Snook - Chilling Reddit Stories

Episode Date: January 17, 2026

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Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. You guys keep wanting more and more videos like this, so here you go. This video will be a ton of different scary and chilling Reddit stories, and I'm really excited to get into it. But before we get into it, make sure you subscribe to the channel. It's the channel's goal to be at 250,000 subscribers by the end of the year, and I really think we can do it. So please subscribe. And anyways, let's get into some chilling Write it stories. Night shift. Working the graveyard shift as a cop sucks for a myriad of reasons,

chief among them being the eerieness of the night. Now saying that might make me sound like a baby, considering that I'm no small dude, but it's true. Something about being stuck in your car, with no human life in sight, has an almost alien feeling to it. I'm sure it would help if I lived in an area that wasn't heavily forced at his Wyoming,

but as it stands, if there's a light on near me, I almost can't see it with how dense the foliage is. Most nights, there's nothing to do. So just me in the silence. I usually take the time to catch up on a show I'm watching or finish a book. On the off chance I do get a call, it's always something small, like a wellness check or a suspicious character outside a bar. I'm always happy to take these calls, though, as it gets me back towards populated areas rather than some gravel road where They have me scouting for speeders. It's not an exciting job, but it pays the bills. It happened two days ago.

On a relatively warm night, I was working my first night shift in a while. After getting back from vacation, Jimmy, the officer replaced me while I was out, told me that he finally understood what I was talking about when I said it was creepy. I chuckled, assuring him that I would take over for a while and advised him to bring something to do next time to keep his mind off it. If anyone were to understand what the transition day to night shift was like, it would be me. So I tried to make him comfortable. After all, if he started taking them more, I wouldn't have to sit in the darkness as much.

He handed me the keys and I had an idea. This was the only night shift I was scheduled for that week. Why not make it a little bit more bearable? I decided to invite him along. He could either sit at the desk all night in a dimly lit, princint with only one other person, or hang out and shoot the shit in the cruiser. Honestly, I don't think the blinding white walls of the station are that much more comforting than the darkness, and I think he agreed, because he accepted the offer pretty quickly.

We parked on one of our designated hind spots and settled in, watching some shitty horror movie and cracking open a few beers. Sure, we shouldn't have been doing that, but who was going to arrest us for it? We weren't small guys either, so it would take more than a couple of beers to get us tipsy. We also didn't expect to be moving much until much. my work phone rang. I sighed, rub my eyes and answered it. It was already 3 a.m. So at least we made it halfway through the ship before something happened. I immediately heard giggling on the other end. I said, hello a few times. It was about to hang up when I heard a voice on the other end of the line. It was Brian, the only other officer on duty that night, and he was in charge of manning the station's

phone. Usually he was as monotone as a depressed robot, so to hear him laugh was already weird. Hey Tom, how's it going? I can't complain. Just living the high life with Jimmy here. What's up? You're not going to believe this shit. I got an emergency call from the old AMEK factory on McCabe and road. How? That place doesn't have any power, or phones even. That's why I'm laughing my ass off. The person who called said they broke into the place to try and steal equipment and now they're somehow stuck inside. It was silent in the cruiser for a second. second. Jimmy and I slowly turned to look at each other, and then, almost simultaneously, we burst out laughing. You're shit in me. I'm dead serious. When I got the call, I almost pissed myself trying

not to laugh at the poor bastard. I'm about to piss myself right now. Hell, I think Jimmy already did. Jimmy jokingly slugged me on the shoulder as Brian began to talk again. Anyways, do me the favor and go and help this guy get out of there. It's your choice whether you want to arrest him for trespassing or not. But he's had a bad enough night as it is. is by the sounds of it. We'll take care of it. Beats given another speeding ticket. I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep a straight face, though. I sure a shit wouldn't be able to. Give me a call back if you need backup, all right? I'll have to call up the precinct up in the Pendale if you do. They have their parade this week, so I'm sure they've got a few guys to spare. Sounds good, Brian.

We'll keep you posted. I hung up and flick the cruiser's lights on, piercing through the darkness. We peeled out onto the road, making sure to not heading any deer along the road. We're not heading any deer along the way. It was only about a 10-minute drive, but you never know. We pulled into the bramble-covered entrance to the building, and I got out of the car to undo the rusted chain blocking the road. The place had been abandoned for 10 years after AMEK moved its drilling operations up north and took half the town's population with them. Now the place was just a drinking spot for local teens, and it showed, with the amount of graffiti sprayed along the sides. We got out of the cruiser, flicked our flashlights on and started looking for an entrance. Jimmy was noticeably on edge,

probably because he didn't even know this place existed. He was relatively new to the area, and I'm pretty sure this was his first time having to get out of the car on the night shift, although I didn't ask. He went around the left side of the building, while I took the right, both of us looking for a rusted door or a busted window. I was peeling brambles off my shorts when I heard Jimmy start yelling. Immediately, high-tailed it back towards the other side of the building, hand on my holster, preparing for the worst. Was this a trap? Maybe the dude we came here to find was some sicko looking to hurt us, or worse.

I sprinted around the corner, shining my flashlight in front of me and expecting the worst. My flashlight illuminated Jimmy, who was doubled over laughing. I was confused, immediately asked if he was all right. He looked up at me, with the widest grin I'd ever seen him sporting. I totally got you. I was relieved that nothing actually happened. but was mostly annoyed that he did that to me.

It was almost four in the morning, for God's sake, and we were on the tail of some idiot in the middle of abandoned warehouse. For a second, I thought he was getting attacked. It'd be a line in a bloody heap by the time I got over him. I think he saw that I was pissed because his face immediately sank and he started to apologize, saying he was just trying to lighten the mood. I took a deep breath and smiled at him.

I assured him that I'd get him back at some point and to just focus on getting in for now. We found a broken window that we just assumed he'd climbed in through and shined our flashlights on the door inside to make sure we weren't about a step on nails or something. As we climbed into the place, I radioed Brian and asked him to call a few other officers over to us, just in case something went wrong. After the shit Jimmy pulled, I was on edge, that something bad would happen. So I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The power in the place still didn't work. In hindsight, I have no idea why I even bothered checking. so it looked like we were going to be using our flashlights to work.

We called out a few times in the darkness, seeing if we get a response, but to no avail. We walked past the old drills and ore pressers, our feet clicking against the concrete floor. After searching the bulk of the main room, we headed for the hallway at the very back of the factory. I knew this place pretty well, since I'd been called there during the daytime a few years back to clear out some drunk partiers who'd snuck in. Still, it was a whole different beast at night, and the fact that the hallway immediately branched into three more didn't help. This is where we made our first mistake, and it was a pretty stupid one.

We decided to split up. I know, I know, it's how horror movies start and how characters die. We were both tired and our energy drinks were wearing off. We agreed that we'd keep our radios on at all times and let each other know if we found the guy. At this point, I'd assume that he found his way out and ran into the woods and fear of being arrested, but we still had to sweep the place just in case. I wasn't planning on arresting the guy, as I figured that he'd had a bad enough night at that point, and the old equipment he was planning on taking wasn't of any use to anyone anymore. So I would have just let him off with a warning.

Now, though, I was starting to change my mind. I didn't want to have to search the entire pack half of this place, especially given the fact that there are three floors worth of rooms here. It didn't help that the building was split into two sides that weren't connected, So if one of us found something, the other would have to walk all the way over to him. I was starting to understand why this place wasn't used anymore. Every time I passed a room, I'd shine my flashlight in and call out, as evidenced by Jimmy's voice over the radio. We had a similar system going.

When I reached the first room on the second floor, he was already on the third, so I warned him to slow down a little bit just to make sure that each room was completely clear. I was met with complete silence and repeated myself. Still, nothing. Hey, Tom, I see something. What is it? Down the hall for me. There's a hand sticking out of the doorway.

I stopped in my tracks. What do you mean? There's a hand waggling its finger at me. I'll be right over. Don't go near it. Don't do shit. Slowly back up, in fact. I started towards the stairs, admittedly slower than I should have.

At this point, I was creeped out. But the rational side of me was telling me that someone had gotten stuck and was motioning for Jimmy to come closer to help them. When I reached the first floor of my building, the other side of me started screaming at me to get moving, and that's the side I started listening to. As I approached the entrance to the other building, my radio suddenly erupted. Tom! What? What is it? There's a face. There's someone looking at me. I didn't respond. I just broke into a sprint, towards the access door at the end of the hall.

I grabbed the handle and pushed. It didn't budge. I ran my shoulder into it, screaming Jimmy's name. Behind the door, I heard faint yelling. The door finally gave out and I started sprinting up the dark staircase. I took my gun out of my holster, whatever was going up on there, wasn't good. I reached the entrance of the third floor, and again, the door was locked. I bashed my shoulder into the door once again, calling his name. This time, though, there was no response. No screaming, just silence. I drew my pistol and unloaded almost the entire clip. into the lock. The door still didn't budge. Something had to be blocking it from the other side. I slammed against the door so hard that things started flying off my belt. First my knife,

then my taser, then my flashlight. I stopped for a second to pick it up, but it just kept rolling until it hit the edge of the stairwell and fell down. I couldn't see shit anymore, but I didn't have time to go get it. The door was starting to push open, and I had to get through. I kicked it so hard I thought I broke my ankle, but I didn't care. It finally caved in enough for me to slip through the hallway. I once again called out Jimmy's name, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a light on the end of the hallway. Not a flashlight, but a very dimly lit room. Standing in the doorway was a silhouette. It had to be him. I called out to him again, but didn't step closer. The silence was broken when the giggling started. It was faint enough that I couldn't tell if it was him, but it sounded like it.

The giggling turned to laughter, and he started to move, but didn't leave the doorway. He was just moving in place, jerking from side to side. It looked like he was dancing. I lowered my gun and called out to him again. I knew what was happening. He was fucking with me. All of this was a setup to prank me again. I was royally pissed off, and started screaming down the hall.

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought someone was attacking you, dude. I fucking told you earlier to stop messing around and now you nearly gave me a heart attack by doing this shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? I put my gun back in my belt and turned back towards the door. I'd add more than enough for one night. I'm going outside of way for the backup to get here and going with them back to our station.

When you're ready to stop fucking around, take the car and don't talk to me for a week. This is seriously fucked up. I stormed out of the broken door and picked up all my stuff. I climbed back through the window and sit in the darkness in front of the factory, waiting for backup to arrive. Luckily, they were all well in their way out already, and got there about five minutes after I got myself outside, I hopped into the back seat of their cruiser and buckled myself in. Whenever you're ready, you can drive me back to the station. It's 20 minutes down the main road. The officer behind the wheel turned to look at me. They turned back towards the wheel and pointed to the factory. Don't

you want to wait for your partner? It looks like he's at the window up there. I rolled the window down and looked outside. Sure enough, there's a faint light coming from one of the windows will look to be a flashlight beam, illuminating someone's silhouette. He'll take our car back to the station. I'm pissed off at him right now, so he can take care of it. With a nod, the officer shifted into reverse, and we backed out into the main road. Once we got back to the president, I thanked him for the lift, and immediately hopped into my truck and drove back home. I was exhausted and didn't really cared away for Jimmy to bring the car in. Jimmy didn't show up for work yesterday and he didn't return the car either. We thought he'd just taken a sick day and forgot to phone in, or maybe he was scared to face me

after his little prank backfired. Everyone I told about it seemed to be on my side. Maybe he knew I'd tell people about it, so I thought he was just afraid of corrective action. At least, that was my theory yesterday. He didn't show up today, either, and everyone started to get a bit worried, even me. We sent a couple of officers out to the factory to see if he had left it in the cruiser, or took an Uber home and left it there. Sure enough, it was parked in the same spot. When they saw this, they phoned me to come in and help search the area, just in case. It was my day off, so I was irritated, but I did hope he was okay. So I relented. We searched the entire factory and didn't find anything until we got to the third floor hallway that we had been

on a few days ago. I got up the stairs last and found one officer vomiting in the corner of the stairwell, and the other shielding his eyes in disgust. I pushed past them and walked into the hallway. The floor was stained with a trail of blood leading towards the end of the hall. There, hanging from the doorway, was Jimmy. He'd been absolutely mangled. His stomach was eviscerated. and his eyes and tongue were missing. Most notably, though, were his arms and legs. The veins had been almost completely ripped from them and braided so tightly together that they formed a makeshift rope. Seeing this, I didn't immediately join the other officer in vomiting. I just stood there, completely stunned. That changed, though, when I walked into the room behind his body,

above him, attached to the doorway, was a makeshift pulley system, a system that is very much-shift. A system that is veins had been run through. Almost like he was a puppet. Let's talk groceries, specifically, your groceries with Instacart. You want your groceries just the way you like them, right? Well, the Instacart app lets you do just that. They have a new preference picker that lets you pick how ripe or unripe you want your bananas. Shoppers can see your preferences up front, helping guide their choices. Instacart, get groceries just how you like. I used to be a PC delivery driver. One night while making it delivered to a house, I witnessed something so disturbing that it made me never want to deliver pizza again. Trouble had a way of finding me from a young age, often fell in with bad influences which led to my horrible, and oftentimes reckless choices.

My illegal antics frequently brushed against the law. Countless close calls only fed my misguided sense of invincibility until one night when my so-called friends and I made a huge, huge mistake. The sky was a bruised purple, punctured with a million tiny diamonds, as my friends and I, fueled by beer and the lingering buzz of weed, huddled in my neighbor's garage around a single flickering bare bulb after sneaking inside. The air hung heavy with a metallic tank of oil in the distant hum of the fridge, thumbed like a low heartbeat. We had squeezed through a gap in the fence, the rough wood scraping against our skin, and settled into a circle in my neighbor's garage as if we owned the place. My parents were away on a weekend trip, mistakenly assuming I was responsible

enough to stay out of trouble. My friends and I sparked up a fat blunt. The acrid smoke stung my throat as I took a huge drag, feeling like a cartoon dragon excelling a billowing cloud that hung thick and stagnant in the still air. Whether it was the smoke were just bad luck, I lost my balance and doubled back, sending a toolbox crashing to the floor with a deafening clatter. A pool of spilled solvent, previously unnoticed in the dim light, glinted ominously. The metal tools clanged against it, and a spark erupted, a tiny flicker that ballooned into a monstrous flame in an instant. Panic spread faster than the rapidly growing fire. My friends, their faces in fear, bolted past me, leaving me alone with a growing blaze.

My lungs ached for fresh air. A desperate gasp, trapped in my smoke, filled chest. With a surge of adrenaline, I ignored the searing heat and threw open the garage door. There stood Mr. Smith, my neighbor, his furious gaze piercing through the disheveled frame of his bathrobe. Without a word, he grabbed my collar and hurled me onto the damp grass. Then he ran over to the fire extinguisher, his face grimmed with determination, and desperately attempted to save a remain of his burnt-uped garage. Mr. Smith, his face flustered with anger and the smell of singed fabric, clinging to his bathrobe, barked into his phone, reporting the fire and her trespasses the police. Sirens wailed in the distance, a growing sound that mirrored the knot of dread

tightening in my stomach. The police arrived swiftly. My friends, eager to save their own skins, wasted no time pointed accusing fingers in my direction. From a legal perspective, the situation looked bleak. The authorities, their faces grim under the harsh glare flashing squad car lights, classified my accidental arson as a criminal offense. The lack of intent mattered little in the face of the evidence. Traspassing, the remnants of the blunt, and the smoldering remains at the garage all painted a clear picture. The combination of our bad choices, trespassing, smoking weed, and the resulting fire left no wiggle room for leniency in the eyes of the law. The judge, a stern woman, pronounced my fate, four months in juvenile detention. Those months became enforced period of

introspection. A monotonous battle against regret within cold, sterile walls. Oppressive silence, the clang of metal doors and the hollow thought of footsteps echoing my dissent or placed the companionship I once craved. A month before completing my four-month sentence, the courts granted me conditional release, under the agreement that I repay the repair cost from Mr. Smith's garage. Every hard-earned cent I made over the next year went toward that repayment. A constant reminder etched in both money and trust. The weight of my past clung to me like damp clothes and I charged forward, one paycheck at a time. The air hung heavy in the house, thick with disappointment and the unspoken weight of my mistake. Mom sat beside me, her hands quivering slightly as she navigated

through a sea of job listings on the unsteady glow of the monitor. I knew she was mad, heartbroken even. But beneath the anger, I saw love, a silent plea for me to understand the gravity of my actions. Dad, ever the pragmatist, sat across from us, a deep frown on his usually jovial face. Unlike mom, his silence felt accusatory, a heavy weight that spoke volumes. The night went on, marked by the steady tabbing of the keyboard. And now we're in, we hit upon a job ad that looked promising. Pizza delivery driver wanted. It wasn't the dream job I'd hoped for, but it was a start. My parents felt the change, too. They looked at each other. Mom's face lit up with hope and dad almost smiled. Mom, a whiz with words, polished my resume,

turned in from a jumbled mess into a presentable document. Dad, seasoned by his own job interviews, coached me on how to behave during an interview. His stern questions a hard but a central practice. In that moment, their unspoken support spoke louder than any words ever could. A week later, I found myself outside Luigi's Loves, its name flaking in right above the entrance. The air was rich with the classic scent of the old pizza place, a blend of sharp tomato, melting cheese, and the sizzle of pepperoni. In one corner, stacks of four coated boxes teetered, and the walls adorned with faded posters, showed cartoon chefs tossing heaps of toppings with exaggerated enthusiasm. The gruff man who emerged from behind a swinging kitchen door wasn't the

polished interviewer I'd envisioned. A flower-dusted apron clung to him like his second skin. And his voice boomed with a gruffness that could rival a foghorn. Desperation drowned in an initial apprehension. I needed this chance. The interview itself was refreshingly short and to the point. It didn't delve into my past, didn't ask about the fire that still burned in my conscience. Instead, he focused on the essentials, age, driver's license, and the seeming impossible task of juggling a piping hot pizza and a temperamental GPS.

It wasn't much, but in that moment, it felt like everything. This gruff man, with his flower-dusted apron and no-nonsense demeanor, had offered me a way to crawl out of my hole I dug for myself. The job itself wasn't a walk in the park, but it wasn't a disaster zone either. There were long stretches of downtime, with the occasional rush of orders that left me breathless and drenched in sweat. The base pay was a joke, barely enough to cover a week's worth of ramen noodles. Thankfully, there were tips.

Those crisp bills tucked into sweaty palms or clinking in the bottom of the delivery bag were my savior. Every penny went straight to Mr. Smith, a constant reminder of the debt hanging over my head. But the real challenge wasn't the physical demands or the meager pay. It was the customers. On paper, the job seemed simple. Deliver hot pizza, collect payments, smile politely. Reality, however, was a different beast entirely. Some folks were friendly, genuinely happy to see a pizza appear at the doorstep, but others,

well, let's just say they could test the patience of a saint. A simple wrong turn or a slight delay could turn into a verbal maelstrom. I'd had doors slam my face with enough force to rattle my teeth, endured accusations of stolen sodas, with the indignation of a wronged king, and even faced down a few Karens demanding free pizzas for inconveniences real and imagined. Those moments, made me question the very fabric of humanity, leaving me wondering if kindness was an extinct species. One night at work, the clock on the wall mocked me with its luminous green glow that seemed to say, almost there. Midnight had just struck. In the promise of freedom, a bed, a shower, anything but another delivery, hung close. Just as I was about to switch off the radio for the

blissful silence of a closing shift, my boss's voice crackled to life. One more delivery, he announced. I swallowed a sigh that threatened to be an all-outgrown. Two steaming pizzas were shoved into my arms. The cardboard boxes amade into a comforting warmth that instantly clashed with a dwindling patience. A greasy note stuck to the top held the address, scrawled in messy handwriting, and the delivery phone number. That seemed to have more digits than usual. One glance at the GPS confirmed my suspicions. This delivery was far beyond the usual pizza radius. Nestle deep into the heart of the quiet countryside. With a resigned sigh, I punched the address into the GPS, muttered a prayer to the tech gods for a decent route, the glowing screen pulsed with his suggestion. And the cheery voice announced a shortcut that promised a quicker route.

Creek Road, or some variation of that flashed across the screen, a name that conjured images of a peaceful farmland and maybe a friendly cow or two. Out on that side of town, the streetlights gave way to the blanket of inky blackness and the occasional twinkling star, deciding which turnoff was actually Creek Road became a guessing game. The dense roads pressed in on both sides, their rustling leaves creating a symphony of gentle sounds. Each twist and turn on the road had me second-guessing myself. Was I headed in the right direction? Was I lost with a car full of rapidly cooling pizza? In a last-ditch effort, I pulled the car onto the gravel shoulder on the darkened road, the headlights casting long shadows that danced across the uneven ground. grasping at the greasy note, I punched into the phone number scrawled across it.

The silence stretched on, with the rhythmic chirping of critics in the background, hidden in the roadside grass. Just as I had a hang up, defeated a gruff voice crackled through the receiver. It was low and deep, yet strangely laced with a gentle drawl. Hello? Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. Hello, this is the pizza guy. I blurted out. My voice a touch higher than usual. I'm having a bit of trouble finding your house. Another beat of silence followed. Then the man on the other hand chuckled softly.

Don't worry, son. He drawled. My driveway is easy to miss. Looks more like a dirt trail than anything else. He went on to describe the surroundings, his voice painting a picture with words. He mentioned a large oak tree with a tire swing hanging from a low branch and a rusty mailbox shaped like a red pickup truck. With renewed hope, I hung up the phone and, gripped his steering wheel a little tighter, turning cautiously onto the narrow dirt trail.

I navigated slowly. My headlights cutting through the darkness like a twin search lights. The dust billowed behind the car, creating a hazy cloud that momentarily obscured the path ahead. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to 30 seconds, a single-story house emerged from the gloom. It looked like a ranch-style dwelling, painted a warm yellow that seemed to glow ever so slightly in the darkness. A single light flickered in the window, casting a welcoming rectangle of golden light onto the porch swing, clutching the two steaming pizzas, the cardboard boxes feeling pleasantly warm against my palms. I crunched across the gravel path towards the front door. No doorbell greeted me, so I wrapped my knuckles around the weathered wood,

the sound echoing hollowly in the stiff night air. Muffled music, something old from the 1900s by the sound of it, filtered from within the house. Footsteps shuffled towards the door, a slow and deliberate rhythm that sent a shivered down my spine. The steps stopped abruptly. A beat of silence followed. Then the door creaked open, revealing only a sliver of darkness within. A man peeked out from behind the door, his face hidden in shadow. The man behind the door seemed to be deliberately using it as a shield. His body hidden from sight. Uh, hey, I stammered. The sudden silence thick and charged. pizza delivery, right?

Yep, that's me, rumbled the voice, instantly recognizable from her phone call. In awkward silence descended once more, the old scratching music from another time, providing the only distraction. Desperate to break the tension, I blurted out. Do you have the cash ready? Yes, hold on a second, he mumbled. His voice warmed despite the odd tension in the air. He shuffled back.

The music momentarily replaced by the soft creak of floorboards. As a gentle breeze nudged the door further open, a sliver of light illuminated the interior. Revealing a glimpse of a cluttered living room. However, the visual revelation was quickly overpowered by a quick wave of putrid odor that slammed into me with the force of a brick to the face. The stench was unmistakable, a cloyne, sickening sweetness that made my stomach churn in my eyes water. It was the smell of death, and it instantly overshadowed the old music. playing from inside the house and the man's friendly demeanor. The second stretched into a thick, uncomfortable silence. I shifted my way from one foot to the other, the sound of the crickets

outside growing louder in the absence of any other noise. It was getting ridiculous. This whole delivery had been weird. With a growing sense of unease, I wrapped my knuckles on the open doorway again. Sir, my voice sounds drained, even to my own ears. A muffled response came from somewhere deeper in the house. Could you just come inside to the kitchen, please? The request seemed so odd, so out of place that I blinked, momentarily convinced I'd misheard him. Can you repeat that? I asked, needing confirmation. Can you come inside the kitchen, please? He repeated. His voice a touch more incessant this time, a hint of urgency creeping in that sent a shiver down my spine. My gut lurched. That wasn't in the training manual. My boss had drilled into our heads,

never enter a customer's house for safety and liability reasons. But in that moment, better judgment took a backseat to a misplaced sense of, well, I wasn't sure what to call it. Misplace helpfulness, maybe? Against the gnawing voice of caution in my head, I found myself shrugging nonchalantly. I stepped cautiously into the house, the weathered floorboards groaning under my way like the protest of a reluctant spirit. It wasn't just old. This house was a time capsule. Each detail, frozen in a snapshot of Begone Era. The house was thick with the smell of dust and echoes of the past. The long, narrow interior stretched before me like a dimly lit tunnel. Dark hallways. Their doorways shrouded in shadow, branched off to the left and the right, like forgotten rooms at a

elaborate. The faded wallpaper clinging precariously to the walls boasted a swirling floral pattern in hues of dusty rose and tarnished gold. It was a design straight out of the 1930s dream, faded with the passage of time. In the corners, a tall grandfather clock stood sentinel. Its ornate mahogany frame gleaming faintly in the dim light, filtering through the half-open door. Its solemn presence was punctured by the rhythmic tic talk of its pendulum, a steady heartbeat in the quiet house. Next to it, an old record player, world to life, its needle whispering across the surface of a dusty vinyl record. A melody, melancholic and hauntingly beautiful drifted from the speakers. A forgotten song from a long-to-lost-time.

To my right, an open doorway offered a tantalizing glimpse into the kitchen. An old cast-iron stove, its once black belly worn smooth through a dull grey by countless meals. Stood proudly against the far wall. Glems of firelight dance in the chipped enamel surface, hinting at a pot simmering on its burner. A porcelain sink, its pristine white surface now yellowed and etched with the passage of years. nestled beneath a small window framed by laced curtains that were more yellowed than white. The man's voice, warm and slightly raspy, called out from somewhere inside the kitchen, but I couldn't see him.

As I turned my head to the left, a narrow hallway extended before me, its right side lined with closed doors. At the far end, a dim, flickering, light casted an unsettling glow of an old woman dancing in the hallway. She was completely naked. Her back to me. She swayed and danced slowly to the 1900s music that was being played on the record player in the living room. She was feeling herself.

I don't mean that she was confident or anything. I mean that she was literally touching her body in this disturbing, erratic manner. Her moments were slow. Almost dreamlike. As she swayed to the music filtering in from the living room, it wasn't a sensual dance, but rather an erratic exploration of her own body. Her arm swooped and her hands fluttered, tracing lines among her skin in the way that it sensed. a jolt of uneas through me. In my time as a pizza delivery guy, I'd seen my fair share of oddballs.

A naked lady dancing to odd music might sound funny to someone else, but what I was witnessing transcended humor. It was deeply unsettling. The way she moved was such a disconnect from new music, lost in a world of her own. Terror coiled in my gut as I wrenched my gaze away from the disturbing scene in the hallway. I nervously redirected my gaze to the kitchen, catching side of the man, or at least what he allowed me to see of him. He was peeking around the corner now, his face concealed by the wall, body hidden. It was him again, but only a sliver of his face was visible. One eye staring at me with an unnerving intensity that made my skin crawl.

My mind went utterly blank. All I could manage was a single, desperate question that tumbled out in a strangled whisper. Do you have the money? The response the man gave back was not what I expected. Instead of words, a sound erupted from the man's hidden form, a low, guttural chuckle that seemed to crawl up from somewhere deep within the earth. It wasn't laughter, not in any traditional sense. It was a vibration, deep and chilling, that resonated through my bones and made my hair

stand on an end. It was the sound of something primal, something lurking just beneath the surface of normalcy. Then, with a terrifying suddenness, the horrific, laughter was cut short. Get him, mom. The words exploded from the man's mouth, shattering the silence with a force that made me flinch. The volume and raw aggression were a shocking contrast

to his previous monotone and soft voice. It was as if a switch had flipped, revealing a hidden fury beneath the calm exterior. My blood ran cold as the full weight of his words sank in. From the hallway of my left, a sound ripped through the air, the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. I whipped my head around just in time to see the naked woman, the one who had been dancing there

moments ago sprinting towards me. Her speed defied her age, propelled by terrifying urgency. Pure terror cursed through me, a shot of adrenaline that propelled me into action. Without a single waste of thought I spun on my heel. That forgotten pizza boxes tumbling from my grasp with a clatter. The door, the only escape, seemed miles away. My legs pumped. An instinctive urge to flee override in any thought of dignity. I flung the door open with a crash, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically dove through the threshold. Reaching the car, I fumbled with the keys, momentarily cursing my trembling hands. The door flew open and I virtually flung myself into the driver's seat, slamming it shut with another bone-jaring thud. In a heartbeat, the engine roared to life.

The sound, a beautiful symphony in the face of the chilling silence behind me. My foot slammed down on the gas pedal, and the car lurched forward. Tire spitting gravel as it tore out of the driveway. As I sped away, the house receding rapidly in the rearview mirror, I couldn't resist a final, glanced back, bathed in the pale moonlight spilling through the open doorway. I saw them. The man and apparently his mom, both completely naked. Their form stark and unsettling against the dark interior. Their faces were obscured by shadow, but the intensity of their gazes seemed to pierce the distance, following me even as I put more and more space between us. Whatever was going on in that house was far from normal. I couldn't shake the overwhelming sense that their intentions were

anything but innocent. It certainly wasn't about the pizza. Whatever secrets at house harbored, whatever abnormal dynamic existed between the man and his mom, I knew it was something I wanted to know part of. I returned to work a few days later. The encounter at the house were playing in my mind on loop. Sharing my story with my coworkers was a mistake. Most of them laughed, just as I expected. Man, you got chased by a naked old woman, they joked. Their laughter felt hollow and insensitive, like a swarm of angry bees buzzing in my ears. Frustrated and shaken, I stormed into my boss's office, expressing my desire to never return to the job. He was aware of the court-mandated agreement and tried to persuade me to stay, saying, if you don't have work to accommodate your,

your neighbor's garage, you'll end right up back in juvie, he warned. The thought of juvenile detention didn't hold the same way it once did, not compared to what I saw in that house. I don't care, I blurt it out. I'd rather go back then, continue working here. Four weeks later, I finally landed a job at a local diner. The pay was decent, but after court fees and the court's mandated agreement to pay off my neighbor's garage, every penny counted. One night, on a late shift, the dinner wrapped me in its usual sensory tapestry, the sizzle of burgers on the grill, the dance of weight staff weaving through patrons, the symphony of cutlery and crockery from the kitchen, as I cleaned a table marred by ketchup smears and abandoned fries, my phone vibrated against my leg.

I retrieved it and greeted the caller with an inquisitive. Hello? Silence. Then ragged breath filled the receiver, shallow and strained. Normally I would have hung up by now, but I faintly recognize something, the sound of music resonating in the static background of the call. I knew I'd heard the music before. I just couldn't remember where. I listened carefully, and it hit me like a ton of bricks when I realized that it was the same song. That old, scratchy tune from the early 1900s playing faintly in the background, the same exact song I'd heard in that house. I agreed to check in on my neighbor's cat during her holidays. But what I encountered made me flee and fear after just five days. My friend and I have known each other since high school. We ended up going to the same

college. We moved to the same neighborhood and started working to the same place. It was all coincidental, but it allowed us to be close friends, even though we had nothing in common but life and coincidences. At one point, about four years ago, she changed jobs. First, we had regular lunches, but then I also moved out of the neighborhood and into a house in the suburbs. So without daily interactions at work, without living close to each other, we just drifted apart. For a few years, we only talked on birthdays and major holidays, wishing each other well, updating each other on random life events, etc. This year for my birthday, she wrote me and told me she's buying a house. Again, coincidentally, it was very close where I had moved, about a 10-minute drive. She invited me to

her new house party and then message me after thanking me for coming. A few days later, she messaged me again. And soon after, we started getting back in touch. As this was happening in mid-June, and with summer just around the corner, we didn't have time to see each other again before I went on holiday. We were texting each other daily almost. She told me she got a cat and then sent me pictures. It was a gorgeous little rescue. She was black all over except for her paws, which were white. It looked like she was wearing shoes. So my friend named her boot. From the pictures and videos, Boots was loving, cuddly, and sweet. So when I came back from holiday, I didn't think twice before I agreed to stop by my friend's house

every evening and look after the cat. While she went on holiday for a week, too, I even proposed to take her over at my place. But since I had a dog and my friend didn't know how Boots would react, we agreed that I just dropped by every night for a few hours as my schedule allowed it, as her flight was departing before mine would have landed. We didn't manage to meet, and she couldn't give me her house keys, so she gave me code to her garage. I could very easily enter like that, and the job was simple enough. Checked that the cat had sufficient dry food available, feed her a little satchel of wet food every evening, change her water

and clean her litter. I was also to spend an hour or so just cuddling or playing with her. Simple and adorable, right? Wrong. The first night went smoothly enough. I got there at around 8.30, around Boots dinner time. She ate her wet food really well. And then we played her. for a little. What's your favorite toy, boots? I asked her jokingly. She looked at me in the eyes, ran into the bedroom, and came back with an orange plastic mouse. I was taken aback by the cat's ability to understand my question.

But I assume my friend was talking to her all the time, and that phrase, favorite toy, in relation to the specific mouse, had come by a few times. The cat was associating. I replaced the water and the dry food, clean the litter box, and then lay down on the couch to read a little. Boots came over and started making biscuits on the blanket, which I used as a cover. I took some pictures and sent them to my friend who was pleased with my service. Boots, loving all the attention, ear scratches and sweet talk, laid on my stomach and started purring, fast asleep.

Oof, boots, what's that smell, I said, trying to dissipate the odor with my hand? What a farty butthole you have, miss? Very unbecoming for a lady, I argued. The cat me out at me, as if to excuse herself or protest and then got off the couch. Oh, come on, Bootsie, I didn't mean it, I argued back. I put my book down and checked the time. It was well past 11 p.m. Pretty late, I thought.

I packed my things, messaged my friend that I was on my way, made sure the garage door closed properly, and off I went. The next night, things went just as smoothly, with a very similar routine. Little food, little play, and some chilling on the couch. Boots again came to lie down on my chest and again the god-awful smell. Hey, what is this? I reacted. Trying to grab the cat and bring her closer to my nose to see

where exactly it was coming from. I didn't know whether cats needed their anal glands checked like dogs did, but I was guessing this one might. But boots as elusive as any cats ran away again, meowing at me from across the room. Fine miss, I have to go anyway, I responded. The third night is when things got weird. That terrible smell hit me as soon as I entered the house. Oof, I explained and quickly texted my friend to see whether it was okay to stop the wet food. It smelled strongly of sulfur. Like when my French bulldog eats cheese, something needed to be done. I'd argued in the text, this poor cat's stomach needed some sort of managing.

My friend asked me if the poop is okay in the litter box, and sure enough, it was. She suggested I reduced the portion, but not worry too much about it. Apparently, boots can get a little gassy when stressed, so I just open the windows to air the place a little, making sure that boots didn't attempt to escape. Then I proceeded to do the regular stuff. changed the water, top of her dry food, and then went to lounge on the couch. This time, Boots didn't join me. Instead, she stood across from the room at me and just stared. For the whole time I was there, she just stared. Her piercing, green eyes never blinked.

I felt the need to end my evening short, so at five minutes after ten, I bid Boots Audeau and left. The whole way home, I kept thinking of this eerie feeling of boots and me sitting in the darkness. her, staring me down and me trying and failing to read. I wanted to check with my friend, but I didn't know how to put it into words. Your cat is creepy. Instincts. Just sounded like a terrible thing to say to a pet owner. The next night I got to the house, the place was completely dark, even though I always

left at the light on in the staircase, leading from the garage upstairs, as well as the hallway light upstairs on. My first thought was that the fuse box tripped, but when I flipped the switch, it worked just fine. Strange, I thought, not minding it too much. I went upstairs and tended to the cat's business. I also opened the windows as the sulfur smell persisted. This time, Boots did not creep me at the door. Instead, she was on the opposite side of the house, at the bottom of the stairs that led to the attic.

Bootsy? Dinner, I called at her, but she just stared back. Boots, come here. I tried again. walking towards her. As I started approaching her, boots made her way up towards the attic. I didn't feel the need to follow her. All right, you know where your food is. You'll find me on the couch, I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. The house also felt unnaturally cold. I went to check the thermostat, and sure enough, it dropped a few degrees. I texted my friend, who just told me not to worry about it.

I shrugged and went to the bedroom to look for a thicker blanket or a duvet for myself in her wardrobe. As I was snooping around, I heard something right above me. My heart stopped. It sounded like tiny footsteps. Then I remembered that it was probably in the attic, and that's boots walking around, maybe chasing a rat or two. I know cats are supposed to be fantastic at being quiet and light on their feet, but boots was a bit on the heavy side. And well, cats these days just don't have the same instincts as before I assumed. After finding a proper duvet, I made myself a hot tea and cuddled with a book on the couch. After 20 minutes later, boots came back downstairs, moving around the couch.

Come on, Silleguice, I'm sorry I called you Stinky Pooh, I said, looking at her. As if on command, she jumped up, and I noticed something in her mouth. What's that, Bootsie? I asked her. Trying to get closer to her. What do you have there? Now, I know you all cat owners anticipated what's coming next, but I did not expect it. Boots came slowly closer, and as I stretched out my hand, she placed a dead rat in it. I couldn't tell what it was at first, but the instant the realization hit me,

I yelped so loud and shuddered so violently that I yeeded the rat all the way across the room. Lo and behold, the little shit wasn't dead, just stunned. The moment it hit the floor, it snapped awake and bolted. Boots followed in its tracks, but this time the rat was too fast and the cat couldn't quite catch it. It seemed like there was a rat hole in the kitchen somewhere, and it managed to make its great escape. But, at least for now, I texted my friend the whole incident, suggesting that she might want to look for the hole and cover it up. Again, she replied telling me simply not to worry about it. Well, if she wasn't concerned, I sure it wouldn't be.

In the meantime, Boots proceeded to eat her wet food, and I went back to my book. After dinner, she came back to the couch and cuddled at my feet. The silver smell did not seem to leave her. Three more days in Mommy's home, I told her, feeling bad for how stressful this must be for her, to make her so gassy. She turned around and looked at me with her piercing green eyes, and just then I heard some footsteps above us. Boots got subtle and her pupils dilated to the point the green in their eyes were a mere thin outline for the black pupils.

Freaking rats, I told myself, but I knew better. Those were too heavy to be rat footsteps. I felt a strong urge to get out and I checked the time. Oh my, it's almost 12, Bootsie. I must leave you. I said to her, grabbing my things in a rush. As I was walking towards the stairs that led to the garage, I could hear the stomping trace in my steps from above.

So I rushed for the door, feeling immensely relieved once outside. The next night I contemplated whether I should be going or not for a long time, but I couldn't not go. It didn't seem fair, neither to the cat nor to my friend whom I promised, so I decided to reach a compromise for myself. Go, feed the cat, clean the litter, replace the water, and leave. Then, on Saturday, I could afford to go during daytime, and maybe that would feel less eerie, and I could play with her for a longer time to make up for this day, so I did exactly that, or I attempted to, at least. I got there, Boots was waiting for me, like the first few nights. Hi baby girl, I said, as she rubbed herself against my legs and purred, I'm sorry, but this will be a short visit.

This time, the footsteps started very early into my visit. Get in, feed the cat, get out, I told myself. Stomp, stop, I could hear above me as I was preparing Boots dinner. My fingers were shaking, and I could feel my pulse increasing. Stomp, stop, here you go, I said, placing the food bowl down and trying my hardest to ignore whatever was going on in the attic. I went to the bathroom to clean the litter, and the footsteps followed me. Stomp, Stomp, I went back to the kitchen to check if boots had finished her food and had to replace the water, but this time the footprints didn't follow. Instead, they seemed to be going in

the opposite direction, towards the stairs. This couldn't be good. My brain was trying to get me to move towards the stairs that led to the garage, but my gut feeling was telling me to look for salt. Stomp, Stomp, I could hear, still, further than the distance. I started opening cupboards and searching frankly for anything. Plain salt. Salt and pepper shaker. Bag of salt. Anything. I found a Himalayan salt grinder and started grinding it on the counter. God, I hoped it would be good enough. The stopping stopped. I too stopped grinding and held my breath so I wouldn't disturb the stillness and soundlessness that fell upon the house. Creek, creak, I shuddered. The steps were coming down the stairs. I had no doubt about it.

I dragged whatever salt I could grind in my palms in, I made a run for the stairs, keeping my eyes close at all times. As I reached the door and fumbled to find the doorknob in between squints, I noticed that the lights started flickering vigorously. The footsteps were now making their way down the hallway. Behind me, I started praying and throwing salt over my shoulder. I realized that I didn't know the words to Our Father in English and started crying as I fumbled to remember.

Then I started praying in Latin. I knew it laid out of Latin since high school, and surprisingly enough, it came naturally to me. Pater no stare. Kiyas and Cal's. Sontifigutur, nomen tum. Stomp. At viand, regnomtum tum. Fiat vauntos to.

Sikd In calo and in terra. Stom! Stomp, I could hear them picking up the pace running at me. Panam Nonstrum, quothed da da nobis hude. And diamet nobidis diviath our nostria. Stomp, and then they stopped right behind me. Siket and not stied mista,

de burstort, I can see nois, indicus, in tenta non-dom. I could feel the cold breath down my neck. I could hear a faint whispering that I couldn't understand. A witch's cackle in the distance. Said Libria, no samalo, amen. I yelled finishing my prayer and throwing all the salt I had left behind me. The whispering stopped.

The footsteps stopped. The laughter stopped. The house reverted to its natural state of quietness. Every now and then I could hear a car driving by. I could see the headlights gently lighting up the room. I was certain whatever was behind me had vanished, but I never turned around. I never looked. I opened the door to the basement and garage, went downstairs, punched in the garage coat,

and went outside. Once outside, I ran across the street. I contemplated running all the way home, but I glanced over to my shoulders to the house. It seemed fine, dark, quiet. I started sobbing as I called my friend. She didn't reply. I texted her, but still nothing. I stopped going to the house. I figured boots would only be alone for two days at this point,

and I left her plenty of dry food. I was too scared of what could happen next. I would just explain it all to my friend. And if she didn't understand, then tough luck. I knew my friend was to land on Sunday at 7 p.m., so I went to the airport and waited for her. What are you doing here? She said, as soon as she walked through the rival gates. Well, I figured need to need to drive home, plus I need to tell you something, I said, relaying the whole story and showing her photos I'd taken, even the ones I'd sent to her before. She listened quietly, and when I was done, she stopped it in her tracks. Looked me in the eyes and grabbed my hand.

Do you think I can stay with you tonight? She asked softly. What? I asked genuinely confused. You don't want to see if your cat is okay? Andy. These pictures are undeniably from my house. But I don't have a cat, she said, showing me her phone.

Our last conversation on her phone was her thanking me for coming to the party months ago. Don't Google yourself. Don't Google yourself. Why? Because you may not like what you find. One day I was bored and decided to search for my own name on Google. I have quite a rare name, so I didn't expect to find many results. Imagine how surprised I was when I came across a website that had my full name in the domain. www.m.m.com. When I clicked the link, it brought me to a message board. I looked at the profile of the website

owner and found out that the person was the same age as me and had the same hobbies and interests. There wasn't any posts on the message board, but I was intrigued. So I saved it to my favorites. It was about a month later when I went back to the website. This time, it had more content. There were some diary entries, mostly random things like the weather was nice today. or I'm so bored in work. Things of that nature. However, as time went on, I began to notice more and more coincidences. The person lived in the same city as I did.

It struck me as rather strange that two people, with the exact same rare name, would be living in the same city at the same time. At one point, I noticed that the contents of the diary were quite similar to my own life. One day, I went to a baseball game, and when I clicked the link that evening, I found that the owner of the site had gone to the same ball game,

game. At first, I didn't think much of it. After all, tens of thousands of people in the city supported the same baseball team. It began to seem like much more than a simple coincidence. Whenever I checked the website, I would notice little biographical details that seemed too close for comfort. For example, the owner mentioned their pet dog, and the dog's name was the same dog as I had when I was a child. The website owner posted a picture of their car. It was the same model of car that I had been driving when I was in college. They talked about each other. eaten at a certain restaurant. It was the same restaurant that I had gone to all the time when I was working at my previous job. One day when I looked at the message board, people had written messages

to the owner saying, happy birthday. That day, it was my birthday as well. I decided to write on the message board for the first time. Just out of curiosity, I was going to wish the owner a happy birthday and tell them that we have the same name. However, when I tried to write something, I realized that there was nowhere to type your message. It wasn't a message board at all. just a static page. That's odd, I thought to myself. In other words, whoever owned the website had gone to a lot of trouble

to make it seem as if it was an interactive site, as if there were other people posting on it. When in actual fact, all the content must have been created by the owner. Why on the earth would someone do that? I wondered. I decided to send an email to the owner. They read, Hi there. Believe it or not, we shared the same name.

Nice to meet you. It was just a friend of the email. The next day, when I tried to look at the website, I discovered that it was gone. He seemed like it had been deleted. Then I opened my mailbox. There was one reply. When I looked at it, a chill ran down my spine. It just read, Found You. Some psychopath is trying to become TikTok famous at the expense of my daughter. The world of TikTok and Snapchat and whatever other emerging social media platforms out of my 11-year-old daughter watches has always been something I found as being childish and didn't interest me much.

However, when online news media outlets like Yahoo and MSN would drive their stories from TikTok, then I said, why not, and at least give TikTok a try? I was pleasantly surprised by TikTok on its numerous topics people post about everything, from cats to military to true crime video posts. Some of the posts on TikTok I do find childish, but eventually TikTok has filtered them out and honed in on the things a 38-year-old guy likes. like true crime mysteries. I love watching videos on people who have mysteriously vanished or grainy footage of

unknown suspects who have never been caught. So given that my daughter has just left a few hours ago for a weekend retreat at a Girl Scouts camp, I decided to indulge on TikTok. The old Girl Scout leader, Macy, had gotten diagnosed with cancer, so she had regrettably set down. But thankfully, another mother, she volunteered to step in as a new leader. With my now separated wife Sheila, who is still trying to find herself, I'm just happy that my daughter, Grace has something to do this weekend, rather than just mope around

the house feeling depressed. The new leader, Carol, was nice enough to pick up the Grace, along with her own daughter, Requail, and another girl Amanda, as well and drive them to the campground in the Poconos. Carol sold me on her years of being involved with the Girl Scouts, so I'm going to do nothing more than relaxed this weekend. I start to swipe through TikTok videos and find mostly crime-related posts that I've already seen, so I decided to expend beyond the people. I'm following to see what's new on TikTok. A post came up that caught my attention because it said, Girl Scout Tragic Camping Trip, that was posted by At Serial Killer Blossom.

I really didn't want to watch the video because I didn't want to get paranoid and draw parallels with the possibility that something similar could happen to grace on her current trip, but whatever coined the phrase, Curiosity killed the cat, probably was thinking of some numschool like me. I clicked on part one of the video that was posted five days ago, which showed the outside of a small yellow unmarked school bus. The creator of the video then showed the interior of the bus, which looked like your typical smaller bus with about six rows of seats.

The camera person pointed to various video cameras installed throughout the bus. I wasn't sure the intent of this part one video. I didn't know if the bus was part of a crime that had happened in the past or just some sort of type of converted recreational RV. My interest was waning, but I decided to click on Part 2 anyways. This time the bus was moving, and I could make out the kids on the back of the bus. The video camera was by the driver, and I couldn't make out much more than there was about three kids sitting on the bus. Then, just a few seconds left on the TikTok post, a different camera angle is shown.

As I'm sitting on the living room couch, I start to make out the face of the kids. They appear to be middle school-aged girls, and something inside me tells to look at when the video's posted, which was about three hours ago. When I see the girls that are around my daughter's age, I typically get a sense of empathy because whatever is going to happen in the this TikTok series of TikTok posts isn't going to be good, and I never want anything bad to happen to my daughter or anyone else's kids. But this time, my brain couldn't get over a hump, because one of the girls looked spot on to grace. However, I didn't want to commit to this theory. So I played part two again. Unfortunately, I can't fast forward the video, so I have to wait for the last few seconds. As I'm waiting, my mind is going through the what-ifs. Most importantly,

what if that girl is actually my daughter? As the video nears to its end and zooms in on the girls, my worst nightmare comes true as I take a screenshot of the video. My daughter left wearing a Niagara Falls souvenir sweatshirt as she bought a few months ago. Also, the two girls look like Amanda and Raquel. My thoughts instantaneously go to, why is my daughter sitting on a bus and not Carol's car? Why is someone videotaping the girls? I quickly click on part three of the video series which was posted two hours ago. This video shows the three girls still sitting on the bus,

where each of the two other girls are sitting on the aisle ends at his back seats, my daughter is sitting right in front of them. I can tell right away by my daughter's face, I'll expression, that something isn't right. Grace isn't crying, but I could tell that she looks like she's confused and scared, where Raquel and Amanda had this same frightened facial expression. I really start to panic as I reach from my phone and attempt to call Carol. I'm sorry, this phone you're trying to reach is no longer in service. Goodbye.

What the hell I say out loud and confused tone? Then I try to call Grace's phone. which goes straight to voicemail. I fall deeper into this nightmare as I frankly try to find the phone number for Amanda's mother. Grace's mother, Sheila, used to deal with all the Girl Scout issues, so I'm limited with contact information. Luckily, I am able to get into Sheila's email account, where I look for Girl Scout names and phone numbers. I find Amanda's name with her mother, Joy's phone number, so I quickly dial the number. Hello, Joy. Listen, this is Grace's father. Ted, are you aware of Carol taking the girls on a little yellow bus to the camming trip?

No, Carol picked up Amanda in a blue mercury sable. Why do you think they're on a bus? Listen, you're on the cell phone right now, right? Yeah? I'm going to send you a TikTok video. Please watch the video and call me right back. Sure, send the video. As I sent the video, I didn't know what my next step would be.

But calling 911 was definitely going to have it in the near future. Within a couple of minutes, I get a return phone call from Joy. Ted, what's going on? Why is someone filming our daughters? Joy said in a hurried, frantic tone. I have no idea, but I don't have a good feeling about this. Did you try calling your sister Carol? My sister?

She and my sister. She's Requel's mother. Ted, that woman Carol told me that she's your sister when I met her before the camping trip. Well, she told me that she's Requel's mother. Oh my God. That woman isn't Requel's mother. Joy said in her perplexed tone.

Oh, God. Who is that psychopath? You know, that's Grace's mother. Shealy used to go to all the Girl Scout meeting, so I'm not familiar with all the parents. What do we do? I'm going to call the police, I said. Okay, and I'll call Raquel's mother.

I've never called 911 before, and I'm nervous to begin with, so calling 911 even makes me more nervous. 911, what's your emergency? My daughter went on a Girl Scout camping trip with two other girls and a woman, Carol, who seemed to have lied about her identity. Okay, so what's the emergency? I came across a TikTok video of someone posting the three girls on a little bus

and not a blue mercury sable that Carol picked them up with. Okay, so what are your girl's ages and what are they doing in the TikTok post? They're around 11 years old and they look all nervous and scared. Okay, so they could be just nervous from being away from home. I suppose, but this woman Carol lied to me and said that she's the mother of one of the girls, but she's not. She told one of the other mothers that she's my sister, which obviously isn't true. Okay, sir, I'm going to send an officer over to your house because there's kids involved, but we really have a busy night with a lot of things going on, so it might take a while for the police to show up to your house.

Wait. What? Why? I responded. Listen, sir, you haven't told me anything that sounded like your daughter or the other girls are being harmed, so we have to prioritize our other available officers. Listen, I didn't give that woman permission to videotape my kid, and I'm certain these girls have been kidnapped and I have no idea where they're going, I say in an anger tone. Well, sir, I have a daughter that's in the Girl Scouts and I've personally experienced when the leaders are dealing with multiple parents.

That sometimes things get lost in translation, so I wouldn't rush the judgment yet. All you have is your daughter on a TikTok video sitting on a bus going to a Girl Scouts camping trip where she'd be understandably be nervous. Listen, my house addresses 664 Mockingbird Lane. Hurry up and send someone over. I set an anger tone as I hung up with the phone. The video cameras on the bus are pointed in a direction so the viewers can't see outside of the bus, so I don't even know if they're heading to the Poconos. It's pretty much dark outside, which worries me even more. It's such a sinking feeling seeing that my daughter is in danger.

I look to see if part four has been posted, and it has, so I click on it. Again, the girls are being videotaped as they're just sitting on the bus. The unnerving thing is that none of the girls are talking to each other. The three of them look like they're completely petrified, doing nothing more than just looking straight ahead. The girls remind me of the war videos. I watch of D-Day and how my daughter specifically had said that same doomed look as the soldiers had. While they sat on the transport boats waiting to storm the heavily entrenched beaches. The video was posted less than an hour ago, and this video is darker than the other, so I could tell that the video was actually taken about an hour ago.

My phone starts to vibrate as I see its joy calling. Hey, Joy, listen. I called 911 and they're sending someone over, but apparently they have been more pressing issues. More pressing issues? What the hell is more important than three girls being kidnapped? The 911 operator thinks that a crime hasn't necessarily been committed or that it is an emergency situation. She thinks the girls could be just to be looking nervous because they're scared about what going on in the camping trip and being away from their parents. Well, who the hell gave that, Carol, permission to videotape my daughter and post the video on TikTok, and who the hell is Carol? And why is she using At Zero Killer Blossoms as a username? You know, I was so frustrated with the 911 operator that I didn't even mention her username.

But I doubt that wouldn't make of a difference. At Zero Killer Blossom is a new account and only had four videos posted. There's not too many people who have viewed the video so far, which is be good because I don't want them to be taken down for violating a TikTok policy. Ted, I really don't have a good feeling about this. Should I drive through the Poconos to the Red Squirrel Campground? The thing is you can, but I'm not sure if the bus is even going to the campground or even to the Poconos. The campground is less than two hours away, so they should be there already. So what should we do? Joy asked me.

Well, I can hear her crying over the phone. Who is this Carol person, I ask? I really have no idea. When Macy got diagnosed with cancer, her story was placid everywhere on Facebook, and the fire company even had a fun-raising dinner for her to cover her medical expenses. So she could just be some random psychopath that came across Macy's story and figured, hey, this is my opportunity to kidnap some kids. What is her motivation?

Is she trying to get TikTok famous? Getting TikTok famous for kidnapping girls and taking them on a camping trip? Joy said while she's still crying. That's when it dawned on me, the naive mindset that Joy was having. I'm guessing she hasn't seen the countless videos of the horribleness the world has to offer, like the idea that there's people who kill just for some sort of sick fun, like the eerie picture of the notorious serial killer, John Way Gacy, who was dressed up as a clown for kids' performance.

Joy hasn't paid attention to the fact that hashtags at serial killer and hashtag crime video were used in the video post, hence why they came to my video feed. If I thought that this carol person was just videotaping them going camping, I probably would have been a little mad. However, nothing about her actions of the post point to her future actions as being harmless. While I'm on the phone with Joy, I see Part 5 has been posted. Listen, Joy, Part 5 has been posted, so I'm going to hang up and watch it. I pray the girls are all right.

Try to find any possible information about the Carol Woman. Bye. I really didn't want to play Dr. Phil with Joy as I know my daughter's faith risks in my hands of those videos. I click on Park 5, and besides the light from the video camera, I could tell that it's pitched black outside. The video pans, the surrounding area. as I see a thick forest with nothing more than trees. I haven't seen the girls yet, so my heart is beating double time. The camera eventually shows a makeshift campsite with a small fire burning. Based on the remoteness of the surroundings, I'm certain that the video is not of the Red Squirrel

campground and is probably in some very remote area. Based on the thickness of the forest, the camera turns its attention to the small fire pit, and then to a small two-person tent. I can hear the camera person breathing heavy as she walks towards the tent. Every single inch of me experiencing absolute terror, as I don't know what's inside the tent, because so far I've seen no sense of grace or the other two girls. The tent slowly opens up, and I start breathing to the point where I could go into convulsions at any moment. As the tent is opened, I let out a style of relief. As I see the three girls are partially sitting on the cramped tent, but then my heart sinks to my feet as I see their helpless facial expressions. I focus in on grace, as I see that her eyes are watery.

She looks like she has seen the inner belly of hell and is too terrified to move. The camera moves from left to right, as I noticed the two other girls have the same petroide face as grace. Not a single word is said in the video, and I feel angry and completely helpless as they scream out, don't you fucking harm my daughter, you son of a bitch. Then, the video ends. And all right, guys, that wraps up chilling Reddit stories. I really hope you enjoyed the video.

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