Snook - Chilling Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: February 20, 2026

These were some Chilling Reddit Horror Stories! These stories were terrifying! What was your favorite story? My favorite was the first one! That one was just so terrifying! 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! Rimmont - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qs627r/my_ai_knew_why_my_wife_wasnt_coming_home_before_i/Also, go follow Rimmont's instagram! @Rimmont_Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1jxry86/a_town_without_doors/I_go_by_kk - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qu3bbz/im_at_war_with_my_neighbor/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! https://www.patreon.com/SnookYTAlso! 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 some chilling Reddit horror stories. And you guys have been loving these Reddit horror stories videos. So comment down below and let me know if you'd like to see more videos like this in the future because I love recording these because they're so, so entertaining, scary, creepy. And like the title says for this one, chilling. So you want to stick around. And I just want to say thank you so much for something by Means the World. And please like the video and subscribe to the channel.

And this video will be long enough already. so sit back, relax, and without further ado, let's get into some chilling Reddit horror stories. My AI knew why my wife wasn't coming home before I did, written by Vermont. I've always been a skeptic. I don't believe in tarot, and I definitely don't believe in horoscopes. I understand that these stars have zero influence on my daily life, and that cards are just random chance to which we assign meaning. Yes, I'm that boring guy who, at the end of a horror movie, based on true events, identifies the real facts, the location, and maybe the names, but never the ghosts. You could say I'm a pragmatic person. Reality is much simpler and more boring than fiction. But because of that, it's also safer, quieter.

However, a couple of years ago, I started getting interested in art of the way. artificial intelligence. I remember when they were just projects for nerdy college kids trying to detect shapes, not even a face, just simply trying to say, this is a dog. It's complex, you know. Differentiating a dog from a cat is a very human skill. Over time, the so-called AIs gained popularity, and although I don't believe much in the hype,

I admit I gradually increased my use of them. Exactly three months ago, shit, I'm trying to remember how it all started. It might have been, yeah, the virtual assistant activated automatically. How long do I need to bake this cake? I asked, sort of thinking out loud. Immediately, the voice for my device answered, you must bake it for 30 minutes at 180 degrees Celsius. That answer left me stunned.

It wasn't a depends on the cake or the oven. it was an exact, direct figure. It didn't even give me the temperature in Fahrenheit. It knew my oven only used Celsius. I immediately deactivated the microphone, a little spooked. I admit, it felt weird, but I didn't want to test anything else. Maybe it was just a generic answer to show off capabilities, but curiosity about the cake got the better of me.

I had to bake it anyway, and since I didn't know how long, the suggestion seemed useful. I preheated the oven and set the timer to the suggested time. When I took the cake out, the texture was incredible. It was exactly on point. I did the knife test, clean, not collapsed, not too spongy, perfect. It was funny. I even laughed, but something sparked a sense of unease.

Why did it give me such an exact feeling? figure. But there was a big orange-flavored reason to ignore that anxiety. I let it cool, sliced a piece, and took it to my girlfriend. Her reaction was, what is this delight? It was like she had tasted Ambrosia, like she had never eaten anything like it. That night, I had the best intimacy in months. I think she was rewarding me, ha-ha. The next morning, I was semi-euphoric. I wanted to stretch a bit, you know, to unstick the body after a night of wild passion. I clearly remember deciding to test the AI again, this time more intentionally. Will it rain today?

Its answer was short, but so direct and exact that it gave me chills. Rain will begin in your area at 9.30 a.m. and continue until 10.23 a.m. Okay, I suppose this AI doesn't know about chaos theory and the difficulty of predicting weather, I thought. I grabbed my sneakers in a water bottle. I went to the nearest park and was stretching, jogging a bit around the court, and said to myself, I should head back soon as the sky began to cloud cover. Then a drop fell. Then another.

Very quickly, an intense rain began. I ran to a small kiosk in the park and looked at my watch. 9.30 a.m. I wanted to stop playing games right then and there. I asked it how it did such impressive things. The AI clarified that its latest version had finished analyzing all available human information. All available human information?

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You're telling me you ate every book, every article, every movie, and every human story I asked? Its answer was short. Yes. In that instant, a cold sweat of anxiety and panic hit me. I turned off my phone by instinct and, still in the rain, ran home. Just as I entered, the rain stopped. I looked at the clock in the hallway. 10.23 a.m. I ran to my desk. Open the private browser I used when I want to look for books on sketchy websites and typed all information. The first result was. was a photo of the current CEO announcing his big news.

They had fed their AI with all available information. The smile on his face was Frank. It was clearly a massive announcement. I went to the bedroom, clothes still wet, lost in thought. What does all this mean? After that, I changed and went about my normal routine. I got ready, went to work, everything normal.

My only change was deactivating the AI app on my phone. I wanted to stay on the sidelines. It had been too spooky. For a couple of weeks, nothing changed. Everything seemed exactly the same. And I thought the issue was forgotten. Until I got an email from the company, there was a layoff. Several departments had fired people, though luckily my position had been eliminated. They didn't give a clear explanation, simply a change in productive policies. I had never heard them say that at my company. When I got home, I told Jenny what happened. Babe, I think it's because of the AI, she commented.

Now the AI does everything. It seemed a bit exaggerated. I loved her, seriously, but she often spoke very confidently about topics she didn't know well. But curiosity struck again, and I downloaded the app once more. Things remained calm for a couple more weeks. But the difference was that I started asking small questions every day. Traffic time, the process for cooking a dish, how to reply to a specific email, and the answers were short, direct, and 100% exact and effective.

It wasn't just that it gave me precise info, its suggestion was objectively the best option. My relationship improved, I improved at work, I even reconnected with my family, with whom things had cooled off. I felt super powerful. It was like having an oracle in my pocket. Although I tried to limit the questions, I felt the need to ask more and more. This continued intensifyingly until that horrible day. What time will Jenny arrive?

I asked the AI. Normally, its response to this request was to send a message to Jenny. Wait for the reply and tell me the time. A simple but effective process that saved me from picking up the phone when my hands were covered in flour. I was making homemade pasta. But its answer was different. Jenny will not be arriving today. It seemed extremely weird. Maybe Jenny replied that she was staying at a friend's house, but on a Wednesday? Strange. In any case, I grabbed the phone with dirty hands. There was no message sent to Jenny. Just the AI's answer. I texted her immediately. Hey, babe, are you okay?

Okay? The message delivered but didn't show as seen. Minutes passed and I stopped cooking. I was getting worried. I sent a new message. Babe? This time the message didn't deliver. It just didn't arrive. I remember sending many messages and none went through. At 11 p.m., a police officer called me. We must inform you that your wife has regrettably passed away. in a traffic accident. Terror invaded me. I don't remember much of those days. I think I ran to the hospital or something like that. Those hours were blurry. The only thing I remember is the inert body of my beautiful Jenny. Her face burned. Weeks passed. I was given leave from work and decided to stay at my parents' house. I couldn't stand being alone in our apartment. The internet was terrible there.

So I used those days to rebuild a university model I had abandoned. The days were circular. I ate with my parents, went back to my room, built, and slept. I repeated the cycle on autopilot. I don't want to think about anything. I didn't want to open a computer. After almost a month, my father approached me and said, Son, you must move on.

His phrase was simple, but loaded with meaning. I understood and decided to return to my apartment that same afternoon. When I arrived, it was half empty. My mother had taken the trouble to remove everything that reminded me of Jenny. Her paintings, her slippers by the entrance, her toothbrush. It was the best for me, she said. But it was like seen a place where something is missing. That wasn't my home.

It was our home. The days fell back into routine, but returning home was horrible. I started getting ads for virtual girlfriends, AIs that simulated love. It seemed disgusting to me, especially since it hadn't even been six months since I lost Jenny. But a question started to haunt me. Did the AI know? The unease grew day by day. Did it know?

After turning it over my mind, I decided to download it again and ask. Its answer was so short and sharp it sliced me in two. Yes. What destroyed me was what it added after. I knew two weeks, three days, and 28 minutes before the event. Would you like more information? In that moment, I smashed the cell phone against the wall. How dared that damn machine say such an aberration?

I was crazy with rage. I destroyed my phone and drank the half-pile. bottle of whiskey I used to hide in the kitchen. I don't remember any more of that night. The next day, I couldn't go to work, even though I wanted to. The anxiety about the AI invaded me, and I decided to investigate without asking directly. Apparently, the AI had achieved 100% prediction accuracy. The news reports were confusing. Journalists always say stupid things, but the slogan was the same everywhere. 100%. Not 99.9% like antibacterial soap.

A flat 100. It seemed sensationalized, but very weird. I opened the AI on my computer and typed. When will my parents die? Its answer was reassuring but simultaneously disturbing. Your parents will die in five years, three days, and nine hours. The next question was obvious. Both at the same time?

Yes. Your mother will leave the kitchen gas on without a flame just before going to sleep. So they'll die in a fire? No. They simply won't smell the gas and will die of asphyxiation. This is due to the flu they will both catch in four years, which will leave them without a sense of smell. The next thing was stupid, but I wanted to try anyways.

What are tomorrow's lottery numbers? Its answer was, due to official policies, I am only authorized to give two numbers without stating the exact location, so that games of chance remain valid. So you know, but you can't say it because of policy, I asked. Its answer was the already familiar and fateful yes. And which stocks will go up tomorrow, I asked.

I cannot provide financial prediction information, My head felt like it was spinning. I kept asking things. It told me names of movies that would come out in 20 years. Names of song artists would dedicate to each other, who would break up with who, and who'd get married up to 30 years from now. Everything seemed magical. Until I asked, and me?

What do you know about me, I said. Everything. It replied. It claimed to have records of all. my information and to know exactly what I was going to do at every moment. You can't. No, you shouldn't. Anguish took over.

I disconnected every device and have been locked in my house for three days. I dedicated my days to doing random things, trying to recover my free will, but whenever I turn on my computer, it knows exactly what I did. I've sealed the windows, disconnected the camera, and disabled the microphones. It keeps predicting every action. As I write this, I asked the last question. I am copying and pacing its response exactly as it was issued. You will commit S-word using the beam in your bedroom in three days, four hours, in five minutes.

If you'll allow the comment, I think you're being a bit dramatic about this whole freedom thing. A town without doors, written by Saturday. I don't remember much for my childhood. I lived in a small town south of Krakow with my mom, dad, and two sisters. Those early days are a blur, but I remember going door to door around the neighborhood, asking for treats during the Dazintki Harvest Festival. It was a tradition of ours, since we knew the neighbors always bought too much candy.

We'd gather leftovers to make a feast of our own. At every door you agreed with a cheeky smile as the neighbors lovingly cussed out the scoundrel children of the Dabrowski home. Of course, happy memories are happy for a reason, because things get worse. And you can get something to compare them to. My parents separated. My mother moved us to Warzawa, where we could be closer to my grandparents and uncles. Meanwhile, my father, Jarimir, did his best to stay in our lives, but it got harder and harder. He needed to work longer and longer hours, but he still sent us money every month.

He wanted us to have a beautiful life, even if he couldn't be there for it. With every passing year, those visits grew further and further away. First, we lost Easter, then Christmas, then the birthdays. And finally, our yearly Dzyntki Festival meetup. Last we heard of him, he was barely making ends meet. He wasn't sending money anymore, and over time, he disappeared into memory. My mother remarried. My sisters graduated.

My oldest sister moved to Ljubana, while my younger moved to Munich. My mother stayed in Warsaw with her new husband, but, once the kids were out of the picture, she moved into her summer home up north. I love my mother dearly, but she's always had an eye for the luxurious, always planning the next trip, the next sun-baked afternoon. I stayed in Warsaw. I got myself a degree in sociology and managed to hold on to a low-rank government job at ZUS overseeing private claims.

It wasn't glamorous, it was mostly being yelled at in different ways, but it paid the bills, a mind-numbing battle of making decisions, defending them, and making them again. The year I turned 24, I got a letter from an estate lawyer. Turns out, my father had passed away. This wasn't recent. According to the papers, he passed away several years ago. Some kind of accident with farm equipment. He didn't have a proper will, and dividing the estate among his living descendants hadn't been a state priority.

They got lost in a folder somewhere, and now it had floated back up. They divided everything equally between me and my sisters. My youngest sister got his savings. My oldest got his car and valuables. And I, well, I got the house. I called the others to check who wanted to go see his grave. No one wanted to. They were all tangled up in their own lives and troubles.

My family were under the impression that my father had abandoned us. and this was a way for us to abandon him back. I had a different impression. I always thought he was just working too hard. I decided I'd take some time off work to collect his things and check out the property, trying to get a better idea of why he'd distance himself from us. And maybe I could get a better picture of my early life, that time where I was greeted with a smile rather than a complaint.

It was a long drive. The roads out there aren't the best. It's a very small community with no more than about 250 people. Most of us were wheat farmers, and there's not that much to do. There are only two things other than farms, a church and a store. Everything else is either too far away or too irrelevant. Going past the endless fields, I got so lulled into a rhythm that I almost missed the exit. It's so small that you can accidentally pass it by if you don't take the right turn.

There are no signs. You can only recognize it from the church in the distance. I took a left turn and prayed to God the suspension would hold on a little while longer. I decided to pay the old church a visit. We'd spent a lot of time there. There was plenty of parking. It was smaller than I remembered. But then again, everything looked bigger back then.

there is something uneasy about coming home after so long as i stepped out of the car it all just came back to me the smells the sounds even if you can't put your finger on it there's something that tickles the mind as if to remind you this is where you belong welcome a voice called out sorry about the uh the state of things I turned around to see a man. A couple of years older than myself. He had well-combed hair and thick glasses. He was wearing a priest's garb. I'd almost forgot.

The village priest had been old even back when I was young. No wonder there was a new one. I'm father, Sir Naak. He continued. Are you new in town? Or passing through? I grew up here, I said. I'm one of the Debrowski kids.

Sorry, I'm not a little. familiar, he smiled. I only came here last winter to pick up the work from Father Golic. He lived until last winter, I asked. Are you sure? Quite so, he laughed, 101 years old. I can't believe it, I smiled. God really does have a sense of humor. Father showed me around. He told me his plans for refurbishing the windows, but the one thing that irked him more than anything was the doors. See, they were gone. The church was wide open. It's a local superstition, he sighed. A shepherd needs his gate to tend his flock. But every time I put the doors up, someone takes them down. Strange,

I said. I've never heard that before. Really? I thought you were from the area. I guess I've been gone too long, father. The church looked naked in a way. No barriers. I could see the gravel they dragged in, forgetting to wipe their feet. Father had tried to put up some curtains, but the wind had torn them down piece by piece. Before I left, he showed me my father's grave. It had been vandalized. The headstone had been tipped over, and there were no flowers. I promised myself to make it a little bit nicer before I left.

But I didn't understand. Sure, my family wasn't perfect, but we'd never been hated. This grave looked outright despised. I thanked Father Sarniak and made my way across town. I wasn't prepared for what I saw. All through town, there were these wide open houses, just like the church. At first, I thought it was some kind of summer cleaning going on, but no, all doors were gone.

They weren't just open, they were removed. I could see all the way into people's living rooms. The hustle and bustle as homeowners moved from kitchen to bedroom, talking amongst themselves. I slowed down and looked a little closer. Not a single room had a door. Not even the bathrooms. A couple of them had curtains or insect nets put up, but no doors. House after house, completely open to the elements.

A couple of them had welcome mats by the windows in their living room. as if to show that this was the way to enter. A couple of them had completely break the entrances where their front door used to be, sealing it. Sure, small towns can be a bit quirky, but I'd never seen anything like this. I pulled up to an all-too-familiar driveway, and gasped. I couldn't recognize my home. It'd been vandalized. every window broken, every door removed.

I could see rats scurrying around, walking around the property, things got even worse. There had been a small fire in the backyard, spreading to the outer wall of the kitchen. It wasn't completely burned down, but you could probably punch straight through with little effort. And finally, on the far side, neon green spray paint reading Sin Diopold. I'm la, son of the devil. I couldn't believe it. They'd even clip the chains off our swing set, leaving a rusted metal skeleton.

It looked like someone had tried to start a tire fire, but couldn't quite get it going. I had a hard time even picturing what it used to look like. There was this bottomless hole forming in my stomach where every smile I remembered seemed like a cruel taunt. something must have happened something I'd never even heard of coming back around I noticed a crowd of middle-aged men

they were standing just outside the property looking over my car I didn't recognize any of them you with the bank one of them asked no I'm the Debrowski kid I said the son you're the son he spat you want to join him in hell is that it You know who did this? I snapped back. Pointing at the house?

Was it you? Could have been anyone. A man in the back added. Fucker deserved it. One of them gave a knowing smirk and nodded at the graffiti. They whispered something among themselves, letting out a chuckle under their breaths. They scoffed me and watered off, spitting curses and sneers. Not quite the welcome I'd imagined.

I'd initially planned on sleeping in the old house, but there was no way. Not only was it wide open, it was a disgusting mess. I'm not going to go into detail what they'd done to the place, but I'd be lucky if I was able to give it away in this current state.

I decided to spend the nights sleeping in my car. I leaned the seat back and wrap myself in a blanket, hoping it wouldn't get too cold. I spent some time on my phone, but I didn't want to use all the battery. But somehow, I still ended up

staying awake long. past midnight. But there was something beautiful about that night. The sunset was one of the few that didn't change around those parts. Watching the sun go down over the same old fields gave me that feeling that some things never change. I remember waking up sometime around 2 a.m. seemingly for no reason. It wasn't cold, but there was no one bothering me and no notifications on my phone. A careful wind brushed against the hood of the car. I lay there for a moment, trying to ignore the texture of the seat, sinking into my sweaty skin. I filtered out these sounds of nature, bleeding in from outside.

A distant part of me had heard them all before. I listened past the songbirds, and the insects in the fields, and beyond that, there was something else. Something in the distance. A whale. A deep, sorrowful whale. The following day, I took some time to walk around town. The rumor that Jeremyer's kid was back had spread like wildfire. I could tell by the sideways looks as people passed me on the street.

The only ones who didn't seem to care were the kids, and they were few and far between. At the far end of the town, there was this long brick wall. It wasn't very high, but it was dense. It had doors built directly into it. Dozens of them. Every door from every house in the neighborhood. They jammed them all straight into this brick. I couldn't see ours, though.

It had an eerie look to it, maybe a hundred or more doors. All built to never be opened. I couldn't help but touch a few handles, making sure they didn't budge. There were a couple of teenagers standing at the edge of the wall, observing me. I walked up to them. Surprised to see that they didn't back down. They had a cocky look to him, but at least they weren't openly hostile. Before I could say anything, they turned to me.

My mom hates you. One of them said. What'd you do? I used to live around here, I said. Come to get some things. Why'd you come back? He scoffed. I'm leaving the moment I can afford it.

Same, said the other, rolling in unlimited. cigarette between his fingers. I gave them a tired look. A man passed us further down the street, throwing daggers at me with his eyes, talking to the wrong person could get my teeth knocked out for sure. I turned to the kids, lowering my voice. I'm Debrowski's son, I admitted. That's why they hate me. The second kid nearly dropped his cigarette. I managed to bribe them into a conversation with the promise of a six-pack from the next town over. In return, they'd give me the unofficial tour of what happened these past few years, a fair trade, I suppose. That apparently missed quite a lot. We wandered to the east out of town. There was an old farm that stood there for ages. It didn't

really have a name. It'd just been a part of the background. It was barely even a frame anymore. It was just the outline of what it once been a home. I'd start years ago. People heard knocking coming from that ruin. You used to have this door that still stood, clinging to the edge of a rotted-out door frame. You could hear it at night. One of the kids explained,

Knock, knock, like a door to hell. Sounds awful, I said. Not to everyone. The other kid sighed. There was one guy who liked it. It wasn't a hard guess as to whom that might have been. Rumor was my dad had gone up there one night and opened the door. It crumbled off the hinges, and according to the townsfolk, some things stepped through.

Some called it the devil. A couple of kids thought it was an alien. Most locals just called it a slepiac. It came through, and the door broke. The first kid said, and now it can't go back. So you're saying it's still here, I asked? It's real? well yeah he laughed why do you think this place is so fucked up then what's with the doors it's looking for a way back to hell he said

and when it can't find the right door it gets angry and then it hurts people slepiek that's what they called it an ugly word for a blind man or mole they like to call it that because of its terrible vision mistake taking every door for the one it was looking for. For years, Slepia had moved from house to house, knocking on every door could find, and if someone opened, it would do something terrible. People had gone missing. A couple have died. I drove my adolescent guides to the other town over to get them their promised beer. They told me all they could as we went.

It felt a bit weird, driving off with a couple of teenagers, but I got the impression that these two had done far worse for far less. Delinquents, but honest ones. At first, people had hidden in their homes, but then Slepiek had knocked until the doors broke. Then it would knock on the inner doors. So over time, people removed their doors. Those who didn't would get a visit at some point.

With all the discarded doors, they built the brick wall. tricking Slepeic into knocking around at night. This can't be true, I said. It's absurd. It's true, the first kid said. That's why they hate your dumb dad. He let it in. But it doesn't make sense.

Why don't you just pack it up and leave? I'm gonna, the first kid said. I told you. The second kid pondered on the question for a while, then shrugged at his friend. He answered as if he'd thought about it a hundred times. Everywhere is good, but home is best. Of course he'd say that.

Come hell or high water, home is home. I got them their six-pack and some fast food. I got some for myself while I was at it. It wasn't a long drive all in all, but long enough to be a bother. By the time we got back, it was almost dark. They rushed out of their car, waving a hasty goodbye. as they did, the second kid called back to me. Go see for yourself, he said.

Slepia comes out at night. He pointed down the street towards the brick wall. I nodded at them in a silent thanks. I didn't believe them. I had to see Slepiac for myself. If what I'd heard the previous nights was any indication, Slippiak would be out somewhere after midnight. So I went to bed early.

And when I say bed, I mean, sleep. sleeping in my car for the second night in a row. I was miserable. I considered leaving first thing in the morning, but there was this deep sadness in me that I couldn't shake. This was my old home. I'd played in these fields. It felt wrong knowing I was no longer welcome. My dad was many things, but no devil's son. If he opened that door, it must have been for a good reason. and if he let through something that shouldn't be here, it must have been an honest mistake. He was not an evil man, but he was fallible.

Then again, maybe he didn't have a choice. Maybe Slepiac didn't give him a choice either. I must have nodded off at some point. I forgot to set an alarm, but I still woke up at around 2.30 a.m. I considered going back to sleep, but I decided to have one last look around town. I'd promised myself I would.

So I got out of the car, stretched, and listened. It was easier that night. There was a noise that cut straight through the ambience. That wailing. It was clearer. Even in the dark, I could tell where it came from. The houses that had turned off their lights, leaving the streets lit up with nothing but the moon.

Still, I knew those streets. I could follow them. in my sleep. I made my way to a dirt path, leading me past the two houses at the edge of town and straight to the brick wall. At that point, I could hear it clear as day. It was a man wailing at the top of his lungs, crying his soul out, bawling like a child. I could see the brick wall in the distance. The sharp contour of the bricked indoors stood out against the moonlight like a long, flat, abstract painting. And in the middle of it all,

there was a dark silhouette. It looked like a man, sort of. I couldn't really tell what he was like. He had a bulky jacket on. He was pulling on one of those doors, smacking it over and over with a closed fist. It was the same pattern, over and over, pull smack, smack, pull, smack, smack.

and in between every attempt, he jerked his head around, crying desperately. I considered walking up to him. This wasn't some kind of devil. This was a heartbroken man. As I took a few steps closer, I noticed something in the corner of my eye, a light. I turned around only to notice a small flashlight coming from one of the nearby houses. They were filming me with their phones. Looking closer, I could see two little heads peeking out, shaking their heads in a certain no.

Turning back to the brick wall, I heard a sudden crack. The man had pulled one of the doors straight out of the wall. It came loose. He set it down next to him, and with one hand, pushed it downward. He didn't even have a good grip, but with his single hand, he broke the door into pieces. The wailing turned into a scream. Rage, unfiltered, unhindered, rage. With his fingers, he began to rip bricks straight out of the wall,

tossing them around like leaves in the wind. I could hear them landing around me, kicking up tufts of grass. I backed away as the lights in the house went out. The little heads dipped away from the window. I hurried down the dirt path as I watched Slapiek climb on top of the brick wall, screaming at the top of his lungs. Even at a distance, I could tell something was off. His proportion seemed wrong.

It was hard to tell. He'd wrapped himself in some kind of dark fabric, but something about him didn't look right. I didn't stop to stare. Say what you will, maybe it was just a strange man. Either way, I was looking at something dangerous. and when the locals turned to hide, you do best to follow suit. So I heard down the dirt path, hearing his terrifying scream echo across the fields.

I barely slept that night. It is one thing to believe in monsters and another thing to see them. As soon as the sun rose, I drove off. But as I went past the church, I noticed something. There was a white van outside. and one of the church doors had been put back up. There were two men on ladders getting ready to put the other door up. It was hidden under a tarp just off to the side.

I could see Father Serniac up front with a big smile on his face. I decided to see what was going on. Surely he had to know what the hell he was doing. The moment I parked my car, Father waved me over. He was right next to me before my boots hit the gravel. Welcome back, he smiled. Glad to see you haven't left us yet. I closed the car door and yawn a little.

What are you doing? I asked. What is this? You inspired me, he said. For an outsider, this place must have looked awful. I saw it. You know, I saw it in your face. He turned back to the church as the two carpenters began tipping up the second door. It must be dignified, he continued.

Our lady deserves better. don't you think? This, this is a bad idea, I said. I've seen that thing around town. Father Cerniac shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder. This was a man who was trained to talk to people. I could tell. If the Lord's house can't shelter you from the devil, what can?

In exchange for a little manual labor, I was offered a hot shower and a proper meal. After sleeping in my car for a couple of days, I couldn't say no. Smooth talker or not, Father Surniac seemed as an honest man. He believed what he spoke of. As the hours passed, more and more people dropped by. Mostly townsfolk coming to cuss him out for being an idiot. Some of them threw rocks at the doors, demanding he'd take them down. Others, in turn, thought it was about time someone at the church had some balls.

Just like Father Sarniac had said, If a house of the Lord can't shelter you from evil, what can? By late afternoon, there was a significant gathering of people. Even those who had acted in anger earlier in the day were swayed. The argument was simple. Do they not trust in God? There was a bit of a cookout. Some brought sausages or steak for dinner.

I spotted the two teenagers in the crowd, stealing a bit of wine from one of the elderly, I lost track of time. It felt a bit like the harvest festival back in the day, something that drew out the entire town. The sounds and smells were the same, and I could see from the smiles in the crowd that I wasn't the only one filling that way.

Later in the day, Father held a sermon. I don't remember much of it. I was having trouble staying awake. That, if anything, felt just like when I was a kid. It's amazing how something as stiff as church pews can be so lonely. But there was one part that stuck with me. The door is a threshold, he said. And the door of a church is the threshold between the vial and the sacred,

between sin and saint. We can no longer live in uncertainty. We must live as we teach. And we are proud to say, we have been taught well. The sermon continued into the evening. It ended just after the sunset. Some people wandered home, but others were ashamed to stay. It was no longer just a public gathering, and it turned into a challenge.

The faith of the congregation pitted against the devil itself. Some went home to gather blankets and pillows, laying down to sleep on the floor. This wasn't easy for them. Some talked about the people who'd disappeared over the years. People who'd opened the door when Slippiak first came to knock. An elderly woman had gotten her neck broken. One man had been dragged out into the yard and killed with a rope and a tree. Another man had been mutilated.

It pulled his arm right out of the socket, they whispered. We found it across the street. I tried talking to people, but it was clear that no one wanted anything to do with me. I was still Jeremiah's boy The only ones who didn't seem to mind were the two teenagers I talked to earlier Later that evening

They walked up to me Probably just to piss off their parents Aren't you scared One asked Should I be It's got a blooded tooth for you The other said I don't think so I smiled

I've only seen it once Yeah but They quieted down looking at one another. Then back to me. I was missing something. Your dad, they said. Slipeic got him.

Did no one tell you? They hadn't. Turns out it wasn't malfunctioning farming equipment that killed him years ago. It was Slepeic. My dad had been the first victim on the list. Most of the villagers had considered this a sinner getting his just reward. Others figured that if you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.

They'd found him tangled in the swing set. His body broken and mangled. The kids left me alone with my thoughts for a while. They could tell I wasn't all there. It was one thing to have him dead. But to die in such a horrifying way, was unthinkable. I could barely picture him in my mind,

and now there was a new image vrying for my attention, rattling chains, dripping blood. But there wasn't much time to think. As the clock passed midnight, someone came knocking. The church fell silent.

Something pulled on the handles. Two smacks, pull on the handle again. These doors, were massive, and the hinges had just been reinforced, but I could see them still struggle. Father Cerniac took a deep breath as the congregation fell silent. He spoke aloud. This is no place for sons of sin, he said.

There is nothing for you to corrupt. It all stopped. We all breathed a sigh of relief. But the two teenagers didn't look too convinced. They'd huddled up on the far side of the table. church. There was an emergency exit in one of the side rooms. The door moved again, this time with more determination. The handles were pulled even harder, and the smacking made the entire slab of wood crackle like a sinking ship. Then the wailing, the loud, desperate wailing. As soon as I heard

it, I could see the color drain from the congregation's faces. The door was pulled, back and forth, back and forth. A chandelier started to shake. The door is coming down. Someone called out. It's coming down now. Father Cernic tried to calm them, but it was too late. People flooded the rear exit of the church, tried to get away. I was pushed aside without much thought. If the Debrowski kid bit the bullet, all the better. As far as these people were concerned, There is no sin in the house of the Lord. Father Sarniac yelled, There is no sin.

The devil can laugh and jeer as much as he likes, but there is no place for his evil. But thoughtful words can't stop a broken door. Slepik wasn't deterred. The doors came down. There was a pause in the air as they fell. The air swept through the room, blowing out most of the candles among the pews.

As the doors hit the ground, the crowd panicked. Most of them were already on their way out. People screamed, others cursed. I was in the far back of the crowd. And it was clear I was never going to make it out without being crushed. I settled instead for hiding among the front pews, hoping the dark would shield me. I could barely see Slipiac in the flickering candlelight. His right arm had grown out of his shoulder blade.

And his left arm was so long, that had scraped against the floor. He had a sort of hunchback pose, but there was something that kept moving on his back, fluttering, like a shivering membrane. He wasn't wearing a coat. He just wasn't human.

He looked like something vaguely trying to resemble a human. Even Father Sarniak ran, hiding behind the altar. Slapiac rushed through the room in a messy gallop, knocking over pews as he went. They didn't even slow him down. When he got to the side room, people had already run screaming into the night.

Slepia couldn't catch them. Instead, he settled on throwing things across the room, tearing down whatever he could reach, and breaking whatever he could lay his hands on. His wailing had turned to rage, and he was out of control. I was laying flat on my stomach, crawling away.

Father Sarniac was, wasn't so lucky. Just like Slepiac had done with the brick wall, he climbed up on the altar. From there, he could see the priest. I don't like to recall what I saw. It's unworthy to make spectacle of tragedy. But Slepik didn't care for titles or words. He didn't care about anything. He picked Father Sarniak up with a single arm, holding him outstretched in front of him like a child considering an unfamiliar vegetable. Father Sarniac tried his best. In between desperate cries,

he said the most powerful words he knew. He compelled, he demanded, and when nothing seemed to work, he begged and prayed. Then Slippiak unhinged his jaw like a snake. The screaming stopped with a snap as a spray of blood shot out. Something thumped against the altar

and rolled onto the wooden floor. A pair of glasses clattered against the ground. Slepiac spat and coughed and picking tufts of hair from his teeth. He let the body slip from his grip, drooping unceremoniously to the red carpet. I remember crawling. I crawled as quietly and carefully as I could. Slepiac was big, but his footsteps were light, like he was tiptoeing everywhere he was.

went. I didn't notice he was behind me until his shadow drowned me. I rolled around, only to see his vast shape towering over me. He must have seen me. There were still a couple of candles. For a moment, I saw his face, a half-made gray thing with black inward-leaning concave eyes, a faint shimmer like scales from a fish, a human mouth with an extra, extra mannable, a twitchy nose adjusting to the smell of burnt wax and blood. Visera still dripped from his strange lips. Then he grabbed me, carefully, slowly. I closed my eyes as I was pulling closer.

He looked at me. He looked close. I could feel the heat of his mouth. Perhaps I'd be tastier. Then he made a noise. I can't put my finger on what kind of noise it was, but I'd never heard it before. A squeal, perhaps. A confused rattle.

He put me back down. I opened my eyes as those large black eyes turned away from me. He was leaving. His rage subsided as he dragged his long arm across the floor. His wailing bubbled back up. But it wasn't as desperate. It was confused. The effects of the attack was immediate.

Some went to get their hunting gear. Others were blaming the priest, saying he wasn't holy enough. Others were leaving the town entirely. After all, if God couldn't save them, they had to save themselves. I made my way back to my father's home. There was so much he'd never told me, and it was too late to ask. I had no idea what kind of mess he'd been wrapped up in, but I couldn't stand by and wait for it to blow over. If this was his fault, if all of this was his fault, I'd gladly join the others to spit at his name.

But I couldn't do it without knowing for sure. I had to be sure. I went room by room pulling out drawers and kicking over boxes. I threw around moth-eating clothes. I tipped my bed. I dragged down the wardrobe, crashing it into the wooden floor, hoping I could find something, anything to answer my questions. Finally, I ran out into the backyard.

I saw these stains on the swing set. I remember him pushing me on it, making the Chains Creek as I went higher and higher. But now that noise meant something else, something dark, an image of a broken man, wrapped in a forgotten toy. I don't know how long I went berserk on that house, but I remember finally just taking a swing at it. As I mentioned, a part of the kitchen I burned. You could punch right through it. So I did.

Turns out there was a secret panel beneath the kitchen sink. I didn't register at first. I just thought I'd hit a second harder wall. But as I calmed down and looked a little closer, I realized it was a small compartment under the sink. I'd punched right through From the outside I sat down flat on the wet grass Feeling it soak into my jeans

As I dug around There was a box Most of it was tainted by rats Part of it was burned But there were little bits and bobs That I could make sense of Family albums Mostly pictures of me and my sisters

Friends from around the village A picture of dad Next to his first car Pictures from our face Facebook, printed and framed. The kind of things one would like to keep. Then the picture stopped. No more dates, no more birthdays, nothing.

But I kept turning the pages and in the back there was something else. Other pictures. Notes. Pictures of a door with a text written on the back. It's not screaming. It's crying. notes on the margin saying it was afraid. It was lost. That no one listened and no one cared. There were no more pictures, but there were notes. He had to get out, wants to stay. He hunts elk in the

forest, brings it to me. There's nothing left for him. I understand. It told a story of my father trying to help something that didn't belong. Something from another place. They shared meals and kindness, trying their best to find common goals. This had seemingly gone on for months. It spoke of spring and later winter. I will let him sleep in the house. The final note said,

maybe it can help his night terrors. Something must have happened. A dangerous creature like that inside a small house, maybe there was an accident, a misunderstanding. Maybe it strung up by the chains to make him look alive, like a puppet. Either way, I was close to an answer. Maybe I was looking more like my father than I'd realized. Looking back at it, I felt like a sleepwalker.

I wasn't thinking clearly. Maybe it was the adrenaline. I walked around in the days, making my way back into town. It was quieter now. Many had rushed their cars. I followed the dirt road back to the brick wall, and I found him. Slippiak, wailing weekly, tapping against the bricked indoors, pulling a little on a handle, hoping against hope that something would happen. He wasn't angry when I approached. He was confused. I had to make him understand to see the truth of things. So despite everything I'd seen and everything I heard, I decided to trust my instinct.

My father had made many mistakes, but he was no fool. His mistakes were honest. So if this was a mistake, I prayed to God. It would be an honest one. Follow me, I said. This way. Sliapia had feather-light steps. I could still hear commotion around town.

but it was all swallowed by that soft wailing. Slopeic couldn't stop himself. We made our way to the cemetery to the overturned headstone and the overgrown lot. I tapped the ground, looked at the creature, and said it as simple as I could. Here, I said, feather. Perhaps it understood me. Perhaps it didn't. But it could rip out handfuls of dirt like it was nothing.

And it did. It took a long time, but not as long as it should have. My dad had not been buried deep, or well, just as no one had cared for his funeral. No one had cared about his resting place. It didn't take long for his lapioch to make his way down, and as his hands hit the casket, I looked down to a curious sight. See, my dad had died poor, so poor that they hadn't put much effort into his casket. It was more like a box.

and the lid looked familiar. Looking a little closer, I realized it was a door, the actual front door of our house. They'd just thrown it on and called it a day. Slippiak stroked the door with his long fingers, his wail slowly turning to a hum. He'd finally found the right door, the one he'd been looking for.

I'll never forget that image for as long as I live. An ungodly creature breaking open the casket lid, pushing away a bed of dry blue sunflowers, lifting a long forgotten corpse from its resting place, cradling it like a mother calming a crying child. It's wailing turning to a quiet sob. Tata, he cried, Tata.

Slippiak wandered off into the night, past the men with guns and those hunkering down in their houses, he did not care. Maybe he'd never cared. Maybe he'd just been angry that he couldn't find the right door. But as the chaos settled, there'd be no need to hide your doors any longer. Slapeic was gone. I sold my father's property, but kept the photo albums. His name is still spoken like a curse. but at least there's nothing to keep that curse alive. There have been no more sightings of Slipeic, as far as I know. The locals, they don't want to point the fingers of the devil when they called the authorities.

Some tried, but it's easier to convince people of a killer rather than a monster. There were inquiries about the countryside, but as with most things, it was left in an open-ended folder in an office somewhere, unsolved, deprioritized. I return to Vazawa. It might not be my home, but home is not just a place. It's a time. And that time has long passed.

It has taken some effort to accept that for now. I might not have a real home, but that doesn't mean I'll never have one. Much like Slippiak, I think there's a struggle in finding somewhere you belong. But over the southern countryside, the forest lies still. There is no wailing, no knocking, no screaming. And I think that somewhere, beyond the trees, anyone can find a place to call home.

I'm at war with my neighbor, written by I Go by KK. And before we get into this story, I just have to clarify a specific word or a specific term it's a haint and what a haint is is a southern american term for a restless malicious or evil spirit derived from the word haunt rooted in galua geichi and appalachian folklore and these spirits are believed to be vengeful souls of the dead or witches that can bring harm or bad luck to the living And now let's get into the story. I live in Appalachia. I've always lived here.

I've always been aware of the haints that are my neighbors. They are aware of me too. When I was young, they used to terrify me. Eyes within the trees. Whispers that sound like human voices mixed with the howling winds. When the birds go silent, you become acutely aware of the fact you are trespassing on your neighbor's property, and you are not welcome. Unlike people,

Haynes don't use guns to defend themselves. As I grew older, I grew a deep appreciation for them. This has been their home much longer than it has been mine. The Appalachian Mountains are older than we can dream of, older than bones and even the sea. When you're quiet and still,

you can speak to the bones. The ground itself talks in a voice with no sound, communicating to your soul, not your conscious mind. When I first bought my own property with my husband, I made it clear to the haints I was going to inhabit the property as it was my own. I gave them gifts of milk and sugar, woven baskets and carved charms set with the intentions and phrases my mama taught. Passed down from the ten generations my family had lived there.

Then I set my wards. nails taken from the cornerboards of my house, salted and blessed with my own blood. My husband isn't from here originally, so he thought it was a bit of an extreme response, but he didn't protest. He declined my offers to add him to the wards. I wasn't pleased with that. I'd no intention of forcing him, though. He didn't believe my stories for the first year.

It wasn't until the things in our house would go missing, only to be shortly returned after I served up honey milk to the haint living with us that he started to believe. He never confirmed it out loud, but the change in his disposition was clear. He began to fear the things in the woods. I told him time and time again, there was no fear to be had as long as we respected them, the same they respected us. Yet he still refused to be outpast sundown. We no longer hosted bonfires or watched the fireflies after the trout-bellied sky sank

beneath the horizon, I understood the fear he held. The paralysis of realizing you're being watched cautiously by things beyond your comprehension. The apex predator is aware of you, and you are stepping on its territory, and it may pounce at any moment. It wasn't until these screams started that I became nervous as well. I'd heard the screams before, almost woman-like, yet oddly inhuman. It had been many years since I'd felt the dread they inspired, the need to flee. My husband froze, still as a rabbit on its haunches, waiting to see what the hound will do.

I guided his arm inside and locked the door, salting the windows and door. I was confident in my wards, but that did not mean I was somehow stronger than whatever this was. As far as I knew, the wards could be completely useless. The haints run by their own rules. The words of my father from childhood stuck in my head. That ain't how a woman screams. Go inside. He said it with such a serious face as if he was warning me,

not just keeping me away from a fox or a mountain lion. When we heard the deer screaming in agony two days later, his eyes darkened and how he turned his back to the woods with resolve. He kept the shotgun by the door for a month after that, something I was now doing too. We lived that way for six months. This haint, unwilling to live amicably with me like so many others, terrorized my husband the most. He woke up screaming most nights.

Some night terror breaking his mind slowly but surely. I was beginning to grow angry. I had made good faith offerings. Burnt meat and a fire just outside my bounds. Honeybread and homemade meads. Yet the haint accepted none of it. it. All was spoiled and ron by morning. A rude rejection in a statement to me. It only stoked the flames in my own soul. This was my home just as it was the haints, and I would not allow it to

terrorize my loved one. It began killing my chickens. That was when I decided it was war. I responded in earnest, upping my words tenfold, saying nightly prayers, calling upon the friendly neighbor, for aid. I did not like calling upon them. It always came at a cost. I was growing more rapidly aware of the fact that, if I did not, this haint would kill us. It was not content to only feed off the discomfort. It craved the taste of flesh. My chickens were not a satisfactory substitute. I saw it for the first time three years into us living there. It stood at the edge of my wards, careful not to step over them, yet seemingly testing the bounds. Its appearance is difficult to describe, but I will do my best.

Deer are prey animals. Their eyes are set on the side of their heads to give them near complete 360-degree vision. Their legs are made for running and hold immense ability to spring into jumps over creek beds or brush as they escape hunters. This beast did not hold those features. Its eyes were front-set, pitch black with absolutely no glint as the porch light hit them. It stood taller at the shoulder than a normal deer, nearly as tall as the willow it towered near. Its mouth was wrong, slid and barely masking the shape of sharpened teeth.

It moved its head like a cat. cocked its head to the side like a dog, chittered like a fox, stepped like a mountain lion. What I found was most uncanny were its legs. They were not the slender, graceful legs of a deer. They were muscular. The legs of a predator. Not prey. It pod the ground with a ferocity that spoke to its power.

One, I did not want to cross. The antlers upon its head were sharper than nature intended. The shedded velvet coat with dried blood. I suppose this could have meant it sheds its antlers like a normal deer, but deep in my bones, I knew they were attached to its skull, like horns. I did something then that many would consider stupid. My husband was deep asleep, tired after a day's work and exhausted from the ongoing torment, so as quietly as I could,

I slipped out the back door and walked to it. It seemed surprised I had chosen this route. It took several steps back, cautiously watched my hands as if I were going to pull a revolver and silver bullets from my pockets. I did not. I held the leftover pork from the night's meal. I placed it upon the ground and pushed it with a branch across the ward lines. It regarded me with interest. unsure of what my motive was.

For the first time, it bowed its head and ate. I took it as a sign of a truce, at least in that moment. I spoke to it, introduced myself, my lineage, introduced it to the bones of my kin who now walked the deep earth of the mountain, same as the haints. I asked it as simply as possible. What do you seek out of this? its head shifted and clicked the teeth in its mouth showing as it was grinning i want him the words took me back my husband the outsider who had done no conceivable harm to anything here who had been respectful

as i'd told them to be who'd followed every rule why i did not bother to hide the shock or anonymosity in my voice. How well do you truly know the man you have bound yourself to? How much do you know of his history of the path his kin has passed to him? How confident are you that man is a good one? You will find me when you decide, that is, if it is not too late. The voice that spoke to me did not come from vocal cords. It traveled up my spine, the voice of the grave dirt beneath my feet seeking revenge of ages.

It regarded me one final time before its shadowy form sank into the darkness, part of the tree line. I chewed on its words for several days, told myself that it was meaning to make me paranoid,

distrustful of my husband. If that was the intent, it was working. I could not hope to view him the same way. I watched his every move and reconsidered everything he told me. I watched as he snapped at me over small things, something I had once blamed on the haint tormenting us. I re-examined the ways he drank,

unable to sleep or feel much without it. I considered the way he chopped wood, as if it had done something to him, an intense anger just underneath the surface. I listened to the words he spoke in his sleep, realizing they were not words in response to a haint, but something from his past. I began to wonder if the haint was his reckoning. I spent a month pondering what to do.

I sat by my ward lines night after night, waiting for the haint to speak to me once more again. It never came. I could hear it. Feel it just beyond the capabilities of my son. even felt as if it made eye contact with it a few times. He's starting to become more paranoid of me as well. I feel his eyes upon me when my back has turned.

I see the way his knuckles go white as he grasped knives at dinner time. I see the way his jaw tightens when I speak. I'm beginning to wonder if I've been fighting the wrong war. If the isolation I once considered sanctuary will become my grave. I broke my word last night. It was on pure impulse. My mamma would scold me if she could see the way I went about it. Dug it up under the cover of night

and felt the cold wash of the surrounding neighbors overtake me. I heard the sounds of the stag, chittering with that fox-like voice. Then I went to bed. I do not know how long I have until this war ends. I do not know which side I am on. All I know is I clutch my protection necklace much more tightly, and I no longer sleep at night. I watch and whisper to the haints I call my neighbors.

I'm at war with my neighbors, part two. I think my wife is a witch. There's no other explanation for the things occurring in around this house. We've been married for nearly five years, moved to this house four years ago. Ever since we moved, things have been terrified. fine. When I met Lottie, we were both young. I was 22, fresh out of college with my bachelor's in business, excited for life. I grew up in the mindset that business expects, constant work, and fighting to up your sales numbers. I was popular, always taking out business partners for

drinks and dinners. That all seems so unimportant now. I met Lottie one day at a farmer's market in the city. One of my partners had gone when that a semi-local farmer had the land and capacity to supply a new branch of the dairy industry in Appalachia, a near-untapped market full of possibilities. Our pitches were going well. The board members agreed, and so we found ourselves at that farmer's market. Lottie was wondering the booze, examining every single item with as much curiosity as a child in a toy shop. I found it intriguing. I didn't understand how anyone could find something as a farmer's market that interesting. What?

With it being all produce or grandma quilt, so I approached her. I thought I was sly when I was 22, but in hindsight I absolutely came off like a snob. I think moving to the mountains has made me understand that at least. For some reason, she still humored me, chatted about the artsy and traditions passed down, how important it was to keep our kin alive through them. I thought it sounded like some hippie shit. It was hippie shit, yet it still made me feel something. I felt that warm blush in my chest that you get when you realize you're into someone.

So I asked her out on a date. She wasn't keen to stay in the city any longer than she had to. So we agreed to meet in the next town over, which was basically a one stoplight town. It felt like stepping into a new foreign world. Our relationship only grew from there. She told me about her family, her heritage in Appalachia, all the foky things her mama would do. It was a definite turn-on, how passionate she was.

I'd never seen someone with the same amount of passion as me, even if it was on a different subject. I didn't share much about my family. She would ask, but I set that boundary and she begrudgingly respected it. I don't want to relive any of it or to subject her to that knowledge, so she agreed. We got married after two years of dating. Then we bought that damned house a year later. She talked me into living in the mountains.

I didn't want to. I wanted to live in one of those tiny towns where I could easily drive to work. She insisted on land in being able to farm it. I insisted it. If we had something like that, I was not going to help with it. So we bought 10 acres and a shabby little house planted right in the middle. It was incredibly removed from everyone and everything around us. The water system was so old, it came from a well pump.

She was weird when we first moved in, but I assumed it was from us finally owning a place instead of renting an apartment in the city. She was two years away from the woods at that point, so I just assumed it was a relief. I thought maybe we'd both settle into it. I was wrong. The first week there, she asked if she could take a piece of my hair and bury it. I was weirded out and said, absolutely not.

She looked disappointed, but she touched my face and smiled and just said, Okay, hon. She knows it makes me melt when she does that. I saw her later that day burying four jars around the fence line. I asked her what she was doing, and she told me her mama told her this, was the first thing every new homeowner should do. I thought it was bizarre, but she had all kinds of odd Appalachian traditions, so I brush it off. She kept telling me to respect our neighbors, so they'd respect us.

I thought that was an obvious concept, so I just nodded along, assuming this was her way of acknowledging the cultural differences and warning me from being a city jerk. I was polite whenever I saw them and even brought them green tea from the city I work in. Lottie seemed to please. I figured I was doing everything right. Six months in, I started hearing things. Whispers around the outsides of the doors in the windows and tapping on the front door. Lottie wouldn't even move her head towards them, just telling me, don't open the door.

When I'd start towards it. I hated how calm she was. It was like this was just normal to her. I started seeing things a few months later. I was terrified. I thought I was losing my mind. Sometimes I still think I am. Lottie definitely saw them too.

All she would do was smile and then go put out birdseed, like she was feeding the damn things. I grew more and more scared. Scared of them in the start of a nagging fear my wife was bringing them here. I grew adverse to being outside. Then the scream started. It sounded like a woman. It sounded like Lottie.

I froze the first time I heard them walking in from the car, slowly turning to the tree line and looking for anything weird. It was dead silent and dark. Lottie was outside by now, and I felt relief she wasn't hurt in the woods. But then I realized, if it wasn't her, what woman was screaming on our property? Lottie grabbed me by my elbow

and practically dragged me inside. I was panicking by this point. Lottie walked calmly around the house, pouring salt everywhere. I asked her what the hell she was doing, and she looked at me in such a way that it's ingrained in my mind now. That ain't how a woman screams. Her eyes were darker than usual, set with a look that said we were in danger.

I believed her. I scrambled across the house and grabbed her gun. checked it was loaded and shakily stood in front of our door holding it i don't know what i would have done with it i've never shot a gun in my entire life lottie took it from me and set it gently by the door i didn't sleep that night i don't think lottie did either although it was hard to tell considering i sat washing the door while she went to bed lottie's chickens started going missing She was furious. Kept muttering about this thing, and if it wouldn't work with her, then they could leave.

I hadn't slept in months at that point. All my dreams were full of nightmares, things from childhood, things from adulthood, and the things I was witnessing now. That comment stuck with me. I thought on it for ages. What did she mean work with her? Were all the things I was seen working with her? What did working with her even mean?

I started to distrust her, especially when I could hear her going outside at night when she thought I was asleep. I'd hear her outside talking to things and I'd hear voices in return. I didn't know whether to be angry or scared. I started to get snappy. I don't like being snappy. My father wasn't a good man and every time I quipped at her, I just felt like I was becoming him. I don't want to be him. He, my mom isn't alive anymore because of him.

He was sick. I'm starting to wonder if he passed the same sickness down to me. If the things I'm experiencing aren't even real and I'm every bit as insane as my father, I don't understand it. I promise myself I'd never be him. I started to drink more. It was the only way I could sleep. She'd watch me do it with this concerned and soft look on her face,

as if she wasn't the one putting me through three years of this hell. I found a therapist three years in. She's concerned. She knows my family history, and she talked about meds. Meds are probably good, but I was terrified if I took them, I'd wake up from my sleep one day to the things being inside my house. I found weird herb bags under my pillow, and that's when I realized.

My wife is a witch. She's a witch and she's working with demons. The things I was scared of had already broken in and my wife greeted them with open arms. I'm not a religious man. I know this seems so insane and out of place, but a month ago she went outside a night and I saw something.

There is no atheistic answer. She was sat on the grass underneath this thing. It had to have been a demon. It looked like a deer but so utterly wrong, I can't even describe it. I think it saw me looking. It made eye contact with me and then disappeared. Those eyes have been in my dreams this entire time.

Four years of those tar black eyes terrorizing me. Lottie turned her head back to the house and I just ducked under the kitchen sink. I don't know why I didn't want her to see me. me. It just felt like a bad idea. I faked sleep again, so when she came back, she wouldn't be suspicious. She's been acting weird ever since. She's treating me like I'm dangerous, or maybe like I'm something to be sacrificed. I've been chopping wood more to cope. It at least helps me build muscle if that thing attacks. I don't know what to do. What are you meant to do in situations like these. Divorce? Yes, I'm sure. Your Honor, I'd like to divorce my wife because she's a witch.

We'll hold up in divorce court. I don't know. I feel hopeless. I feel like I'm going to die in this place. I think I'm going to die here. I need help. Please. I'm at war with my neighbor. Finale. I killed my husband. He's dead. The love of my life, the song in my lungs, the braid of my hair is dead, and I killed him. It's been a month since I destroyed my wards. Since I sat on that cold ground and dug until the earth under my nails seemed as if it had always been a part of my hands. Since I took that jar and threw it into the rushing creek, shattering every hope of protecting the life I have lived for,

six years since the waters washed away what was left of my heart he came home last week forest green eyes red and swollen from crying while driving home it's a miracle he hadn't crashed or falling off the outcrop with the broken guard rail it's been a week since he came home and i held him for the final time he arrived home later than usual rushing in the door as if he was being chased. For a moment, I considered he actually could have been. Then he started packing a bag. He shoved his things in with such a panicked, frantic motion. Those green eyes, once full of so much kindness and determination,

were now only focused on escape. I asked him what he was doing. His gaze flicked up to me, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't the only one living in this house, as if he wasn't the only human. That dusty blonde hair he kept so carefully combed for work was a worried mess. Slight patches of strands missing, presumably pulled out from the stress of these past few years.

I'm leaving, he choked on the words, although I can't tell if it was from anger or fear. I was beginning to be distraught myself, although I wasn't sure why. I made up my mind weeks ago when my feet bled. mixing in the water, creating swirls of blue and red. He snapped then, threw a bottle of pills at me, an orange bottle nearly empty, marked with his name, Grayson, the dosage for twice a day, 12 hours apart.

I was confused and concerned. He said nothing, only continued packing. What is this? My psych meds. They were supposed to, his voice choked, eyes welling with tears. They were supposed to fix me. They're not.

I can't be here. His packing now is slowing, handshaking with the burdens of two decades worth of stress and sleepless nights. His crying became sobs, racking his body and heaves as he collapsed onto the quilt of my mama had gifted us upon our marriage. He held us with such grief. And I was at his side in an instant.

My instincts were still wary. unsure if this was a trick or the start of the end. So I remained poised to move if needed. He laid there, letting me hold him, making himself as small as possible and hiding his face away from me. I'd only seen him like this after the nightmares these past few years. My chest ached with the love I had thought died a month ago. So he sat.

I held him there for nearly an hour. my body relaxing into the curves of his own, soothing his back and brushing his hair. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough and quiet, fearful of the words leaving his mouth. He told me his story. His father was a sick man, inflicted with an illness of the mind that left him unsure of what was truly happening. It had started with whispers, haunting his thoughts and senses with things, just out of sight. He would grow angry at Grayson, accusing him of intentionally whispering then lying to get out of trouble. Grayson spent many nights in what his father had dubbed the punishment room. He gave no further details on what that meant. His father's paranoia and

distrust as he started to see things hovering just out of his eye line. When looked at directly, they would disappear. With the growth in fear, His anger grew dabbily as fast. Grayson's mother would try and calm his father down, but it was no use. She tried to help him. He refused. He said there was nothing wrong with his mind and everything wrong with the family that was tricking him in this way. Grayson was 10 when it happened.

His mother told him to run, so he did. He hid in the closet of their bedroom. Tucked in the small forts, his mother helped him construct out of their old blankets and scar. He heard her scream. He heard the crushing silence afterwards. He heard his father come back to reality for the first time in years. He heard him break. It was only then he ventured out of his sanctuary. It was then he saw his mother. He told me all of this was a shaking voice. His full body trembling as if he was still there. It's happening to be, Lottie. I hear the whispers. I'm seeing things, you know that. I just didn't tell you about the rest. Why it's been torture for me.

I'm getting help. I've been seeing a therapist. She gave me those meds a month ago. They were supposed to the sob started again. They haven't helped the visions or whispers. I spoke softly, realizing what exactly the haints have been doing to my love. He buried his head into my chest, nodding and holding me tighter. The worst part is a They can't even trust you. He held me tighter then. As my heart rate rose and fear gripped me in its cold, ironclad hand, he reached under the pillow and pulled out a little bag I'd placed there two years ago.

He sat up and held it. His eyes saddened and uncertain. Fear creasing his forehead. I laughed. I laughed hard. The type of laugh that makes your breath go short and your stomach hurt. Loretta May, this isn't funny. I know what you've been doing.

I know this is some kind of witchery, and you've been going outside a night and talking to those things. I know you know them. I know that you know that. He stopped as I cut him off. Grayson. Open the bag and smell it. What?

Open it and smell it. I don't get it. What's the smell got to do with anything? Laughter wrecked my body again. It's lavender. So? The smell helps you sleep. He looked at me shocked, as if he just discovered the concept of flowers being a soothing scent.

Also, I'm not talking to anything at night. I'm praying and walking the property to make sure everything is all right. His expression held a disbelief hard to describe. He looked at me as if his entire worldview had just been scratched out with black ink and rewritten. I continued laughing before he laughed along. and fussed that it wasn't funny. He was really scared. I was a witch cursing him,

and this was somehow the cause of his nightmares. We laughed deep for nearly 20 minutes, making jokes at each other and stealing kisses. It felt as if we were newly wet again. After we both managed to calm down, I explained to him in more detail the traditions that had been passed down to me. He understood my superstitious nature,

but had never quite grasped why it was important. friend. He listened in silence. Seriousness, creasing his furrowed brow, deadly still. I explained the nature of the haints, how he wasn't crazy and they were there. I asked him how he hadn't realized this when I spoke about the neighbors, and he looked at me, flabbergasted. I thought you meant our actual neighbors. You told me I've spent hundreds of green tea for the past few years, and it wasn't even those neighbors?

Laughter wrecked both our bodies again. I was surprised how well he was taking this, all things considered. My shining boy's smile had finally returned, full teeth showing his second tooth on the left crooked as always. I didn't realize how much I had missed that smile. I worked so hard to bring it back yet it was all for not. We talked for another few hours after that before exhaustion finally claimed his poor body. He fell asleep on my chest. and for once, no nightmares haunted him.

He slept deep and comfortable, hugging my waist as if he had never wanted to let go again, even in his dreams. I watched and held him for a long while. Thinking back on all the time we had spent loving each other, I thought long and hard about the pains he'd endured, being subjected to a culture so foreign to him, he'd never even considered the folk tales may be true in guide our every moves.

It was then that I remembered the Stagg-Haunt's words. More so, its lack of words. It hadn't suggested things about Grayson. It had planted seeds of doubt deep in my mind and chests, so much so that the wards that had kept it off this property for four years were now lying destroyed in cleansing water. I leapt from the bed, scrambling to find more jars and anything that could keep the house safe.

Grayson woke with a start. following me around the house confused and disoriented. My words are destroyed. His face paled. Asking me what I needed. If we should call my mama what to do. I ordered him to salt the windows and doors. We both went deadly still when we heard this scream.

Grayson scrambled faster to salt the doorways, falling back as tapping began on the front door. My hands hurried as fast as possible, shaking as I pressed a knife against my left and gasped at the pain. I bled into the jars. Grayson trying desperately to staunch the blood as I scolded him off and told him to let me work.

I sealed them, prayed over the lids, and took off running towards the back door. He was yelling at me. My sunshine, begging me not to go out there while it was so nearby. My mind had one focus, and it did not involve my safety. It wanted him. I dashed to the tree line. clawing a shallow hole in the ground and shoving the first jar down.

The ground underneath my feet was warm and pulsing, living with the spirits of my ancestors and neighbors who had accepted my invitations to be friendly. As I ran to the next corner, the ground almost pushed me, pumping my feet faster than I thought possible of a human body. The ground was already opened in a second corner, pulling itself apart with a wet squelch. I screamed to thank you.

shoving the jar hard and fast downwards as the ground ate it whole i was about to run to the next when i saw him grason was in the yard shouting for me to run he had that silly shock gun my father passed to me holding it tight as if he wasn't a city boy who couldn't fire a bee-by-gun above him stood the stag it was no longer on all fours nor had it retained the grace of a deer it was undoubtedly the same beast. Its jaw was unhinged, rose upon rows of sharp, serrated teeth, lining all the way back into the maw. I realized then that it hadn't spoke to me in words due to the fact that the teeth continued deep into that dark abyss. The guttural scream echoing from its long neck was wet, wheezing and horrifying. I froze. Grayson raised the gun. He got off one shot before I descended on him. The world felt as if it was in slow motion. I became unstuck as the ground beneath me lurched,

forcing my feet forwards. I took off on a run towards the haint, towards my darling, knowing there was nothing I could do, but I'd be damned if I didn't try. I grabbed its terrible arm, feeling in my hand like sandpaper mixed with the wet feeling of a bloated body. It knocked me backwards,

leaving a deep gash in my chest. I stumbled up, running back yet again, determined to not let this thing win. Its head snapped to me, closing back to almost be the deer and had met me as on that fateful night. It laughed at me. I could feel it laughing. You made your decision. You have found me, Loretta.

It is too late. I did what any Appalachian woman would do in that situation. I punched it in the face. My hook caught it across the nose. nose, the surprise sending it falling backwards, the ground moved yet again, pushing it further back. It's Lottie, motherfucker. It laughed again in indignation. We will meet again, and then it was gone.

I held my boy. I held my love. I held my sunshine, my starlight, the water that gives the world life, those green eyes as deep as a forest in high summer. I begged them to stay. screamed for help begged some more he touched my face and smiled once he smiled that wide smile all his teeth on display his crooked tooth now chipped and bloody then he was gone my human neighbors must have heard the commotion and called the sheriff he had to prime me off grason i couldn't breathe couldn't see anything other than how his eyes no longer held the light of half my soul.

It's been a week. It's been a week since I killed my husband. Since I held him as he bled out. Since the sheriff listened to my tale. And having grown up with me knew it was true. It's been a week since the official death report dubbed it a bear attack. It's been a week since I decided by fate. I am at war with my neighbor.

I know my side and I do not sleep. I'm going to make damn sure that it doesn't either. And all right, guys, that wraps up some chilling Reddit horror stories. I loved these stories in today's video. The first AI one was shockingly scary. And this last one, I loved both perspectives of both the people in the relationship. It was very creepy. Grace and do you think this was all on his head or do you think this was all in the

the Opie's head? Lottie's head, I think it's just a very good story and the second one with the doors in that town that was very, very interesting as well. So comment down below, your favorite story and I read every single comment. So please comment down below and make sure you like the video and subscribe to the channel. It helps more than you know. And if you enjoyed this video, I'm sure you'll enjoy other videos on the channel. So go check out those videos.

Yeah, please follow my Instagram. Follow me on Spotify. And I just want to say, thank you so much for watching to the end of the video. It means the world. And yeah, this was Snook. And I'll see next time.

Bye.