper apologies to themselves while they think no one's listening. I started finding them with those photo albums more often. Usually the ones from his working years at the IGA. He'd flipped through pages slow. His finger tracing faces I didn't recognize. His lips moving in silent conversation.

One afternoon in late June, I found him in the kitchen at 2 in the morning, still in his pajamas, staring at the spot where his body would be found three weeks later. The linolium around his bare feet was covered in frost that sparkled under the overhead light. Grandpa? He turned towards me, but his eyes took a moment to focus, like he was seeing me from across a great distance. When he exhaled, his breath formed a small cloud between us. She's coming, he said quietly.

She's been walking through the snow for 27 years, and now she's almost here. Who's coming? I should have stopped. I should have helped her. His voice was barely audible. But she was so cruel, Theo. So very, very cruel.

I asked him what he meant, who he was talking about. But he just shook his head and shuffled back to his room, leaving wet footprints on the kitchen floor that steamed in the warm air. Everything came together the night I saw her. It was July 4th, just past midnight. Fireworks have been going off all evening. Late celebrations from people who'd brought too many bottle rockets and didn't want to waste them. I was lying in bed, listening to the occasional pop and crackle from somewhere across town,

when the temperature in my room dropped 20 degrees in the span of a heartbeat. I sat up, pulling my sheet around me, and saw her floating three feet above the top. the hallway carpet. She was translucent, like looking through ice. But I could make out her basic shape, a woman in what might have been a winter coat,

her hair hanging in frozen strands around her face. Snow clung to her shoulders and sleeves, never melting, never falling. She moved without walking, drifting down the hall toward Grandpa's room with the deliberate purpose of someone who knew exactly where she was going. I couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but watch as she passed by my doorway, leaving a trail of frost on the walls where she'd been. The air around her shimmered with cold, and I could hear the sound winter makes. That particular silence that comes with heavy snow, broken only by the soft whisper of ice crystals, warming. She turned her head toward me as she passed, and for just a moment, I saw her face

clearly. Her eyes were the color of winter sky, pale and empty and cold enough to freeze blood. Her mouth was open in an expression that might have been speaking, but no sound came out. Just that patient, terrible silence. When she reached Grandpa's door, she didn't open it. She simply passed through the wood like it was made of mist. I stayed in bed until morning, wrapped in every blanket I owned, listening to the one-sided conversation that drifted through the walls, grandpa's voice apologizing over and over to someone who answered only with the sound of wind through bare trees. By the time the sun came up, the temperature had to return to normal.

But I found a single perfect snow. snowflake on my windowsill, refusing to melt despite the July heat. I knew then that my grandfather was going to die, and that I was the only one who would understand why. My grandfather told me the worst thing he'd ever done. It was July 13th, two days before we found him dead on the kitchen floor. He'd spent the morning pacing between his bedroom in the kitchen, muttering under his breath and checking door locks that were already secure.

The house felt like a meat locker, despite the air conditioning being off. But only my grandpa and I seemed to notice. By afternoon, he looked like a man who hadn't slept in weeks. Theo, he said. Finding me in the garage where I was fixing a flat tire on my bike, I need to tell you something about Mary. I never heard of mention anyone named Mary before, but something in his voice made me set down my wrench and pay attention.

He looked older than his 74 years. His shoulders bent forward like he was carrying something impossibly heavy. When he breathed, small puffs of vapor exhaled through lips despite the stifling heat. I worked at the IGA for 20 years, he began. Settling on to Dad's workbench with careful movements. Made some good friends there. Jimmy and Produce. Alice in customer service.

Bill, who ran the meat counter. He paused. His hands working against each other in his lap. And then there was Mary. The temperature in the garage dropped 10 degrees. when he said her name. She worked in the office, bookkeeping,

scheduling, handling complaints, but they're longer than anyone, maybe 15 years when I started. Everyone called her mean Mary behind her back, though never where she could hear it. His voice got quieter, more distant,

like he was seeing something I couldn't. Mary had a talent for finding people's weaknesses and pressing on them until they broke. New employees, part-timers who couldn't afford to quit, anyone she thought was beneath her. But what she did to Tommy was the day I knew she was something beyond cruel, beyond human maybe.

The Tuesday she destroyed Tommy was like watching a predator hunt. Tommy worked maintenance, had some kind of mental problem that made him talk slowly and repeat himself sometimes. Sweet kid, maybe 25. Lived with his mother and needed the job more than anything. A customer complained about water on the floor near produce. Standard stuff happens every day.

Grandpa's breath came out in visible puffs now, and Frost began forming on the workbench where his hands rested. Mary saw her chance. She called Tommy over to the customer service counter where everyone could see, employees, shoppers, kids waiting for their mothers, started interrogating him about his careless mopping, making her voice loud enough for the whole front end to hear. I can see the scene playing out in his eyes,

27 years of guilt etched in the lines around them. Then she started imitating his speech, made her voice slow and halting like this, stumbling over words the way he did when he got nervous. Tommy sorry Tommy try harder She kept getting louder Drawing more people over to watch this grown man

Being humiliated like a child The frost was spreading now Crawling up the garage walls And delicate patterns that caught the afternoon light Tommy just stood there Holding his mop Tears streaming down his face He didn't understand why everyone was

laughing. Mary wasn't done. She told the customer, loud enough for everyone to hear that Tommy was mentally deficient and that the store kept him out on charity. She said maybe they should find someone more capable to clean up after normal people. Grandpa's voice broke completely. The customer looked horrified, tried to say it wasn't that big of a deal, just a wet floor. but Mary kept going, called Tommy a burden on decent society, and said his mother should be ashamed for inflicting him on normal people. Tommy collapsed right there, sobbing so hard that he couldn't breathe. He never came back.

Found out later his mother had taken him to the emergency room that night because he wouldn't stop shaking. The doctor said it was a panic attack, but I knew better. Mary had broken something inside him that never got fixed. That was the kind of person Mary was, Grandpa whispered. Someone who could destroy an innocent man for entertainment and sleep soundly that night.

I asked him why he was telling me this. What Mary had to do with the cold spots and whispers that followed us through the house, his hands stopped moving. When he looked at me, His eyes were wet and desperate because I'm the reason she's dead. The story came out slowly, like he was pulling each word from somewhere deep and painful. February 14, 1998, seven years before I was born.

A blizzard had moved in faster than predicted, dropping 19 inches of snow in six hours, and creating white-out conditions across three counties. Store management made the call to close early. Two in the afternoon instead of nine at night. Everyone was anxious to get home before the roads became completely impassable. Mary had left first, as she always did. She lived alone in a rented house on the other side of town and drove an old Buick that wasn't reliable in the best conditions,

let alone in the blizzard. Grandpa had stayed another hour, helping to secure the store and making sure all the coolers and freezers were properly sealed in case they lost power. By the time he left, the snow was falling so hard he could barely see his truck in the parking lot. I took County Road 47, he said. It was faster. And your grandmother was waiting with dinner. I'd driven that road a thousand times. His voice got quieter, forcing me to lean closer to hear.

I saw her headlights first, flashing on and off, on and off, like someone signaling for help. The Bewick was nose first in a snowbank, maybe 15 yards off the road. As he got closer, he could see Mary standing beside her car, waving her arms frantically. Even though the snow and wind, he could tell she was in trouble. I pulled over, he said. sat there with my engine running, looking at her through my windshield. She was walking toward me,

stumbling through knee-deep snow. The garage was freezing now, cold enough that I could see my own breath mixing with his in the space between us. I thought about Tommy crying while everyone laughed, about the way she'd called him deficient, a burden. I thought about the kind of person

who could destroy someone like Tommy and sleep soundly that night. His hands were shaking now. From the cold or emotions, I couldn't tell. She reached my truck, started pounding on the passenger window with her fists, screaming something I couldn't hear over the wind. Her face was pressed against the glass, and I could see the terror in her eyes. She knew she was going to die out there if no one helped her.

He paused. His breath coming in short, sharp puffs that crystallized in the air. I put the truck and drive and kept going. The words hung between us like icicles. She ran after me for maybe 20 yards, waving and screaming. I watched her in my rearview mirror until the snow swallowed her up. Then I drove home and told your grandmother, I had taken the main route because it was safer.

They didn't find Mary's body until March. When the snow finally melted enough for a farmer to spot something that didn't belong in his field, she'd made it almost a mile from her car before the colt took her, found frozen in a drainage ditch with her arms wrapped around herself, still wearing that same winter coat I'd seen floating through her hallway. I killed her, Grandpa whispered, and I've been living with that for 27 years. The frost had covered every surface in the garage now,

turning our breath into clouds and making the metal tools ring like bells when the expanding ice shifted them. She's been walking through that blizzard ever since, he said, walking through the snow and the cold, getting closer every year, and now she's found me. I asked him why he was telling me this now.

after keeping it secret for so long. He looked toward the house, where shadows were beginning to gather in the windows as evening approached. Because she's here, Theo. She's been in my room every night for a week, standing at the foot of my bed, dripping snow melt on the carpet. She doesn't say anything,

just watches me with those frozen eyes. His voice dropped to almost nothing. And I think you're the only one who can see her too. The air conditioner stayed off for the last two days of my grandfather's life. After his confession in the garage, he became obsessed with heat. Every time someone turned on the AC to combat the mid-80s weather, he shut it off within minutes. His hands shaking.

as he adjusted the thermostat. Can't stand the cold air, he'd mutter. Pulling on another sweater despite the sweltering house. When dad complained about the temperature, Grandpa begged. Just keep it off, he pleaded, please. The whispers were constant now, where before I'd barely been able to make out voices on the wind,

now I could hear words clearly. Left me. So cold. They drifted through the house, house like smoke, always in Mary's voice, though I'd never heard her speak when she was alive. Mom and dad noticed grandpa's behavior, but attributed it to grief or maybe early dementia. They scheduled a doctor's appointment for the following week and talked in hushed voices about assisted living facilities and medication adjustments.

They couldn't see the frost forming on windows despite the 80-degree indoor temperature. They couldn't see the way their breath became visible whenever they stood too close to grandpa's usual spots. When I pressed Mom's hand against a wall covered in ice, her fingers passed through it like it wasn't there. Don't you feel that? I asked desperately. Feel what, honey?

She looked at me with growing a concern. Are you feeling all right? But I could see the frost spreading under her touch, could feel the supernatural cold seeping through my clothes and into my bones. On July 14th, the day before he died, Grandpa stopped sleeping entirely. I found him in the living room at 2 in the morning, fully dressed, staring at the front door. The house was stifling without air conditioning. But his breath formed steady clouds when he spoke.

She's getting closer, he said without looking at me. Where is she? Right there. He pointed toward the empty hallway. Can't you see her? She's standing by the stairs. Just watching. I looked where he was pointing and saw nothing but shadows,

but the temperature in that spot had to be below freezing because frost was forming on the wall in the shape of a woman. What is she doing? Nothing. Just looking at me. But I can feel the cold coming off her. Like standing next to an open freezer.

And her eyes. He shuddered. Her eyes are like looking into a January sky. We sat together until dawn. I held his frail, cold hand, listening to him whispering apologies to the empty air, while I watched frost patterns spread across surfaces that should have been warm. When the sun came up, he seemed to relax slightly, but I knew the relief was temporary.

That evening, our houses felt like an oven. The air conditioner sat silent while the July heat pushed the indoor temperature well into the 90s. Every fan in the house ran at full speed, but they couldn't compete with the supernatural winter that followed my grandfather from room to room. The whisper started earlier than usual, just after sunset. This time, they weren't random phrases, but something more focused, more demanding.

I couldn't make out all the words, but Grandpa could. He sat in his chair, no longer pretending he couldn't hear her. I know. He said to the empty room. room, his voice steady for the first time in days. I remember leaving you there.

A pause. As if he were listening to something I couldn't quite catch. Yes, you called my name. You begged me to help. Another pause. Longer this time. The frost was spreading faster now. Covering the walls around his chair in intricate ice patterns.

I'm sorry. His voice cracked. I'm so sorry, Mary. But you have to understand what you did to those people. The temperature plummeted. My breath came out in thick clouds. And ice began forming on the inside of windows. No, Grandpa said.

Shaking his head. Sorry isn't enough. I know that now. The conversation continued for hours. Grandpa responded to accusations I could only partially. here, accepting blame for a decision that had haunted him for 27 years. Sometimes I caught fragments of her voice on the wind, left me to die, so cold. Near midnight, his voice changed, became resigned. Yes, you were alone. You died because

of me and that was cruel. Maybe as cruel as anything you ever did. I deserve this, but please leave my family alone. They don't know what I did. He said with a tired, dejected voice.

By one in the morning, the house felt like a walk-in freezer. Ice covered every surface I could see, turning our home into a winter landscape. The whispers had stopped. replaced by something worse, the sound of someone breathing slowly in the darkness, each exhalation bringing more cold. Theo, he said, with all the warmth and affection he could muster, go to bed.

You can't help me, I'm ready. I'm tired, and this is nothing you or anyone should ever have to see. I went to bed knowing I'd never see my grandfather alive again, but unable to do anything except watch it happen. Mary had finally gotten her revenge, and she'd made sure my grandfather experienced every moment of the cold that killed her. The only difference was that she'd died alone in a field, while he died surrounded by the warmth of the warmth of the cold.

a family who loved him. It wasn't mercy. It was just a different kind of cruelty. Three weeks later, I sent my college applications exclusively to schools in Florida and Arizona. Some things are too cold to forget, and I never want to feel winter again. The frost disappeared from our house the day we buried grandpa, but sometimes, on the colder nights, I still hear whispers in the wind. They're fainter now, more distant,

like someone calling from very far away. I think Mary is walking again, looking for the next person who left someone to die in the cold. Growing up, my grandparents had one rule. Don't look in Pappy's private room. Written by Horror Junkie 1,2, 3. When I was 16, I was sent to live with my grandparents for a month.

I hadn't been there in years, but I had a strained relationship with my parents, and they thought a visit to the middle of nowhere would somehow ease the tension between us. Really, I think they just wanted to get away from me. Whatever the case is, that trip to the countryside changed my life forever, in worse ways than I ever imagined. Bye, sweetie, behave, my mother said, waving out the window as her SUV kicked up a trail of dust. Try to contain your excitement a little. Geez, I mumbled. Turning to my smiling grandparents.

Oh, Stephen, we are so happy that you're staying with us. Grandma said, beaming at me. Her warmth was infectious. Pappy didn't say anything at first. He just clasped a meaty hand onto my shoulder. She's right. We don't get many visitors. I grinned at him.

Even though internally, I was screaming. Happy to be here. I replied, praying that my facade would hold. Come on, grandma said, ushering me inside. I'll show you to your room. The moment my grandmother left me alone, I whipped down my cell phone. To my horror, I discovered that I had no service. My grandparents were old school. They didn't have Wi-Fi. Every teenager's worst nightmare. Hey, Pap, I said as I clopped down the stairs, he glanced up at me from his

crossword, indicating for me to speak. My grandfather wasn't the most social man. He had a a stern, no-nonsense demeanor, and he had the build to match the intimidating aura. A little part of me was always a bit afraid of him. Suddenly, my question felt absurdly stupid. Um, do you have the internet out here? He eyed me for a moment, before nodding to a dinosaur of a monitor. That's all we got. No internet connection to it, though.

my heart dropped. I had a feeling that it was going to be a long summer. Two days later, I found myself exploring the basement. It was the least inviting part of the house. Poorly lit with cobwebs everywhere and a thick layer of dust coated everything in sight.

Probably not the safest place to be, but I was bored with nothing better to do. As I pulled the switch, the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling, something immediately drew my attention. A door. A single wooden door at the far end of the basement. To my surprise, there was a note nailed to it.

Stay out. Pappy. It was obviously intended for me. The message immediately spiked my curiosity. I made my way over to it. tiptoeing across the dirt floor. It felt like I was doing something illegal, like I was about to take a leap that I couldn't take back,

and that feeling was exhilarating. Once I reached my destination, my heart pounded in my throat. I took a deep breath as I reached for the knob. A boost of adrenaline surged through me as I twisted and locked. I should have known. I turned to leave and cause mischief elsewhere.

The excitement of the situation deflated. The second I did, I stopped in my tracks. Someone was blocking my path. The color drained from my face as I realized who it was. My grandfather. What are you doing down here? It wasn't a question. I was just looking around, I said, flashing him a weak smile.

Pappy glowered down at me. His hulking frame looming overhead like a shadow. He stood there in silence for a moment before he spoke. Get out. I don't want to see you down here again. Yes, sir. He didn't have to tell me twice. I swerved around him and bolted back up the stairs.

His burning scowl following me the entire way. I had to know what was behind that door. Pappy was obviously hiding something that he didn't want me to see. I couldn't go back down there so soon after being caught. No, I definitely couldn't take that risk. I decided to wait until he was out at the store to make my move. Little did I know an opportunity would present itself sooner than I expected. That same night, I awoke at the odd hour with the sudden urge to pee.

I grogly slipped out of the bed, did my business, and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Once I was satisfied, I crept back to my room, careful not to wake Pappy and Grandma, and that's when I heard it. I just reached the top of the landing, when a low rustling emerged from somewhere deeper in the house. I don't know why I didn't go back to bed. But for whatever reason, I sat on my haunches at the top of the landing, invisible in the darkness. Footsteps clunked along the floor, and the shadow of my grandfather's towering frame came into view. He paused in the kitchen, as if he could sense my presence. For a moment, I thought he'd caught me.

But to my relief, he eventually continued on. his path. My brows furrowed. What was he doing down here? Being the nosy teenager I was, I had to find out. My heart dropped when I heard a door creak open. The basement. He must have been going into his secret room. I descended the stairs as quietly as I could, blood pounding in my ears like thunder. When I reached the bottom, my eyes immediately fell to the the opened basement door. I scampered down the second set of steps, careful to avoid any noisy floorboards. I froze halfway and watched. Pappy was standing there on the opposite side of the room. He rummaged around behind an old dusty painting resting against the wall, before producing a rusted

key. He inserted it into the lock, and the space was illuminated with light. At that moment, my heart nearly exploded. I didn't know for certain, but I could have sworn that I saw crimson splattered on the floor. Curiosity nodded at me like a barana. I had to know what was in that room. I knew where Pappy was hiding the key, but I was too paranoid to check at night. He'd gotten the drop on me the last time. I didn't want to find out what would happen if he caught me again.

As much as it pained me to do it, I went along with my original plan. I waited until Pappy went to the store to make my move. Going to get milk. Be back soon. He grumbled to Grandma as he snatched his keys from the hook. Okay, be safe, she said. Returning to the pie that she was preparing in the kitchen.

That was my golden operation. I put down the newspaper that I've been reading and opened the door to the basement as quietly as I could. My heart pounded with every tiny creek. Fortunately for me, Grandma's hearing wasn't the best, and she didn't pick up on anything out of the ordinary. I practically flew down the stairs. I was itching to know what was inside that room. I leaned the painting forward and retrieved the key. Turning to the door, the sign that Pappy had made was still there, looming over me like a century.

My hand trembled as I placed the key in the lock and turned. This was it. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness. dried blood caked the floor. A metal work table sat to my right with a wide array of tools. Pliers, hacksaws, hammers, their blades crusted in flaky crimson. At the far end of the room, I saw a cork board. Dozens of newspaper articles and pictures of missing people were pinned to it.

and to my left, that was what made me nearly pass out then and there. A yellowed dingy mattress sat in the corner. On top of it lay a corpse. Maggots writhing in and out of every emaciated orifice, its eyes were wide open and its mouth had stiffened into a permanent scream. I took a step back as the putrid stench assaulted. my nose, but just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, a sound from behind me made me freeze. Click.

I slowly turned around to find my grandfather standing there. A six-shooter trained on me. Pappy, I thought you were at the store. I squeaked. My voice weak and brittle. Forgot my wallet. He scowled to me. delivering the most hateful glare that I have ever seen in my life.

He sighed, breaking the silence permeating between us. You've seen too much, boy. I didn't want it to come to this, but you've left me with no choice. Bang. A deafening gunshot ripped through the air. For a moment, I didn't feel a thing. The adrenaline surging through my system made sure of that. But when I looked down, I came to the sickening realization that my arm was blossoming with red.

Arnold, what was that? Grandma shouted from upstairs. Nothing. Ignore it. To my shock, she didn't reply. How much did she know? Your grandmother's going to be very upset when she finds out. Pappy said, pointing the gun to me again and cocking the hammer. but she'll get over it eventually. I didn't give him the satisfaction. I couldn't. My fight or flight response kicked in just at the right time.

I bolted forward. The sound of the bullet whizzing past my temple, ringing in my ear as I went. I shoved my grandfather, and he stumbled, dropping the gun. I didn't stop. I leapt up the stairs, darted into the foyer, and swiped Pappy's spare set of keys from the hook. I heard his pounding footsteps pursuing me as I made a mad dash force truck.

Get back here! The sound of his voice, booming from the depths of the basement, only made me run faster. I crashed outside. Unlocked the truck. And threw myself in the driver's seat. Pappy appeared in the doorway as I threw the vehicle into drive. Crash. I instinctively ducked my head.

head as the left side mirror shattered. Pappy didn't try to shoot me again. He stood there. As I floored it down the dirt road and far away from that house, I kept driving until I reached the nearest town. Fortunately, the bullet had only grazed me, so I wasn't in need of immediate medical attention. The police investigated my grandparents' house. What they found haunts me to this day. The bodies of my grandparents were recovered from the home. After a thorough investigation, my grandfather's crimes were made public. Aside from my papy and my grandmother, he was linked to the disappearances of 13 people. And it's thought that he could have had more victims.

I had to attend therapy for years afterward just to feel normal again. Now, all this time later, I'm just thankful that I made it out that house alive. Three Days in the Dark, written by Saturday. When I was eight years old, my brother Elliot went missing. He was just 13 years old, but older siblings have this aspirational quality to them. He just didn't come home one day. They looked for days but couldn't find any trace of him. I was too young to understand what was going on.

So I had to sit in my room and play with my Legos, hoping there'd be a knock on the door telling me that things would be okay. There never was that kind of knock. They didn't find him. As days turned to weeks, the search party stopped. But even after everyone went home, I was still out looking for him I'd take the long road home from school

I'd go down paths I hadn't checked I had a crumbled up map in my pocket with circles around places that I knew we liked and I was hell-bent on checking them all people don't just disappear it doesn't work like that but after a while there were no places left to check

no circles left to draw and Elliot was still gone. Last thing he said to me was, later, Gator. I don't think you ever truly come to terms with something like that. Once you've run into an impossible question, you look for answers and everything.

I got really into puzzles and brain teasers, not because it was fun, but because leaving unsolved mysteries could give me this immense sense of dread. I was a great student and one of the top contenders in the debate club. Again, not because I enjoyed it, but because I hated not knowing. When I got a little older, I started volunteering for search and rescue parties.

I had made myself known with local law enforcement and informed them that I gladly volunteer. I figured if I couldn't find Elliot, perhaps finding someone else's missing brother or sister, was the second best thing. At the very least, it could help me sleep at night. I know there's a lot of people saying, get over it, but you can only get over it so much. I'm in my early 30s now. You can forget their face in the hopes you had growing up.

But you can't forget the impact they had on you. You can't forget your own lived experience. And the damage those years of uncertainty have left. Even if I never were to hear the name Elliot again, I can never forget the feeling of having the trajectory of my life take a sudden left turn. I'd like to talk about a search party. I signed up for a couple of years back. At that time, I'd been a part of dozens of organized searches. I knew some of the people involved, and I was familiar with the gear. I got there early. Taking some time off work.

I put on the high visibility vest, the gloves, and got the backpack. Radio, water, flashlight, a couple of chocolate bars. A first aid kit in a waterproof bag. Now, I never found someone on a search like that. But that didn't mean I never would. You must believe in the best case scenario. We weren't handed a GPS, which surprised me. Turns out we were going underground.

so we were handed these filtration masks to protect us from harmful dust in dead air. The missing person was a 17-year-old urban explorer. I live in a city with a metro system, and he'd been exploring an abandoned station on the outskirts of town. The family had been notified of a social media post pointing at the approximate location, but the details were sketchy. To help with the search, power had been restored to this part of the tunnel. Most of the emergency lights were meant to last for years, so there shouldn't be too much of a problem getting around. We were assigned into sections and teams.

We were instructed to only follow lit up corridors and hallways. However, as parts of the station had been abandoned mid-construction, there would be dark sections that were unfinished. If we found such an area, we were ordered to call it in and ask for further. instructions. And with that, we were off. I was a bit miffed about not getting to see the abandoned station platform. That thing was supposed to be huge. Instead, I was assigned to one of the maintenance tunnels. It was originally meant to be house heating pipes, but the pipes were never added. Instead, there were these lines across the wall and the occasional holes in the ceiling. You could tell they must have been surprised about the project shutting down. I found a whole toolbox abandoned by a half-mounted

door. There was some personal items still in it. I was in a team of four people. We went down the hall slowly and methodically, calling out to the missing person as we went. We stuck to our side of the search and kept in radio contact with the organizer. It was hard to see what all the spaces were supposed to be, as we'd occasionally come across entire rooms with little to nothing in them. It made it hard to explain what we'd checked, as we couldn't accurately describe what was what. Was this supposed to be a control room or some kind of plumbing junction? Where on the map exactly was this supposed to be? We came to an unusually long corridor that split off in three directions.

While staying with an earshot, we decided to split up. I got all the way to the end of the hallway, where I stopped by a heavy door. The thing was almost solid black and as heavy as cast iron. I got the impression that it was some kind of security door, maybe leading to an underground bomb shelter. I called out to the others in my team, but didn't get a response. I called it in on the radio as I wrestled with the door. It was pitch black inside. The lights were running.

out. I'm looking at the dark room at the end of the hallway. See, I think? The one on the right, second right, past the boilers. Just stay within radio contact and leave the door open. The operator responded, don't go so far you can't see the light. Got it. I entered the room. The room was a little smaller than the hallway, tickling the top of my head when I stood upright. If I balanced on my toes, I could feel the strap from the mask touched the ceiling. I tried to figure out what the space was meant for, but I couldn't make sense of it. There was only one entry point,

and there were no holes in the wall for cable management or ventilation. This was completely isolated. I tapped the radio again, swaying my flashlight back and forth. There's a corridor going deeper, I said. Is someone watching my back? Yeah, there's someone right outside. the operator assured me, you go on ahead.

I took a couple of steps further, shining my flashlight down the hall. The light couldn't reach the end of it. It was such a long tunnel that it triggered my sense of vertigo. Like for a split second, it was sucking me in. I had this uncomfortable thought that maybe this was the feeling of going missing, facing this endless darkness you can't come back from.

Maybe Elliot had thought the same thing once. I didn't like it. I was only a couple of feet from the door, but I decided I wouldn't take any chances. I turned to leave. And as I did, the door swung shut. At first, I didn't register what happened. A door closing isn't a big deal.

It might be misaligned or there could be a breeze. this wasn't the case here. This door was solid metal. It wouldn't accidentally close on its own. I grabbed the handle and twisted and pulled, but it wouldn't budge. I couldn't even push it down. I'm stuck.

I radioed in. The door closed. I can't get it open. Sorry about that. It happens. The operator sighed. Some of the hinges on these things are rusted shun. Stay by the door. Someone will go get you. Keep your flashlight on.

I stayed by the door for at least 20 minutes, knocking on it occasionally just to see if anyone would knock back. They didn't. After a while, my flashlight flickered. It was far too soon for the batteries to die. Okay, I'm going dark here, I said. Someone needs to get me out now. They're having trouble finding your door. operator responded, far end of the right side hall. Section C past the boiler. That's what you said? That's right. There's no door here. There's an open door frame in something that looks like a closet, but no door. That's impossible. Look, you might have the wrong order. If you went past the boilers, you could be in section C or D. There are parallel corridors. In that case, You can just follow the right-hand wall until you get to the other side. There's another search party already there.

Right-hand wall. Other corridor. Got it. I followed their instructions, grasping the dying flashlight. As I got to the seemingly endless tunnel, the light finally gave out. It was pitch black. I could close my eyes, and nothing would change. Being in that kind of darkness is so disorienting.

You start to imagine how easy it is to get turned around, to the point where you're wondering if you really are turned around. But I kept my hand on the wall and stuck to the right. Is it far? I asked. I can't hear them. It's a bit of a walk. There should be some functioning pipes running overhead about halfway though, so let me know as soon as you hear running.

running water. I couldn't hear anything but my own breathing, reverberating down the hall. But if there was running water down there, I wouldn't miss it for the world. I kept my hand on the smooth concrete wall and continued a step at a time. You have to go slow, as even the slightest shift in elevation can send you crashing face first into the ground. When you're exposed to that kind of prolonged darkness, your head kind of fills in the blanks. You start to imagine what the space around you looks like. It plays tricks on you.

For example, I started thinking I was running my hand across wallpaper instead of concrete. It was smooth enough that while walking, you might trick yourself. But if you're just using your fingerprints to see the world, you can imagine yourself in all kinds of places. My childhood home had a rough paper-textured wallpaper. It didn't take a huge leap of imagination to pretend I was back there. Sneaking up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I ended up taking my gloves off just to get a better idea of what I was touching.

I got to a fork in the road and still hadn't heard any running water. I pulled up the radio and called it in. There's a split here, I said. Should I stay right or go straight ahead? A split, the operator called back. There shouldn't be a split. Are you sure? Yeah, there's a split straight ahead or another right.

Wait, the voice mumbled back. Wait, wait, wait, don't tell me. Is the ceiling really low? Yes. Why didn't you say so? Oh, man. This changes things. I could hear them talking to someone in the background, forgetting to take their hands off the button. Then they returned to me. This is going to get complicated. Turns out there were three other rooms with the same description as mine,

and neither of them were in the sections I described. I must have veered. off course. I had to walk around to gather data points to identify which of the rooms I was in, but it proved more difficult than they'd imagined. For example, one of the corridors was supposed to lead to a junction, and another would lead to a ceiling grate. However, the room at the end of the corridor was incomplete, meaning we couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. I had to go deeper to figure out where I was. I would occasionally run into ladders, but they led nowhere.

There were supposed to be entrances from the street, but these had long since been filled and paved. I still had to climb each one just to make sure they hadn't missed one. The mask on my face felt more and more oppressive, like my body was packed into a box. Despite being able to move my arms around, I could feel this claustrophobic stone building in my chest, hammering a countertune to my increasing heartbeat.

If I listened to it too much, I couldn't breathe. I pushed myself down another corridor, only to stop at a dead end. There was a round hole in the wall, just big enough for someone my size. That's good, that's good. the operator assured me that means there's space for heating if my calculations are correct that means you are in one of these two hallways i need you to go inside no way it's going to tilt downward for about five feet and either go straight ahead or upward if it goes upward

you can go straight to the top i can have someone meet you right then and there if it goes forward you have to go ahead then take a left and then forward again. That puts you in the same corridor as me. Either way, you have to push through. I put one knee up and trace the edges of the hole. It was too small for me to crawl on all fours. I had to put my torso in and drag myself forward with the palm of my hands. The concrete was so smooth, I couldn't get a grip with my fingers, gloves or no gloves.

My gear kept getting snagged on the edges. I stopped to have a drink of water and splash a little on my face, psychinged myself up. Five feet, then up, or forward. That was it. I crawled in, inches at a time. I had to stay calm. If I tried to take a deep breath,

I could feel my gear pushing against the walls. It didn't hurt, but it was this constant reminder. of how isolated I was. My heart was beating through my ears with nothing to distract from it. There wasn't the slightest hint of an echo. I felt the tunnel tilt slightly downward. Not much, but enough that pushing myself back up would be impossible. If I went ahead, I wouldn't be getting back up.

Not unless I got space to turn around. You sure it's just a couple of feet, I asked. You absolutely sure? There are only two rooms with that kind of vent. No matter which one you're in or which direction you're coming from, you'll be out shortly. I swallowed. I can feel these sweat stinging my eyes. I wanted to throw my mask away, like that was the thing keeping me back, but I had to stay rational.

I pushed myself forward and slid downward. The tunnel evened out. I felt around for an upward exit but couldn't find one. That meant we'd isolated exactly where I was and I had to push forward. My palms were so dusty that I could barely get a grip. I had to resort to rolling onto my back and use the rubber soles on my shoes for traction, effectively kicking myself backward. I could feel the heat of my breath gathering along the tunnel wall.

Then the tunnel opened. It was so sudden that I lost my balance, half-hazardly falling out head first. I did an awkward flip, landing hard on my left hip and shoulder. It wasn't a long fall, but enough for something to get sprayed. I didn't want to imagine what the bruise might look like. I grabbed my radio and held on to it for dear life. I'm out, I groaned. I made it to the room.

There's only one way forward. The operator said, go forward, then a left, and forward again. Once you see the light, let me know, I'm right at the other end.

That's it? That's really it? There's no other possible way. I got up, dusted myself off, and checked my gear. It was all there. Things would be okay.

I followed the instructions. I went forward and took a left. At the next fork, I went straight ahead, double-checking with the operator every step of the way. They assured me it was just around the corner. A matter of minutes, at most. At one point, he said he was banging a wrench on a pipe, and that I would be able to hear it any minute now. Now I just had to go straight until I came to a door. I was jogging, keeping my hand on the wall for balance.

There were these small gaps in the wall every 10 feet or so where there was supposed to be space for pipes. I'd walk, feel the gap, walk, feel the gap, over and over. Then I dragged my hand across someone's face. Open eyes, a nose, teeth, and hair. I stopped and turned around my hand shaking like I touched a flame

Is anyone there? I asked There was no answer I debated within my own head Trying to figure out if I should head back and check again Or keep going Maybe it was the missing person We were still out there looking for someone

After all The search hadn't been called off. I took a couple of steps back and carefully reached out with my right hand. My fingers were anticipating the touch of skin to the point where I could imagine their heat. But as I reached further, all I felt was concrete. There was no one there. I checked thoroughly, but there was nothing. I did hear a little metallic. sound, though, as something stuck to my shoe. A small key. It had some kind of etched motif, like a sunflower, maybe a blue one. I put it in my pocket with my first aid kit and kept going,

making sure I hadn't been turned around. As I got to the end of the hallway, I reached for the door. All right, this is it, I said, I can't hear you, but I'm at the end of the hall. There's a door there. Just open it and I'll have someone come to meet you. I fumbled around looking for a handle, but couldn't find one. I checked that wall three times. Every inch of it.

It was a dead end. There's nothing here, I gasped. There's nothing here. Calm down. It should be on your left. There's nothing on my left. Nothing on my right. It's a dead end.

It's a goddamn. I smacked my head with the radio and heard a click. Not as in something breaking, but something clicking into place. I turned the radio over in my hand. Feeling around the back. The battery cover had been slightly off. That hit had put it back in place. I opened the cover just to make sure I closed it correctly.

There were no batteries in the radio. I double and triple checked. there were no batteries. Hello, I asked, operator? I held the radio up to my lips, clicking the receiver a couple of times. There was no sound, just the clack of plastic. Hello?

There was no response. I collapsed against the wall, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. It didn't make sense. The battery cover had been closed even when I smacked my head with the radio. I would have heard two batteries tumbling to the floor. I couldn't have lost them earlier,

as then the operator couldn't have talked to me in the corridor. Something wasn't adding up. I swept my hands across the floor, checking to see if the batteries were there somewhere. They weren't. But I couldn't just sit in the dark and wait either. I had to do something. Try something.

This was another puzzle to figure out. out. There is always a solution, and sometimes you just have to make the best of the hand you're dealt. By this time, I'd drawn a mental map. All these years of figuring things out had conditioned me to collect and preserve information. It was like recounting the alphabet backwards. I just had to follow a learned sequence. I decided I was going to backtrack and try to find my way back to where I started. I made my way back to the hole in the wall and climbed inside. The upward tilt would be difficult, but I was confident that I could make it. I crawled, holding my hands out, only to feel the tunnel dip downward. I stopped dead in my tracks, my mind spinning.

This was impossible. I'd been crawling down. It couldn't possibly lead Further down, I crawled a little further, reaching with a full arm. This couldn't have been where I came from. Were there two separate tunnels? That was the only explanation. I pushed myself all the way back out and couldn't find a second hole in the wall. I figured I must have been turned around somewhere, taking a wrong turn. Went straight instead of right at a split or something like that.

I had to slowly and methodically map out my surroundings, one room and hallway at a time. It's easy to second guess yourself in the dark. You have nothing to rely on but your thoughts and impressions, and those are easy to misunderstand. It can be challenging even in a familiar environment. Ask anyone who's had to go to the bathroom during a power outage. I was somewhere deep underground in an unmapped area without light or direction. I must have wandered for hours. I mapped out two branching corridors leading to three rooms and four dead ends.

There were no doors and only one hole in the wall leading to a tunnel. And yes, I checked it again. It kept going downward. No, I didn't proceed that way. I ended up in one of the smaller rooms, rolling up my high visibility vest into a pillow. I drank some water, but saved some for later, and chowed down on a chocolate bar. The others were probably looking for me by now. I tried not to think about the radio.

That was a piece of the puzzle that made my stomach roll. No matter how I twisted and turned that thought, I couldn't get it to make sense. If it was empty all along, that was the problem. If it wasn't empty until that last click of the battery cover, there had to be batteries on the floor. I couldn't find any, but that didn't mean there weren't any. And yet, I didn't have a clear answer. I ended up spending the night down there.

It's difficult to sleep in that kind of darkness. After a while, you don't know if your eyes are open or close. You don't know if you're sleeping or not. The barrier between imagination and reality is paper thin. And you start thinking about whatever you dream about is really there. There could be someone in the room, just inches away, and I would have no way to know for sure. It was the first time in many years that I thought about Elliot. it. Not just the reality of him going missing, but him as a person. I imagined what he might

have felt like during those last few hours or days. Had there been someone with him or had he faded away in the dark? He and I had always been very similar. Chances are, we would think the same thing in the final moments. And if this was one of my final moments, I was scared. He would be too. I try not to think about it. There was no way to know for sure. And imagining the worst wasn't helping anyone. He could have run away, eloped with a pretty girl,

and lived in some hippie coop. He might resurface in 20 years. You can't tell the future. But somehow, a part of me felt like it knew. It knew he'd gone someplace dark. where he would never come back. Maybe it was the next day or just a couple hours, but at some point I got up.

I decided I was going to check the tunnel again. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding. I'd drunk my last gulp of water and followed the map in my mind. The layout was different. There were more rooms and shorter corridors. If he took two lefts, there were a couple of states, There was a larger room with a rounded floor for draining liquid. I would go down the same hallway twice and I could swear it was different lengths.

I would count my steps and end up with the same result. But one would take a minute to pass and the next it would take two. I felt like I was losing my mind. Every time I tried to make clear sense of that place, it seemed to shift and change, like it wasn't finished in more ways than one, like an approximation of space and dimension. After my third pass around the same rooms, and still not making any sense of it,

I took a break. I was leaning back, tapping the back of my head against the wall, as if trying to dislodge a good idea. Instead, I picked up the radio, clicking the receiver, and turning the dials. Now it was just a plan.

plastic brick. No better than a paperweight. I checked the back. Unlatching the battery cover. Still empty. Then a noise. There's a way out, you know. The crackling voice came from the radio.

But there was something about it that resonated with me. Like the reverb was tickling the back of my mind. You're not real, I mumbled. I'm hallucinating. Are you sure? It's like a sensory deprivation tank. If your senses stop getting input, your brain starts firing random signals

just to keep them occupied. Otherwise, it sort of atrophies. So I'm just a random brain signal? I would suppose so. Interesting, the voice continued. So that means whatever I say is an expression of yourself. No. It's a random noise.

You might as well be a cat's meow or a leaf in the wind. But what do I sound like to you? Try to categorize me. Make sense of me. Who am I? The voice was a man. Age was difficult to tell through a radio, but I was guessing they weren't a teenager or a senior, adult or middle-aged, with a slight hint of an accent similar to my own. That was a curious choice. Where's that accent from? I asked.

Wherever you want it to be from. Cute deflection. I wonder why I'm imagining you like that. Maybe you're trying to express something. Why would I care about some random person with an accent? Maybe I'm not a random person. I leaned the radio away. Close my eyes and shook my head.

Don't do that, I whispered. Don't say things like that. I wandered the dark for a bit, desperately trying to make sense of my surroundings. The number of steps on the stairs were different. The corridor turned right instead of left. The ceiling was lower, and the angle of the tilt in the floor of the big room was deeper. I thought I felt a door handle, but upon double back, I realized it was a clasp for a missing pipe. I talked out loud all that time, getting the same.

the occasional response from the radio. I knew it wasn't real. But it kept me from digesting random thoughts into something rancid. I had to stay focused on the task ahead and find a way forward. There had to be way forward. There's no such thing as an impossible space. The operator wasn't trying to get in my head or make wild claims. Most of the time, he was just listening.

Adding the occasional remark, when I made an incorrect statement or misinformed decision. And when I came back to the same room I'd already been in for the umpteenth time, tearing my own hair out with frustration, that voice came through loud and clear. Do you want a suggestion? You're not real. Then what's the harm? It doesn't make sense, I snap back.

I'm talking to a wall. Anything that comes from this is at best accidental. You have any better ideas? I flung the radio across the room, shattering it against the wall on the other side. I heard the plastic clatter and roll down the tilted floor, pooling at a small grate in the center of the room. Some of the smaller pieces trickled through.

I pushed my hands against my ears, trying to clear my thoughts. Are you done? The voice wasn't coming from the radio anymore. It was resonating through me. like my bones were picking up a radio signal. I didn't know what to say. Before I could open my mouth, it answered for me.

Then let's get going. I was out of ideas. My tongue was going dry, and my head was swimming from prolonged stress. I could feel this sense of exhaustion seeping into my bones, turning my movements slow and sloppy. I was dragging my feet. and not even touching the walls anymore.

If I stumbled or walked into something, that was on me. That was fine. The operator mentioned a few suggestions. Take a left turn instead of going forward. Stick to the right. Three steps back. Sharp left. When I could be bothered to filter out that voice from the screaming in the back of my mind,

I did as I was told. and slowly but surely I began to notice things changing. There were different rooms and the air grew denser. There was a strange smell in the air. The concrete started

to feel different, more porous. Maybe this wasn't better, but at least it was new. I started hearing strange noises. There were machines overhead. pressured air rushing just out of sight

flowing water why'd you leave me down here I asked you tricked me into this you were already tricked the voice responded I've been trying to get you out but it shifts things around you told me I could go in

and that there were people backing me up I was trying to put you at ease when I figured this out figured what out what are we doing here It wants you to go a certain way. Haven't you ever wondered why you're always so drawn to look at places you weren't exposed to? It wants you to find it. And now you're very close to doing so. And trust me, you don't want that.

Why not, I said, shrugging? Why don't I want that? Because I know what happens when you go too far, when you can't turn back. Things like this want to be found in deep, dark places. I smacked this out of my head, as if trying to get better reception in my mind. Like that would somehow filter out the nonsense. I came down another fork in the path, left and right. I turned right as the operator rolled back in my ear.

Go the other way, he said. You're getting too close. You got to turn away. I didn't listen. I kept going forward until I could hear something. There were noises ahead. Chatter. My heart raised as I rushed forward.

Please, turn around. The operator asked. Turn around right now. I could hear people talking. I turned a corner. And for the first time in days, I could see a door. I could see a door. There was a faint light coming from underneath.

And I could hear people walking around in the other room. I ran up to it and pushed down on the handle. Someone on the other side was calling out, asking if anyone was there. The key, the operator begged. I left you a key. I pushed down on the handle and stopped. Fumbling around with my right hand.

I could feel the key still in my pocket. I'd completely forgotten about it. There is a way out, but this ain't it. I promise you, this ain't it. Please don't do this. Please don't go that way. Why not, I whispered? They're right there.

It's not real. I made the same mistake. Don't go in. My hand stayed on the handle. Someone urged me to open it. Someone asked me to take a peek. They were laughing with a relief, saying how pleased they were to finally have found me,

but something didn't feel right. I stepped back. Open the door on your end. I said out loud, it's not working. There wasn't as much as a tug on the handle. They came with excuses. Someone had their handful. Someone said it didn't open from their end.

Someone pretended not to hear me. The key in my pocket felt heavier as I traced the outline of the etched sunflower with my thumb. This was real. That was a real thing. what was on the other side of that door wasn't. I stepped back, and as I did, the light behind the door vanished. The voices disappeared,

leaving the hallway suddenly, deathly quiet. What do I do, I whispered? What do I do? The operator whispered back. Go the other way. And don't stop for nothing. I turned around and ran, as a door creaked behind me.

I heard wet skin slapping against the concrete floor, stumbling forward at an awkward pace. I headed straight, then took a sharp right. The air was growing more dense, more warm. I traced my hand along the right wall,

only for it to shift. The concrete grew hot and soft, like sand from the beach. Then the grains turned fine. until it was more like a sludge. It was like dragging your hand across raw chicken. It wants you to stop, the operator said. It's trying to distract you. Keep going.

The hallway would contract and expand like a breathing entity. At times, the floor would roll as if trying to swallow me. I could feel it tilt in different angles, making the way forward, twist, and turn. One moment, I'm going forward. Next moment, the hallway tilted up. and I'm using ridges in the floor to climb a makeshift ladder. Then I'm falling on my back, holding on for dear life as I'm thrown this way and that. All the while, something at the bottom is waiting for me to drop, something that came out of that door, and who's tired of playing games.

I was soaking wet when I came to what felt like a dead end. There was this slimy substance covering the wall. but I could push against it. It felt like trying to pop a soap-drenched balloon. Using scissors from the first aid kit, I managed to cut a big enough hole for my hand to fit and rip all the way through. As I did, everything rolled again.

As something screamed in pain, not with sound, but with movement, convulsion, and heat. I could feel the compressed air press against my eardrums, making my sense of balanced shiver. There was a door at the end of the hallway. It was chained. This is it, the operator said.

Get the key. Get the key and go. It was coming down the hall. Heading straight for me. It was so fast. How could it be so fast? I reached for my key and felt around for a lock. There was one.

I slotted the key in, turned, and pulled. There was a click, and the chain rattled to the floor. As I swung the door open and dashed through, I turned around for a moment just to close it behind me. As I did, I saw something staring back at me from the dark, something with milk, white skin, and atrophied eyes, and the wild-grown maw of an invertebrate predator. The door closed and I stepped back, catching my breath. There was light here. The operator came through, but the voice was barely reaching me. I could hear scratches like interface, like I was just out of reach.

Just keep going, he said. Not far. Got it from here. What about you, I asked. Are you still in there? Went the wrong way. I paused for a moment, looking back. The light was faint, but my eyes were still adjusting.

I couldn't focus. Is that you, I asked? I mean, really you? There was a short pause as the world came into view. The operator thought about it for a moment, then sighed. Is what it is, he said. Later, Gator. I followed the sound of machinery and wandered straight out onto the platform.

Early commuters saw me wandering out of a maintenance tunnel, and I was approached by a janitor. I wasn't making any sense at that point. When law enforcement came to pick me up, I was delirious. It took them hours to identify me, and I was of little help. I'd been wandering down there for almost three full days. I was dehydrated. They had found the missing urban explorer and shifted their rescue attempt to me,

trying to figure out exactly where I'd gone off the beaten path. No one managed to find the black door that I was describing, or the corridor where it was supposed to have been. Retracing my steps seemed impossible, as nothing was the way I described it. They couldn't explain what I'd experienced. My clothes were covered in a thin layer of hydrochloric acid and potassium chloride in a mix similar to gastric acid,

like I've been walking through a massive diluted stomach. There were interviews, questionnaires, and even a short article in a local newspaper. Most wanted to talk about the fear of being lost in the dark and what it does to your mind. It lost its novelty after about a week, and I was back at work like nothing happened. I still do search and rest.

rescue out and I volunteer bases sometimes. I'm a bit more careful, sure, but you can't change what you are overnight. And yet, I think something has changed. I'm asking different questions nowadays, and I'm not sure I want an answer. I can't say for sure what I was doing during those three days, or what I experienced. But I know what I heard. I know I wasn't. alone. And in those rare moments where I think it was all some fake, made up nonsense from the back of my mind, I look into the top drawer in my nightstand. That's where I keep a small key with an etched sunflower that someone left for me in the dark. If you find a painting of your childhood home, do this before it ruins your life. Written by Sunhead Prime. That's my childhood home.

I wasn't turning down the street or grew up on. I wasn't standing near the large oak in the front yard of the house where I'd lost on my baby teeth. I wasn't sitting inside the kitchen where on my 15th birthday I accidentally dropped the cake my mom had baked, which made my family laugh so hard that we shed tears. No, I was holding an oil painting at a goodwill on the other side of the country. That can't be possible, my husband said. It can be possible, Parker, because I'm holding the flipping painting and I'm telling you. One language. Two, can I say something without you jumping down my throat?

Parker asked, his voice even. Yes, I said. is there an outside chance that this just looks like your childhood home? I mean, you grew up in the burbs. A lot of cookie cutter homes, no? I hated to admit, he had a point. But as I stared at the house, I couldn't come around to that line of thinking. This was my house.

Hell, the roses in the flower beds were the same size and color as I remembered them. No, I mean. I mean, you and you're not off base. But dude, this is my house. I pointed at the porch. I broke that railing trying to do a ballet spin and fell into the bushes. You?

Missed two left feet? Sini Rita trips a lot? Tried to do a ballet spin? To be fair, I did the spin. I just didn't stick the landing. A minor detail in the world of dance, the landing part. I landed on the bushes right there.

I said, pointed to the painting. Hold on, I have to send a photo to my mom. Does she have old house photos? Of course she does. You've met her, right? I had Parker hold the painting, and I snapped a few pictures. I sent them over to mom and asked if she had a photo to compare it to. The message came back a minute later.

Oh, gee, that's our house. Weird. Another ding brought us a house photo. It looked exactly like the artwork in my hand. I showed Parker. Christ, he said. That's it. Told you.

That's wild. Is it a print or a real painting? I ran my hand across the art. There was a palpable texture to the brushstrokes. Sometimes a print may have varnish applied to give the impression of a brushstrokes. This wasn't that. I think this is real, but let me check something else, I said, walking toward the wall of ugly lamps. I turned on a lamp and held the painting in front of the bulb.

Some artists will draw the picture first in pencil before painting. Sometimes, you can see those marks when he hold it up to the light. Staring at the oak tree in the painting, I saw graphite streaks underneath. It's real, I declared. Who painted it? A slash of red paint in the corner mimicked a signature. But Parker and I stared at it as if it were written in Manone Linear A. Parker traced the paint with his finger, forwards and backwards.

The first name may be George or Jeff. I think George. Look at how it flows. He retraced the letters and it made sense to me. Okay, so what's the last name? Hell if I know. I tried Parker's finger tracing. It felt like I was tracing a line drawing by someone with too much caffeine in their system.

These didn't seem like actual letters. It might be Moffitt. A soft voice said from behind us, we turned and saw that a Goodwill employee had materialized. She was a short, frail-looking elderly woman with a hairstyle that resembled a well-constructed cumulus cloud in both color and shape. Mofit, I said. I think that's an M, she said, pointing to two humps. Then it kind of circles into an O and the double Fs. The I and T are somewhat stylized, I think, artists being artists. I looked and, yeah, it kind of looked like Moffin. I can see it. George Moffat, you think? I do. Beautiful place, don't you?

you think? Yes, I said. It looks exactly like the house I grew up in. I showed her the photo my mom sent. How strange. Right? I grew up across the country. Why is this even here? When I was younger, there was a company that would paint your home for you. Painters, Parker Deadpanned. Ignore him, I said. He doesn't know how to act in public. She laughed. I understand. I have one just like him at home. That's why he's at home. I laughed. You're teaching and I'm taking notes, ma'am. Anyway, they would come paint portraits of your house.

It was a thing for a few years. This looks like one of those. There may be a company name on the back under the frame. I flipped the painting over and gingerly removed the frame. Sure enough, there was a small faded sticker that read Cozy Home Portraits Company. There wasn't any other. information. I made an impressed noise. Huh. Look at that. Have a jumping off point to find out what this is all about. Thank you so much. Marge. Marge, thank you. Sorry again for this guy. Marge, please forgive me.

You're a gentle woman and a scholar. Marge leaned into him and nodded at me. You're punching above your weight with her, kiddo. Keep her happy. Parker laughed. Wrapped his arm around my hip and pulled me in for a hug. Marge, that's the best advice I have received from a goodwill employee. If only your barber had given you good advice, you could have avoided that haircut. I burst out laughing. Parker did too. Marge, I hope to grow up to be just like you. You found a guy who can take a joke? That's a start. You guys want to get that or still debating. I looked at Parker, and he nodded. How can we not get this? Even if it's just for the story. March smiled. See, you can learn. Come on, kids. I'll ring you up. When I got home, I immediately

began researching the cozy home portraits company. I had a hard time finding anything. Most of the search results were links to people on Reddit asking the same questions. Apparently, there were lots of folks like me who were surprised to find their childhood homes immortalized on canvas. One commenter said something that stuck with me. Parker, listen to this, I said. Reading the post? My mom says she remembers someone approaching her and asking if they could take a photo

so they could paint the house later. She told them no at first, but they said they do it for no cost. Mom agreed and assumed she'd get the painting at some point. But she never heard from the company again. What's the next commenter say? This sounds fake, I read. Kind of a dickish response, no?

It's Reddit, he said shrugging. Maybe they just used the house for inspiration and sold the paintings to commercial houses for reproductions. Then why bother involving the homeowners at all? Maybe to assuage their worries of someone standing outside their home snapping photos of their house, Parker suggested. I mean, anyone could take a photo of a house. and I'd have no idea unless I saw them do it.

True, it's weird, I'll grant you, but I think I'm on the right track. Commercial art, Americana stuff, that was to be it. He may have been onto something, but that answer didn't feel right. I couldn't work out the logic. If this company had been around for a while and painted portraits of homes all across the country

for commercial sake, why wasn't there any record of them? No stories online, no official business records, no known CEO or lists of artists or anyone. Hell, even searching for the name George Moffitt didn't yield results. My mind told me there was something off about this. A sense of dread loomed over the whole thing.

I let it marinate all day to see if I'd reconsider. shocking to no one I didn't I told Parker as much as we got ready for bed you're reacting that way because of what's happening in the world right now Parker said yawning there are real evil people out there

and they aren't painting pictures the mustache man painted pictures I said he gave me a dead-pants stare you know what I mean I just can't let it go it's odd odd that it was done at all odd that it traveled all the way out here

odd that I found it odd stacked on odd stacked on odd turtles all the way down what I said crankling up my face what do turtles have to do with anything he laughed nothing just a dumb expression

he yawned again why is this bothering you so much some random company painted and sold pictures of my childhood house with no one knowing about it it's odd he said with a smile fairy it's just uh it's just not sitting right with me parker yawned for a third time my melatonin is kicking in here get some rest and see how you feel in the morning maybe call your mom see if she has a story to tell she might know something he didn't wait for my response instead he rolled over shut off the lamp and turned on our sound machine as digital thunderstorms rolled into our bedroom. I lay down on my pillows but didn't fall asleep. This whole thing smothered my thoughts as much as my weighted blanket did my body. I would call mom tomorrow. See what she knew.

If anything. I heard light snores coming from Parker's direction and sighed. That man could fall asleep even if that. house was on fire. I flipped on YouTube, found something to help me sleep, and closed my eyes. Or would have if I hadn't seen our front porch light turn on. A cold touched my brain and froze the rest of my body. The light going off didn't mean a prowler was trying to jimmy open or lock. It could have been a bug flying too close to the sensor or a sleepwalking squirrel. Improbable? Sure. But they were better than the alternative. I didn't want to wake Parker,

but I also wasn't keen on investigating alone. While I was debating getting out of bed, I heard a noise in the kitchen. That made the decision easy. I elbowed Parker. What, he asked. His voice, a blend of exhaustion and annoyance. Our front porch light went off, I whispered. Raccoons tripping the light, he said, Not worth waking me. I know, but I heard someone in the kitchen. His eyes zinged open. In a flash, he was on his feet and grabbed the bat we kept near the bed.

He quietly inched along the wall until he got to the bedroom doorway. He peeked out and scanned the room before turning back to me and shrugging. I pointed to the kitchen again before popping up and drawing. joining him on the wall. Parker wasn't pleased. He told me, not in words, but vigorous nods, to go back to bed and wait. I didn't.

He gave in, and we made our way out of the bedroom, me walking directly behind him like some backwards waltz. I saw nothing. That went double after Parker slammed his hand on the switch, flooding the room with light and damn near blinding me in the process. I let out a painful yelp and covered my eyes to adjust. I heard Parker sigh. We're good, he said.

Nothing in here. You got to tell me before you do that, I said. Finally checking out the room. Everything initially looked at washed out. I'm nearly blind. I wanted the element of surprise, Parker said. You achieved it, I said. All I see now are a bunch of little diamonds everywhere.

He walked into the kitchen. Your intruder is nothing more than a fallen salt shaker, he said, holding up the culprit. Oh, like I said, a raccoon probably tripped the light. I'm going back to sleep. You should too. He walked past me, patted my ass, and headed back to bed. I was about to join him when my eyes landed on the painting. I walked over to it and stared.

In the store, looking at it, had flooded my emotions with joy and happiness, but now? None of that. Unease seeped into my blood and rushed through my body. Something was different about the painting. I couldn't put my finger on what had changed, but I knew something had. It was giving me chills. I grabbed a nearby napkin and draped it over the artwork. like a corner covering a dead body.

My thinking was that if there was something supernatural about this thing, the napkin would keep it at bay. Dumb. I know, but it made sense of the time. I couldn't believe that picture. That's so wild. Mom was too chipper for this early in the morning. She always was, though,

a real rise with the early bird kind of gal. That wasn't me. I still had bedhead as I sit in my cup of coffee. Parker, another early riser, cooked breakfast. I thought so too. Someone told me a company used to go around and paint pictures of homes. They'd ask the homeowners beforehand. Any memory of that?

Not that I can remember. Back then, it was mostly your father who spoke with salesmen. I found them unseemly. I can't imagine he'd allow someone to do that. Rest his soul. Yeah, dad was pretty private. We had a neighbor who was a painter, though. Carl, no, that wasn't it.

Craig, uh, yeah, Craig. Oh, God damn, my ancient brain. Bonnie, don't get old. It's hell. I'm not trying to. It's why I do my nightly skin care routine. It's intense, Parker added with a smirk. What was his name?

It's been years since I thought of him. Craig, Morris? Something like that. He didn't live near us for long. Dad didn't like him at all. Why? Craig was the human equivalent of a popcorn kernel stuck in your teeth.

Irritating. He rubbed your father the wrong way. I don't remember Dad talking about him. He didn't around you, but with me, oh boy. Craig used to walk by the house all the time, always whistling, pop goes the weasel for some reason.

He'd stand too close when he talked to you. He'd leer at me when I was outside hanging laundry in the line. He'd never get the hint that I wanted to be left alone, even though I was always short with him, especially after he said that you were growing up nicely. Gross, I said. I was 10. Like I said, he was a weirdo.

But again, most artist types are, I suppose. Remember your uncle Walter Made those ghastly paper-mach skulls? They used to be all over his house Was like walking into some cannibals hut Whenever we'd go over there But he was good at making them Who'd want them is another thing altogether

He gave us one And I made your dad keep it in the bag in the garage Don't bring that ghoulish in my house As my mom rambled about skull shapes Like a Victorian furologist A thought came to me I looked down at the paint and traced the painter's name.

Mom, could his name have been Craig Moffat? Parker looked over at me. I nodded down at the painting and traced what I thought the letters were with my finger. He hit his forehead with the spatula and shook his head. Oh my God, yes, that was it. Craig Moffat. God, what a blast from the past. He really was a weird little freak of a man.

My mom said laughing. He used to wear these tiny little shorts, and he did not have the legs for it. looked like two toothpicks stuck in an orange. Mom droned on a little longer, but provided nothing of substance beyond Craig Moffitt's horde legs. But she'd give me some new information. The artist's real name.

As soon as I hung up, I grabbed my laptop. Craig Moffitt, not George, Craig. I see it now, Parker said. We should have never trusted Marge. Didn't like the cut of her jib. Babe, her jib was flawless, I said. turning to the painting. Her eyes, not so much.

To be fared, we all agreed it was George Moffitt. There. There's Craig Moffat. I turned the computer around and showed a web page dedicated to his art. Parker leaned down to get a closer look. His legs do look like toothpicks stuck in an orange. Rolling my eyes, I turned the laptop back to me and clicked on the man's About Me page.

It was illuminating. Craig had quite a little career. He'd worked for a few newspaper outlets, a few magazines, some ad campaigns. His stuff was good. There was a list of known works. There are a few house paintings listed here. It has to be him. Has anyone mentioned how odd this is?

Parker said with a sly smile. It's catching on. Maybe he saw your home as a happy family home and wanted to capture it for that company. Is there a contact page? There is a year. yelped. I read the page out loud. If you have questions about Craig or his work, please feel free to reach out here, I said. That's great. You can email him and ask directly. Moffitt Estate at Moffit website, I read. Shit, he's dead. That shouldn't matter. Maybe the guy

who runs the estate can answer your questions. I nodded. It was worth a shot. I started composing a message, and Parker went back to breakfast. I glanced at the artwork on the table next to me. Something about it picked at my brain. Hey, I, uh, meant to ask. Have you been watching professional wiffleball games on our YouTube? Oh yeah. I've started tuning in on games after your melatonin kicks in.

Puts me right out. Uh-huh. Are you a wiffleball fan? No, I said laughing. I just happened to come across it one night and I fell asleep like 10 minutes into a game. It's better than ocean waves. Which game was it? Um, rhinos against the.

Storks? Oh man, those two teams hate each other. Storks have won the last three series behind Dustin Braddock's nasty banana ball. I stopped speaking because I could feel Parker smug smirk on his face. I looked up and caught it with my own eyes. Not a fan. What the hell is a banana ball? Ping.

They emailed back to already. I said, What the hell? Maybe there isn't a lot going on. at the Moffitt estate. Hi, Craig Moffitt was my father. He did several pieces of local homes during that era. I would love to discuss this with you.

Can we set up a call? So there clearly isn't a lot going on at the Moffitt estate, Parker said. I'm going to say yes. I think I have to, if for no other reason than my own sanity. Go for it. I can be there for the call if you need me. so I set up a call with the estate for later that day. Hopefully there'd be some information that I could use to stop the itch in my brain.

Parker served me breakfast before we got ready to head out to the gym. You never told me what a banana ball is, he said. Placing the plane in front of me. It's a sidearm slurve, a strikeout pitch, nearly unhittable in Braddock in his own game. Parker gave me a quizzical look. I sighed. Not a fan.

After Parker had left for the gym, I went back over to the painting. It was still sitting in the last place I had left it. Still had the napkin over it. The bad vibes I felt earlier were still there. In fact, they'd grown worse. I didn't even want this thing in my house anymore. Covered or not. Despite my misgivings, I pulled the napkin off the painting and gave it a once over.

I felt my stomach gurgle, and my throat went dry. Looking at this now literally caused physical pain. It didn't make sense. Where's the front door? I suddenly asked myself out loud. The front door of the house was gone. Blacked out like an actor with perfect teeth coloring in one to look sufficiently destitute for a roll. I scraped where the door had been with my thumb.

No fresh paint. It was like it had always been that way, but... It hadn't. I checked the photo I sent to my mom to confirm. What in the? There was a creek on the basement stairs. There very much shouldn't have been a creek on the basement stairs. The basement was home to nothing but dust, Christmas decorations, and my ugly childhood

couches we didn't have the heart to throw away. Since none of those things can walk, this made no sense. I tiptoed to the knife block and pulled out a butcher knife. With my phone in my free hand, I used my nimble thumb to unlock it. I was ready to dial 911, but as I stared at my reflection in the knife blade, I questioned whether I was prepared to stick it into another person. I wouldn't know that until it came to that moment. I very much prayed that wouldn't happen.

Another creek. Near the top of the stairs now. It was getting clear. closer. I flexed the grip on the knife. I tried to control my breathing but couldn't. Turns out all that woo-woo tic-tick-tok relaxation breathing stuff was just bullshit. My heart was thumping like an angry jazz drummer's long-awaited solo. I felt sweat dripped down my neck. Something flickered on the painting. It momentarily took my eyes off the basement door. Like last night, I initially registered nothing different.

Then I noticed. Through the window of the living room, it looked like someone had turned on a light or lit a fire. Splotches of yellow and orange paint filled the window frame. The jingling of the basement door handle snapped me out of the trance. My palms were sweaty. My legs swayed like bamboo in a strong breeze. I gathered all my remaining strength and yelled out, Hey, stay away from me. I wanted to say more, but overwhelming fear shut me up. The jiggling stopped. Relief. My hectoring worked for about two seconds.

The basement door cracked open. There was a ghostly pale face staring back at me. That was when my brain firmly decided whether I was a fight or flight kind of gal. I was flight. Fuck this. I dropped the knife, which clattered on the tile like that drummer hitting the high hat and sprinted towards my front door. I yelled gibberish the entire time, tears streaming down my face and blasted out of the door. My fingers hit send on the call, and seconds later, an annoyingly even keeled 911 operator connected me with the police.

Parker returned home before the police arrived. He found me sitting inside my locked car Before he could crack a joke He got side of my face I've been crying and could feel how puffy my eyes were Concentration crossed his face I rolled the window down Get in the car

He did I explained everything to him He was astonished He was confused He grabbed my hand and held it steadily As I went over everything pausing occasionally to sob like a child with a skinned knee. When I was done, he asked why I didn't leave right away.

Who do you think you are? Rambo? I laughed. I need that. For a few seconds, I was. Then I wasn't. I wasn't even Gizmo pretending to do you be Rambo. He gave my arm a loving squeeze.

If it'll help you calm down, we can watch some pro-wifle ball tonight. I hear the rhinos are playing the turkeys. Storks, I said. But they are actually playing the habaneros tonight. Gail Foss is looking to debut his chili ball pitch. He leaned in and kissed my forehead. But you're not a fan.

I'm not. A knock on the window caused me to scream. The cops had arrived. If they were curious why we're sitting in our car, they kept it to themselves. I relayed what happened, and they said they'd go into the basement and check it out. Fifteen minutes later, they came walking out. We didn't see anyone down there, the cop said.

But, to be fair to you, your basement gave me the hebi-jeebies. Great, I said. I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but it's the truth. On the plus side, I haven't seen that love seat since I was a kid. Want it? It's better left to the past. You two have a nice day. We watched them leave.

Parker turned to me. You okay? No, and I won't be, until I go into the basement myself. What? Why? I can't explain. Something is drawing me there. It sounds crazy, I know, but I feel it in my bones.

Parker saw the determined look of my eyes. This was going to happen. Had to happen. He sighed. Want me to go in first? Yes, I said. Are you actually going to wait for me in there or fall right behind me? We both know the answer for that.

Resuming our reverse waltz, we went back into the house. Once in the kitchen, we stopped near the painting. Parker looked over and agreed that there were changes. We turned our attention to the closed basement. door. Parker put his hand on the handle. We don't have to go down there, Bonnie, he said. The cops didn't find anyone. Alive. If there's a ghost in this house, I need to know. If we know, we can remove it. How? I'm still working on that part, I said. But I need to know for certain. I won't feel safe

otherwise. I'm inclined to just say yes and move on. Something altered the painting already. Who the hell did that? One issue at a time, I said. He knew he couldn't talk his way out of this. He knew I needed this. And he loved me enough to see it through to the end. Even though he was petrified too, the skin on his arm had goosebumps as soon as we walked into the kitchen.

It felt like brailed to me now. And the only thing it said was, let's not do this. But that feeling in my brain the one drawing me down there wouldn't leave. It was stronger now that we were in the home. Something was loose in my house. I knew it in my heart.

Whatever it was, I needed to keep it from roosting to my new home. Let the ghosts live in the past. Leave my future alone. Parker gripped the handle. Sied so loudly it was heard two towns over and opened the door. The stairs led down into the dark of the basement. The floor around the landing was the only thing visible. In the abstract, it wasn't anything.

Right now, though, horrifying. Parker found the light switch, illuminating the rest of the space. So far, so good. We took our time walking down the stairs, creaking along the wooden stairs one step at a time. Maybe it had the same effect on the ghost that heard creaking steps did on me. Perhaps the phantom was hiding, holding a ghost knife and deciding

if it was going to play ghost rambo or just fearfully disappear to the walls. The houses, the painting had a basement too, I whispered. When I was a kid, I hated going down there. Any time of the day, just didn't feel natural, you know. Are you trying to get me to stop doing this? Sorry, I'm rambling, I said. I kept right on rambling, though. What bothered me wasn't so much going down there. What scared me was the trip back up. Turning your back on the dark? I used to walk backwards up the stairs.

We can try that in a few minutes, Parker whispered back. Any other ghost stories you want to share before we hit the landing? Sorry, I said. It just popped into my mind. I haven't thought about that fear in years since we moved away from there, actually. That's not comforting. We got to the bottom and took it. took a look around. Everything looked normal. No surprises, just our old, ugly furniture,

and friendly Santa decorations smiling and giving us a frozen wave. I thought about turning and heading back up, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was supposed to be down there. I was also positive Parker would be furious if I went darting up the stairs without him. Leaving him alone in Spook Central might be grounds for divorce. We headed over to the furniture. There was a layer of dust on everything. I smacked the pillow, sending it flying into the air. I coughed and sneezed, instantly regretting my actions.

Parker's withering glare told me he wasn't fond of my actions either. Sorry. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary here, do you? No, I said. It looks like it always does. Feeling gone? Can we go upstairs now? Before I could answer, we heard the familiar chime from our security system, followed by the calm, reassuring voice, informing us that our front door was open.

What the fuck I said? Sh, Parker responded. His finger to his lips. He pointed up to the ceiling. We cocked our ears and concentrated. For about 20 seconds, there was nothing. silence it didn't last creak

the floorboards wheezed as someone took slow deliberate steps above us you could hear the footfalls as they moved from the front door to the hallway trembling parker pointed up at the ceiling you could physically see the floor bow every so slightly from the person's weight

I didn't even think that was possible What do we even do? I whispered. I don't know, Parker said. Maybe they'll leave? A second later, we were cloaked in total darkness. All the power in the house had gone out. The only light came from the sunlight streaming in

from the open door at the top of the stairs. It wasn't much, but it was a beacon. Our lighthouse. Our way home. Let's is all I was able to say. Someone upstairs ran it on the hall, through the kitchen, and to the basement door. They slammed it shut, plunging us into instant midnight. I wanted to scream.

To yell so loud, it'd shake the heavens, but I couldn't. My body physically couldn't make that happen. It'd give away our location. I clutched Parker's shirt so hard, I was afraid I'd rip it right off him. If it bothered him, he didn't say. This sucks, Parker mumbled. Understatement of the goddamn century. Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.

One of our Santa decorations started going off. I nearly peed myself as Santa and sudden arrival. I imagine it would have been the same response I would have had if I had seen him as a kid. Chris Cringle was soon joined by all of our Christmas decorations going off at once. dozens of laughing Santa's, lights flickering off and on, inflatables rising like zombified plastic bags, the noise was deafening, but strangely festive. The strobing lights in the pitch black caused after images

to dance in my rods and cones. I slammed them shut and silently prayed for this all to end. Someone must have heard because, as quickly as they'd come to life, they stopped. We stood in the dark, not breathing, not moving. Neither of us knew what to do. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this. I couldn't shake the idea that whatever was coming would be worse than what we'd already experienced.

There was a creaking again and a sudden rushing of blinding sunlight from the top of the stairs. Someone had opened the door. Before we could get a glimpse, the door slammed shut. and something sprinted down the now dark stairs. I pulled Parker back onto the old love seat. We sat on the edge and kept our heads on a swivel, even though the basement was too dark to see our own hands. We weren't alone anymore.

As my fingertips grazed the couch, I realized something. These were originally my parents. My parents got them when I was living in the house from the painting. They were a physical connection between the past and the now. Are these what caused my sudden desire to come to the basement? Was I being manipulated by this thing? Could I trust myself at all?

That dread feeling I'd had since I brought the painting into our house intensified. I felt it in my bones, deeper even, my aura, my soul. I leaned into Parker's ear and, whispered an apology. He didn't vocalize a response, but squeezed my arm. I squeezed back. My body shook, and I couldn't get myself to stop. I wanted to run for the stairs, but that old fear came rushing back.

I knew if I ran up those stairs, it'd followed behind me. Something whooshed by us. My hair flowed with it, trailing me. behind whatever had sprinted past. I nervously dug my fingers into the fabric. We heard the sound of some liquid splattering on the floor across from us. Water? No.

Heavier than water. A sound that made my guts twist soon joined the drips and splashes. Someone started whistling a familiar tune. Pop goes the weasel. The Christmas decorations flickered on and shut off. In the brief flash of light, we could make out a figure standing across from us. Craig Moffitt. Pop, he screamed as the light strobed, goes, he screamed again, a foot closer this time,

the, another foot closer, almost directly in front of us now. The lights flickered again, and his face was right next to mine, A sinister smile as he slowly whispered. Weasel. I felt something wet and slimy, rub against my cheek. Parker stood and surprisingly swung at Ghost Craig. It didn't find the ghoul, and as the darkness returned, his fist only found the arm of the couch.

I heard his knuckles crack in him swearing pain. My ears were the only thing working at that moment, though. I sat frozen. tears streaming down my face. The lights in the house came back on, and I screamed. On the wall across from us, where we had heard the water, the painting was hanging. Only, it wasn't the old house. It was the current house.

All of the windows and doors were filled with flames. There were two figures on the front lawn. Parker and I. we were both dead. Standing behind our oak tree, watching it all was Craig Moffitt. Parker, let's go. I didn't have to tell him twice.

We broke for the stairs and took them three at a time until we reached the top. I grabbed the handle and shoved my shoulder into the door, expecting it to hold firm. It didn't. Parker and I spilled out into our kitchen floor. I scrambled up and practically yanked Parker. into the kitchen. I was about to slam the door when I saw Craig Moffitt standing at the bottom of the stairs. We locked eyes. My mind flew back to my childhood. A memory stored deep in the folds of my

brain. I was sitting on our porch, reading a book, and heard that damn whistling. Craig Moffat, a polar-in-camera in his hands and a portrait photos of his mind. I was afraid he'd stop and take a picture of me. I was right. Even now, I could hear the heavy clunk of the shutter and the worrying of the process photo as it slid out. He shook it, and as the fog of war slowly dissipated on the photo, he smiled. This way, I won't forget you. I slammed the door shut and urged Parker to grab the keys. He turned the corner to do so when I heard him sharply yelp and surprise, followed by the squeak of his sneakers on the hardwood and his ass hitting the ground.

I ran to him expecting to see Craig, but was stunned by the sight of a living man surrounded by two yellow hunks outside my front door. Once my brain processed the information, it was clear those men were wearing biohazard suits. It still didn't answer why men in biohazard suits were outside my door, but it cleared up that they were there. The suitless men in the middle, though, had a more than striking resemblance to the ghost I'd just seen in the basement, only younger.

Fuller Fleshy Sorry to startle you both The man said Raising his hands in peace You contacted us about a painting you found I'm David Moffat Craig was my father

You've got to be shitting me We are supposed to talk on the phone I said Yes but we were worried things might have progressed too much by then Tell me Has the door in the painting disappeared yet How did

David turned to his men Call for the attraction team Turning back to us, he urgently asked, Where's the painting? The basement, I said, but it looks different now. What in the hell is going on, Parker asked? Different. Would you say, violently different?

Are dead bodies on the lawn in the place ablaze violently different? He nervously turned to where the biohazard pseudomede got. The experienced extraction team. Parker stood and held my hand. We looked at each other and back at David Moffitt. We both cracked.

Small smiles that turned into chuckles that turned into a laughing fit. I read somewhere that mental breaks can start like this. Whatever. I leaned in. David Moffit. The son of your childhood painter neighbor, Craig Moffit. Himself a ghost that nearly killed us. Is standing in our fucking veranda, Parker said.

Barely able to get the words out between screeching laughter. I mean, what the fuck is this line? Seconds later, a team of armed men in hazmat suits carrying unknown machinery rushed in and headed for the basement. We heard one of them scream, and then the sounds of mechanical engines warming up. David nodded toward the front door. We should go outside. We did. What the hell else were we going to do?

Once we were outside, David pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered us both. we both declined David indulged and nodded back at the house this is the experience team what's going on I asked I'm going to level with you

what I'm about to say is pretty weird I like to say weird to people so that's the right tone sir on what is easily the weirdest day and not only my and my wife's life but I'd argue humanity's life

nothing you can say will top what we've already been through Parker said I mean I just discovered my wife watches professional wiffleball for God's sake not a fan I mumbled dad was a strange man lots of demons

when he could keep them at bay he did great work but that was never for long around the time when you were a kid he got deep into the occult It was a fattish passing fancy at first, but soon he found a deeper meaning in it. It consumed him.

Around this time, well, he conjured a demon. I think I'm having a stroke. He made a deal. We don't know exactly the details, but what we do know is that dad agreed to start a company that would paint portraits of people's homes. The twist was that the homes he picked would become targets for the. the demon. Naturally, Parker said, because why not? He'd take a photo of the home and give it to the demon. The demon would curse it and insert it into the canvases of my dad's paintings. These photos would be a connection between the subjects and the art and the demon itself. The pole got stronger

when the artwork found its way back to the subjects. Then they'd, well, he trailed off. Meet each other, I said. In a manner of speaking, yes. So many questions bounced around my brain. This all sounded so outlandish, and yet the memory of the photo came back to me. This way, I won't forget you, I said out loud. Confused. Parker looked at me. What? We don't know how many paintings that Dad did during this time, but we've recovered 65 in locations from New York. to California. The people's elected seemed to be random, except for you. Why me?

My guess? You were neighbors, and, well, my dad really didn't like your dad. The feeling was mutual. Just then, the extraction team came rushing out. One was limping. The machines they brought looked broken, but the lights were still on. One of them had the painting in a bio-contamination. minute bag. It was smoking.

The experience team, David said. Ashing out his smoke on the bottom of his shoe in, pocketing the butt. Thank you for letting us help you rid of this menace. The work is exhausting, but my family has to atone for Craig's wicked actions. David nodded and turned to leave. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Wait, that's it? We're free? Just like that? Just like that, he said.

turning to leave. He stopped and spun on his heels. Unless you have something from the old house in your new house, then you kind of sort of leave a back door for the demon to return. So if you do, I suggest destroying it. He tipped his cap and left. Parker and I locked eyes. The love seat.

We said at the same time, my back heard just thinking about hauling it up those narrow stairs. Later that night, we torched the sofa and and makes you fire pit in our backyard. We ate pizza and watched the flames consume the potentially demonic couch. Can't imagine that's a sentence that's been said a lot in history. As we did, relief filled my heart. The dread was gone.

I looked over at Parker and smiled. I think we can put to bed the argument about who had the weirder childhood, Park. He laughed. Yeah, somewhere's with my Amish family can't compete with demons. His phone buzzed. He looked down at the notification with concern. I felt my stomach twist. Please tell me it's good news.

The Rino's Havanaugh's game is about to start. I said a reminder. Want to watch? I touched my heart and felt pure happiness surged through me. Tears. Grabbing his free hand, I held it tight and gave it a big squeeze. I have something to confess, I said. I think I'm a legitimate fan of professional whiffleball.

I know, babe. I know. We sat together, letting the crackling of a burning demon couch and the crack of a wiffle ball bat fill the night air. I snuggled into Parker's shoulder. It was warm, inviting, home, and not one haunted by an angry ghost. How did one girl get so lucky?

And all right, guys, that wraps up three hours of some disturbing Reddit stories. I really hope you enjoyed. My voice is cooked. My brain is cooked. I've been reading Reddit stories for a few hours now, but I thought all of these were honestly so, so great. I loved all of these stories, and some of these truly disturbed me. They had me on the edge of my seat the entire time. So I hope you found them as interesting as I did.

If you did enjoy, please like the video and subscribe to the channel. the channel subscriber goal is 1 million subscribers before the end of the year so please subscribe and if you enjoyed this video i'm sure you will enjoy some other videos on the channel so go check out some other videos and thank you all so much for watching it truly does mean the world and this was snook and i'll see next time bye